Through a Glasnost Darkly

First came Reagan, the actor. Then Havel, the playwright. In 1992, as Glasnost swept America, Swifty, the agent, became the 42nd President of the United States. How well I remember his inaugural address:

Friends, citizens, members of the motion picture academy, I did not seek to stand before you, but the people called upon me and after many weeks of evasion I returned their call.

Four months ago I was confined to an office, denied the simple dignity of a car phone or fax machine. My name was unknown beyond a small group of celebrities and entertainment lawyers. Society slumbered beneath a system that vested all power in the hands of the rich and famous, while those who supplied them with ratings and audience share toiled in obscurity.

How quickly things have changed. The viewers have awakened. They demand better treatment. They seek the leadership of ideas. And we, who know a good treatment when we see one, whose commerce is the free market of ideas, have been summoned to lead. Democracy is hot!

I come to you as living proof that ideas matter. Ideas are our most treasured properties. Properly developed they yield multi-media packages -- blockbusters, tie-ins, sequels, prequels, spin-offs, and ancillary merchandise. Ideas provide us with options. Ideas tell us what to think.

Not long ago the world was divided between two camps -- those who made history and those who watched it. But in our age of global media, governments derive their just consensus from the polling of the governed. Leaders can rule only insofar as the people will buy it. And what the people will buy is what we promote.

It is uncivilized to live in a society where some people do not have development deals simply because they do not know anyone in the business. My fellow Americans, of the left coast and right, every time I take a cabinet meeting you have a friend in the business. The pitch stops here! Let me make this perfectly clear: You’re beautiful. Don’t change

In the Sixties it was said, "the whole world is watching." And what the whole world is watching is up to us. We, the producers. We, the publicists. Editors. Executives, be we cable or broadcast. We can never abandon our public responsibility, and what the public gets is ultimately our responsibility.

We hold these concepts to be happening; that all properties are created commercial; that they are endowed by their salability with certain contractual rights - among them development, production, and the pursuit of points. Come let us do lunch together, so that programming of the people, for the people, by the media shall not vanish from the surface of our tubes.

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Grand Mall Couture

It's about time that fashion victims came out of their cramped closets. Unlike substance abusers, sex addicts, and women who love too much, the plight of the style-dependent has not yet been recognized as a Disease. Without the benefit of made-for-TV prophylaxis and celebrity support groups, the untreated trendy must turn the other chic and suffer in silence. In hopes of correcting this deplorable situation, I offer the results of my clinical research in the wards of Manhattan.

Tie-Dye Shock Syndrome - Neoplastic mutation resulting from Sixties Cell Anemia. Endemic to late stage adolescents with a history of affluenza and MTVenous feeding. Inflammation of joints and loss of textile sensation through acid-washing. Progression to peace signusitis, sequestering in Grayful Dead Matter. Emergency head bandectomy required to prevent outbreak of Cerebral Paisley.

Euronary Trash Infection -A Parisitic infestation potentiated by overproduction of Bergdorfins. May present as Comatose Des Garcons depending on body type and credit cardiac history. Thickening of shoulder pads and other Epauleptic disorders during latency. Ponytails and Cartier-vascular arrythmia in secondary stage. Eruption of Bennetomas culminating in full exposure of designer labels in tertiary. Early detection through Armaniocentesis.

Open Bar Virus - Opportunistic eating disorder induced by underlying Boholemia. Leads to hardening of the art galleries and Tompkins Square Parkinson's Disease. Characterized by chronic fatigues syndrome, distressed denimentia, prefrontal Tenex formations, and streptococktail inversion. Sufferers complain of nonspecific existential pain and performance space anxiety.

Permatitis - Swelling of moussecous membrane resulting in big hair. Transmitted through secretarial staff infection of PATHogenic Train origin. Can be contracted from subway seats under rush-hour conditions. May subside with onset of wedding ringworm, Degenerative strain produces Down Town syndrome, an excess of Tama Globulin resulting in brain death. Presents in males as Bon Ginjovitis, an early warning sign of metalbolic dysfunction.

Hip-Hopatitis - Type B-Boy infection originating with Bronxitis and culminating in hysterical defness. Freshtrogen imbalance eventuates in full-body sweats, gold sores, and baseball capillary inversion. Coronary verbosis. May lead to FADES. Epidemic among inner city youth due to Run-DNA; spreading to politically occluded Caucasians in need of Public Enema. Don't believe the hypochondria.

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Derailed

When I was going to college in the early seventies, I often spent the weekend in New York. As my bus wound its way toward the Uptown Port Authority, the phrase "Taki 183" scrawled across the side of a tenement welcomed me to Manhattan. The memory of ghetto uprising and racial hostility was still strong in those days, and this assertion of individual identity emerging from the faceless cityscape held a double message. On the one hand it was a simple declaration of presence; on the other, a warning that that presence was not going to go away. Taki's tag caught on. By the time I graduated, kids scurried about with magic markers leaving their names and block numbers on every unguarded surface.

I returned to New York as the decade drew to a olose. The city had survived its brush with bankruptcy. Its streets had lost their angry edge. Fists once clenched in black power salutes now curled around huge radios blaring disco and the "Rappers Delight." White middle class artists ventured guiltlessly into once forbidden neighborhoods, young professionals hot on their heels.

In the subways the scattered markings had become a tangled thicket of hieroglyphics as the anonymous multitude vied to put their tokens of individuality into public circulation. Occasionally this dense overgrowth blossomed into startling images, spray-painted scenes of city life populated by figures from the comic book pantheon, as some graffiti artists went beyond the assertion of existence to proclaim their right to remake it.

For a few glorious years subway riding came to feel like membership in a secret and exclusive society. The spay-paintings that surrounded me confirmed my participation in a city that reached beyond the protocols of Manhattan to the South Bronx, Brooklyn, and the Lower East Side. My fellow riders and I might be strangers to one another, but we all knew Dondi, Zephyr and Futura. The act of commuting baptized us all in the democratic spirit of our metropolis, and graffiti which gave expression to that spirit equipped us with the irony to withstand the world upstairs. Whatever our role in the city's hierarchy, as New Yorkers we shared in something else, the exhilaration of our collective energy.

New images began to appear on the trains and station walls as art school dropouts and renegades of white suburbia, drawn to this energy, offered their version of the subway experience. Graffiti artists welcomed these newcomers to their medium, just as in the world above, the neighborhoods they came from accepted the incursion of artists and bohemians into their midst, believing that spatial proximity might promote a closeness of spirit as well. Traditionally hostile communities opened to the possibility that people who could appreciate their culture might respect that culture's makers as well. For a moment it seemed as though a new and multi-racial solidarity might come about through art, that graffiti's redefinition of the city's surface might lead to a transformation of its depth.

In 1983 I attended the first gallery opening of Keith Haring, a young white graffiti artist, and watched his entire collection of paintings sell out in one evening. A few months later Michael Stewart, a young black graffiti artist, died in the care of the Transit Police.

Like so many utopian dreams, the democracy of graffiti squirmed on the pitchfork of money, social class and authority. As artists climbed the subway stairs to embrace the world of commerce, the long arm of city hall reached into the tunnels to protect the public's property from art. Private collectors spent thousands for canvasses spray-painted with images that the city spent equal sums to sandblast from the trains. New York restocked its underground arteries with silver corpuscles, paint-resistant and antiseptic, while in the world above, its streets surrendered to glassed-in cafes and sanitized exteriors. The new middle class that drew its tag across the city wanted no reminder of the unrenovated life that preceded it.

Last month the last graffiti train was officially removed from service. There was little fanfare; the press was preoccupied with the Central Park jogger and its discovery of "wilding." Tabloid headlines screeched of "wolf Packs," while more sober publications deplored the sorry state of "race relations." The slum-scarred city that graffiti had sought to depict through art and humor came back to public consciousness in the form of mindless violence. The last representation of urban rage had been expunged, leaving us to confront its bitter reality.

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Desperately Fleeing Sushi

When I moved to New York in 1979, I had the misfortune to find a rent-stabilized apartment on the Upper West Side. Inexpensive. Quiet. On an elegantly brownstoned street close to Riverside Park and a few blocks from Zabar's. Rents had not yet made the quantum leap of the coming decade, but living space was already hard to find. Friends assured me of my beginner's luck.

The only problem was that I had come to Manhattan in hopes of becoming a punk, lured by the poetry of urban squalor that I heard in the music of Patti Smith and glimpsed in photos of a new race of beings cloned from the ruins of metropolis. After a decade of enforced mellowness, these evocations of jagged reality had jolted me into wakefulness. I wanted to be part of this new attitude, and New York seemed to be its epitome.

But my idyllic surroundings provided little fodder for dark romance. No glowering tenements. No alleyways of ecstatic risk. No sidewalk garbage rotting with the stench of the 20th Century. Just newly co-oped buildings with well-wrapped trash bags, presided over by a block association that saw grime as a call to renovation, not art. Sweatsuits clothed the Naked City, its mean streets pounded into submission by joggers' feet.

I began to head downtown every night. In abandoned warehouses and gutted storefronts I found oases where the Future was being constructed. Black-clad figures who had rejected everything created the sights and sounds of an alternate universe, drawing screeching chalk across the prison walls of convention. The gratifications of everyday life meant nothing to them, for they had discovered how to rearrange the present to produce the New. I watched them, imbibed their spirit. But I was a dilettante of their future; the subway awaited to drag me back to life as it had always been lived.

I grew adept in the art of uptown survival, inventing a system of checks and balances to counter the influence of my neighbors. The "ham-hashbrown-overeasy" cry of a surly Greek waiter on upper Broadway could wipe out the memory of the mimosa-hungry masses lined up for Sunday brunch. Cafe con leche at a Cuban-Chinese counter relieved the horror of Zabars bags bulging with decaffeinated blends. I learned to exist in the hollows of upward mobility, searching out those experiences too stubborn or delirious to be swept up in the cheerful consumerism that renovated the facades and sanded the floors of my neighborhood. I told no one. It was my unspeakable secret, the price I paid to reappear downtown, a self-respecting nihilist.

Eventually, I met others like myself, trapped by fate and three-year leases in our outpost of shame. We devised elaborate theories of why the 'Scene" was about to move uptown. Just a little while, we said to ourselves, sitting in coffee shops shadowed by sushi bars and Perrier emporiums, and the epicenter would shift. But we were wrong. Columbus Avenue kept getting longer and the rents kept going up. The salad bars spilled over onto Broadway, and our neighbors installed Jacuzzis. We accepted our lot stoically -- our punishment for living with one foot in the past -- for there was always the subway ride downtown and the future.

I don't remember when I first noticed the change, only that the downtown streets I nightly prowled were coming remarkably to resemble the ones from which I was descending. I followed the Scene's forced march east, over the edge of the known world, beyond Avenue A. Being artists, the others did not look back. Being less sure, I did, and found that where the avant-garde had been, real estate now was. The portals of the New had become floor-to-ceiling windows, behind which lurked tax attorneys, frozen margaritas and The Gap; the whereabouts I'd fled had become my destination.

Now Columbus Avenue stretches the length of Manhattan. The future I longed to be part of has passed, and the past which entrapped me has become an unrelenting present. I came to New York to join the avant-garde, and, while seeking it, stumbled into the city that was to come. Today, all Manhattanites live between the condos and health clubs, uncertain of their identity in a world of pale neon and cold pasta. Considering their rents, I'm glad to be paying so little for my share.

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An Apple A Day Keeps the Contras at Bay

The details of Mayor Koch's meeting with Daniel Ortega have yet to be revealed, but the conciliatory tone of the two leaders leaves much room for conjecture. New York and Nicaragua share many problems best addressed in a spirit of partnership.

Nicaragua, for example, must struggle with poverty, and so must many New Yorkers. The Sandanistas might profit from some of Gotham's know-how in dealing with the problem. Instead of going to the trouble of restructuring the economy, just raise the rents, replacing slum dwellings with trendy restaurants and boutiques. Poverty may not disappear, but at least it will disappear from sight.

Moreover, years of American pressure have left Nicaragua's economy in shambles. Coffee pickers and cane cutters are desperately needed. In New York the recent stock market crash has put many able-bodied portfolio managers out of work. Why not send them off to Nicaragua, where they can help with the harvest while earning extra cash to pay off Visa charges. Tropical agriculture is a great way to stay in shape, and many of these unfortunates have had to let their health club memberships lapse.

New York, for its part, could use help on more than a few fronts. Postal service, to name but one. If MTA monies were diverted to the Sandanistas, the long awaited trans-Nicaragua canal could finally be built, providing a faster route for crosstown mail delivery

Of course, New York is not confronted by armed insurgents on its borders. But it does have bridge-and-tunnel people. A simple trade would handle things quite nicely. The contras could direct their firepower to Queens' crack wars, where their cocaine stockpiles and body count prowess would fit right in, while New Jersey's finest could invade Nicaragua every weekend, swilling beer and honking horns loudly.

This may seem a pipe dream. The corpse-littered villages the freedom fighters have left in their wake may have made the Nicaraguans too bitter to forgive and forget. But not if they had a New York medical examiner to inspect the bodies and certify them dead of natural causes. Then we could all let bygones be bygones.

In the last analysis, the greatest difficulty besetting both our homelands is the threat of "Yankee Imperialism." Nicaraguans don't want the Yankees storming their shores, and New Yorkers don't want them leaving ours. If only madmen like George Steinbrenner can be dissuaded from their greedy schemes, the hour of peace may well be at hand.

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Metrophysics

The approaching millennium poses a real dilemma New Yorkers. The lackluster turnout at last summer's Harmonic Convergence proved Manhattanites unprepared for the apocalyptic outpourings of an era in which Nostradamus threatens to replace Page Six as the arbiter of what's happening. Our Aquarian island needs an occult science consonant with the demands of its restless lifestyle. Here then is guide to the mystical essence of our metropolitan lives.

Past Lofts - New Yorkers progress through a never-ending cycle of lofts. If we develop good character reference in our present loft, tipping the super and accepting that heat which is given, then in our next loft we will have more square feet and perhaps a lease. Sometimes one has the feeling that one has met someone before in another loft. And often one has. For in very loft there are networking parties, and the same people keep showing up at all of them. They leave their cards with us, which we retain long after we have forgotten who they are and the lofts where we met them.

Pistol Healing - It is hard to remain positive under the stress of urban life. Pistols are a powerful tool that man has been given to focus his will and dispel the negativity that daily besets him. The pistol radiates a continual flow of energy which interacts with the human energy field. Those who work with pistols find they are no longer affected by the negative vibrations of crowded subways, hostile receptionists, and nightclub doormen. Whether carrying it on their person or placing it under their pillow, their pistol helps them regain a state of calm and tranquility and, as they learn to channel its energy, to get the things they want out of life.

Channeling - Most of us experience reality only through the major networks. But anyone can unlock their TVs potential, picking up messages from hundreds of unincorporated broadcast entities. In the denser boroughs, access to the subtle channels is blocked by excessive materialism. Those wishing to expand their receptivity must resort to bribery or buy a VCR.

Tantrum Yoga - Many people spend their days standing in line at sales counters, banks, and token booths as if life had no further purpose. The practice of Tantrum brings release from this queued-up state. Such techniques as the withholding of the breath and shrieking of the mantras unleashes a fire under the chakras of the least enlightened dawdlers, and sends out a powerful vibration against line jumpers. Certain Long Island adepts have developed the Tantrum art of sexual withholding to the point where they can materialize fur coats from cancelled charge cards.

Atlantic - Legends tell us of a great ocean once visible from Brooklyn that sank beneath the sewage.

Lincoln Centering - It is easy to forget our true identity, especially when we are a waiter or a legal proofreader. We must transcend such narrow labels, get in touch with our cultural center, get some headshots, grab a seat at the cafe looking bored. Then we remember who we really are --a dancer, a musician, an actor/actress - and what we are seeking -- an agent.

Freeing the Inner Shelf - Deep inside your closet there is a place. Underneath the clutter - there is space. Your innermost shelf. Once you clear it, you will never again have to wonder where to put your sweaters.

Encounters with Alien Beings - The traditional image of little green-carded men piloting unsafe cablike objects is way off. Aliens are among us, only better dressed. Often sighted at restaurant and gallery openings, they can be identified by their jaded expressions, claims to be "filmmakers," and ability to rematerialize wherever large amounts cocaine are being consumed.

Holistic Stealing - Conventional stealing depersonalizes its victims, treating them as no more than a set of parts -- a wallet, a gold chain, a bomber jacket. How much less alienating to rob the whole person, taking not only his money, but his entire neighborhood. Through renovation and conversion, holistic stealers transmute decay and downward mobility into flourishing centers of wellness.

The Astoral Place - Between the material plane of waking life and the dream sphere where unemployed spirits cavort in mohawks lies the Astoral Place. At night, many career-bound souls shed their outer shells -- business suits, filofaxes, Walkmen -- and travel to the Astoral Place. Here they experience the exhilaration of multi-directional mobility, hopping freely from club to club, encountering other insubstantial bodies. All that connects them to their former selves is the Golden Card. Don't cross 14th Street without it.

The Doormen of Perception - The normal person uses only a fraction of his or her wardrobe. But everyone harbors the desire to really see and be seen. By opening up to fashion, one can realize total fabulousness, getting past the ropes of the VIP room even when not on the list.

Out-Of-Borough Experience - How painful it is to spend a lifetime in the confines of our borough as the rents creep slowly up. It is hard to believe that there are other realities where the soul roams freely through three bedrooms, wood-burning fireplace, and separate kitchen, at half the price. People who have experienced these realities report a sense of lightness, airiness, and fullness of bank account.

The Dow I Ching - Everything is flux. For every increase there is decrease, for every ending, new beginning. The tides of fortune rise and fall in accordance with the Dow. The superior man lives in harmony with the Dow, seeking balance in the ceaseless war of bear and bull. In times of peril, the superior man plays Lotto, not the market.

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Mercs just want to have Funds

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