(Lower East Side, April 1997)
Surf Reality’s House of Urban Savages certainly sounded like a fictitious venue Christina
invented from the depths of her creative mind, perhaps during an extended painting session--
simply convincing herself, Mark suspected, that the fascinating but long-winded title of a place
actually existed, instead of popping into her imagination. Brushing and splattering away for
hours on end opened the mental fault line where these types of fantasies became persuasive--
one could grow increasingly delusional in the artistic process, or so she had advised him. Mark’s
concerns were cemented when he saw no such “experimental theater” venue, or at least nothing
that looked the part from street level, as he loitered at Allen and Stanton in the Lower East Side,
waiting for his company to arrive.
Walking north from the Delancey Street station, at first Mark even thought he had gotten
off at the wrong stop entirely. Dominicans sat on stoops, puttering about, with little other street
activity whatsoever, and certainly none of the sort to convey the appurtenances that would
surround such a hallmark to the performing arts. But then, as the sun set, a flock of guitar-case
carrying musicians entered— invaded, really— strolling, gossiping, heading to various venues but
also imbuing the scene with an expressive inventiveness that made it plausible for Mark to believe
that he was indeed at the right location— and on the precipice, in fact, of a new, emerging scene.
That magical feeling, a wellspring of innovative kinetic energy, filled Mark with a
hopefulness and excitement at the same time that it lent a sense of despair— that this was the
kind of place that, regrettably, would price itself out in a decade. The mags would call it “the
next SoHo,” or some other loathsome phrase, and they might as well hold the funeral shortly
thereafter. A trend was now in place, tiredly occurring with great repetition, the predictable
populations of artists followed by professionals on the move to yet another neighborhood, the
process occurring in endless perpetuity— every “new” location but a weigh station for all players
involved to escape each other, and perhaps only briefly, themselves.
Though Mark now felt comfortable he had arrived at the correct general
geographical region, he still wasn’t sure, based on the view from the intersection where he found
himself, that he had the right address. He almost made the mistake of approaching the nearby
bodega, to ask if he had the right street and number.
“Whoa! Hang back there cowboy!” Christina shrieked, grabbing Mark by the arm,
thankfully pulling him away at the last minute.
“There you are. This is the place? What’s going on?”
“This,” Christina gestured to the mock shop Mark nearly crossed the threshold of, “is just
a false-front— for a crack house. And downstairs is a brothel. Our scene is upstairs, on the
second floor. I’m glad I caught you! Didn’t you notice the ancient, dusty products in the firstfloor
window?!”
Mark smiled, amused by the onslaught of information. “Sorry, I’m not up to speed on
my drug-dealing and prostitution, um... radar.”
Now that he had turned this metaphoric mental
device on, more sensations also came alive. The Allen Street Boys had been making deals in the
open air all along, Mark oblivious until that very moment. And the women who lingered
endlessly on the sidewalk median across the way didn’t just appear to be strung-out street walkers
approaching the sunset of their careers— they were the real thing.
“You’re an idiot.” She gestured towards the upstairs, “let’s go.”
While Mark similarly believed his retort possessed only a lackluster quality, he predicted a
reception of at least moderate amusement. Christina’s grim response now worried him. He had
believed— safely believed, or so he thought— they had both willingly taken the plunge to
purposefully remerge as friends.
The acts at Surf Reality could range greatly, Christina knowingly advised, taking comfort in
her role as self-appointed authority of all cultural comprehension. From sketch comedy to
performance art, “you’re really have to be ready for anything— are you up for it?” She asked
Mark as if there was a choice, as if each of them weren’t already occupying one of the
hodgepodge chairs in the audience, which varied from the hardened kitchen stock with metalwire
backing to the padded stackable more appropriately found in hotel conference rooms. From
where had this varied array of seating arrangements been collected? It wouldn’t surprise Mark if
a great majority had been stolen.
The show was soon underway. Mark and Christina were treated to a singer who performed
at children’s parties, now sarcastically trying his material out on an adult audience. An exprostitute
did a soliloquy about her former goings-on. A one-woman dramatic performance
drifted from ramblings in a seductive satin robe to a full-blown, salacious burlesque show. A man
in revealing, tight-fitting briefs and a tank-top that hugged the jelly fat of his abdomen poured
whip cream on various body parts, then slowly licked away the sources of nourishment in
complete silence. A host of more generic comedic acts (at least by comparison) also took place in
between.
“Awesome stuff! Really,” Mark offered while clapping effusively at the show’s conclusion.
“Thanks so much for bringing me to this— I had no idea!”
“Awesome,” Christina repeated, “you would say something like that.”
For Mark, it had now long felt like his meetings-up with Christina involved this sort of persistent denigration. The
circumstances for their comings together were often her possession of some highly-coveted
possibility for him to inadvertently join her on an “in” happening— and increasingly, the context
was that Mark was some interloper pest, someone decidedly not “in the know”— a half-friend she
begrudgingly brought along, seemingly out of obligation.
Discussing the performances over drinks at the nearby Luna Lounge, Mark hoped to keep
his increasing suspicions of the growing gap between them at a distance.
“So tell me more about all this great art you’ve been seeing,” Christina seemed to
inquired enthusiastically, but perhaps mockingly.
“Well, you know, all the greatest hits of the major museums,” Mark advised. “I’m sure
you know them well. What I’d like to know more about is what you’ve been working on.”
“Ugh. I can’t talk about my art like that. You just— wouldn’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, it’s fine. Go and enjoy the mass appeal art. That’s— acceptable. That’s what it’s
there for, people like you.”
Mark’s pained faced conveyed a look of incredulity.
“It’s just— if you’re not ‘in it,’ if you’re not creating and producing the real stuff on the
cutting edge, I can’t possibly bring you into it, or even up to speed on it.”
Mark always held a fleeting worry that Christina would be sucked into the artists’ crowd
cult. Even as far back as the protest days in Tompkins Square, she had rough edges that lent
themselves easily to a haughty outlook of artistic and cultural superiority. But now, Mark’s once
tepid anxiety about Christina’s demeanor was emerging into dire concern. Her more brash
tendencies had been further nurtured by the PRATT indoctrination apparatus. Not all art
students had to turn out this way, did they? With Christina, Mark thought, all along there had
been a softer, gentler side— a bruised, misunderstood, innocent child, rightfully protecting
herself with just enough of a false cloak of elitism. Mark was hoping that sweet, genuine girl
underneath— the girl he briefly knew so intimately— would ultimately win out. But as he
watched her change over time, and as he witnessed other friends age in a similar manner, Mark
realized that people often didn’t grow into adults as much as they hardened into some kind of
regrettable, permanent form— often haphazardly, unknowingly, or even against their will.
“I’m sorry,” Christina continued to confess, “You just couldn’t possibly understand or
appreciate the work we’re dong.”
“That’s rather presumptuous, isn’t it?” Mark struck back.
“Is it, though?”
“Yes, it is.” Mark found himself unable to hesitate any longer. “You’re talented, but it’s
outdone by how unbelievably pretentious you are. Your supposedly high-cultural taste is
completely undercut by... just, this— stunning amount of arrogance.”
Christina scoffed. “I think I’m just being truthful. I don’t presume to know certain things
about the law— if I asked you questions, I probably still wouldn’t understand even after you’d
explained it.”
“I don’t think that’s actually true. And anyway, the point is I’d actually try, without
talking down to you, or... thinking I’m somehow better than you. Jesus.”
“Well, you could still probably lecture me,” Christina retorted, “and point out how offbase
my questions were.”
“Except that I just wouldn’t do that. That I never would do that.”
Mark conveyed a look of disgust. What had become of his former lover? When they
parted later that evening, Mark was unsure whether he would ever convince himself to see her
again.
Surf Reality’s House of Urban Savages certainly sounded like a fictitious venue Christina
invented from the depths of her creative mind, perhaps during an extended painting session--
simply convincing herself, Mark suspected, that the fascinating but long-winded title of a place
actually existed, instead of popping into her imagination. Brushing and splattering away for
hours on end opened the mental fault line where these types of fantasies became persuasive--
one could grow increasingly delusional in the artistic process, or so she had advised him. Mark’s
concerns were cemented when he saw no such “experimental theater” venue, or at least nothing
that looked the part from street level, as he loitered at Allen and Stanton in the Lower East Side,
waiting for his company to arrive.
Walking north from the Delancey Street station, at first Mark even thought he had gotten
off at the wrong stop entirely. Dominicans sat on stoops, puttering about, with little other street
activity whatsoever, and certainly none of the sort to convey the appurtenances that would
surround such a hallmark to the performing arts. But then, as the sun set, a flock of guitar-case
carrying musicians entered— invaded, really— strolling, gossiping, heading to various venues but
also imbuing the scene with an expressive inventiveness that made it plausible for Mark to believe
that he was indeed at the right location— and on the precipice, in fact, of a new, emerging scene.
That magical feeling, a wellspring of innovative kinetic energy, filled Mark with a
hopefulness and excitement at the same time that it lent a sense of despair— that this was the
kind of place that, regrettably, would price itself out in a decade. The mags would call it “the
next SoHo,” or some other loathsome phrase, and they might as well hold the funeral shortly
thereafter. A trend was now in place, tiredly occurring with great repetition, the predictable
populations of artists followed by professionals on the move to yet another neighborhood, the
process occurring in endless perpetuity— every “new” location but a weigh station for all players
involved to escape each other, and perhaps only briefly, themselves.
Though Mark now felt comfortable he had arrived at the correct general
geographical region, he still wasn’t sure, based on the view from the intersection where he found
himself, that he had the right address. He almost made the mistake of approaching the nearby
bodega, to ask if he had the right street and number.
“Whoa! Hang back there cowboy!” Christina shrieked, grabbing Mark by the arm,
thankfully pulling him away at the last minute.
“There you are. This is the place? What’s going on?”
“This,” Christina gestured to the mock shop Mark nearly crossed the threshold of, “is just
a false-front— for a crack house. And downstairs is a brothel. Our scene is upstairs, on the
second floor. I’m glad I caught you! Didn’t you notice the ancient, dusty products in the firstfloor
window?!”
Mark smiled, amused by the onslaught of information. “Sorry, I’m not up to speed on
my drug-dealing and prostitution, um... radar.”
Now that he had turned this metaphoric mental
device on, more sensations also came alive. The Allen Street Boys had been making deals in the
open air all along, Mark oblivious until that very moment. And the women who lingered
endlessly on the sidewalk median across the way didn’t just appear to be strung-out street walkers
approaching the sunset of their careers— they were the real thing.
“You’re an idiot.” She gestured towards the upstairs, “let’s go.”
While Mark similarly believed his retort possessed only a lackluster quality, he predicted a
reception of at least moderate amusement. Christina’s grim response now worried him. He had
believed— safely believed, or so he thought— they had both willingly taken the plunge to
purposefully remerge as friends.
The acts at Surf Reality could range greatly, Christina knowingly advised, taking comfort in
her role as self-appointed authority of all cultural comprehension. From sketch comedy to
performance art, “you’re really have to be ready for anything— are you up for it?” She asked
Mark as if there was a choice, as if each of them weren’t already occupying one of the
hodgepodge chairs in the audience, which varied from the hardened kitchen stock with metalwire
backing to the padded stackable more appropriately found in hotel conference rooms. From
where had this varied array of seating arrangements been collected? It wouldn’t surprise Mark if
a great majority had been stolen.
The show was soon underway. Mark and Christina were treated to a singer who performed
at children’s parties, now sarcastically trying his material out on an adult audience. An exprostitute
did a soliloquy about her former goings-on. A one-woman dramatic performance
drifted from ramblings in a seductive satin robe to a full-blown, salacious burlesque show. A man
in revealing, tight-fitting briefs and a tank-top that hugged the jelly fat of his abdomen poured
whip cream on various body parts, then slowly licked away the sources of nourishment in
complete silence. A host of more generic comedic acts (at least by comparison) also took place in
between.
“Awesome stuff! Really,” Mark offered while clapping effusively at the show’s conclusion.
“Thanks so much for bringing me to this— I had no idea!”
“Awesome,” Christina repeated, “you would say something like that.”
For Mark, it had now long felt like his meetings-up with Christina involved this sort of persistent denigration. The
circumstances for their comings together were often her possession of some highly-coveted
possibility for him to inadvertently join her on an “in” happening— and increasingly, the context
was that Mark was some interloper pest, someone decidedly not “in the know”— a half-friend she
begrudgingly brought along, seemingly out of obligation.
Discussing the performances over drinks at the nearby Luna Lounge, Mark hoped to keep
his increasing suspicions of the growing gap between them at a distance.
“So tell me more about all this great art you’ve been seeing,” Christina seemed to
inquired enthusiastically, but perhaps mockingly.
“Well, you know, all the greatest hits of the major museums,” Mark advised. “I’m sure
you know them well. What I’d like to know more about is what you’ve been working on.”
“Ugh. I can’t talk about my art like that. You just— wouldn’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, it’s fine. Go and enjoy the mass appeal art. That’s— acceptable. That’s what it’s
there for, people like you.”
Mark’s pained faced conveyed a look of incredulity.
“It’s just— if you’re not ‘in it,’ if you’re not creating and producing the real stuff on the
cutting edge, I can’t possibly bring you into it, or even up to speed on it.”
Mark always held a fleeting worry that Christina would be sucked into the artists’ crowd
cult. Even as far back as the protest days in Tompkins Square, she had rough edges that lent
themselves easily to a haughty outlook of artistic and cultural superiority. But now, Mark’s once
tepid anxiety about Christina’s demeanor was emerging into dire concern. Her more brash
tendencies had been further nurtured by the PRATT indoctrination apparatus. Not all art
students had to turn out this way, did they? With Christina, Mark thought, all along there had
been a softer, gentler side— a bruised, misunderstood, innocent child, rightfully protecting
herself with just enough of a false cloak of elitism. Mark was hoping that sweet, genuine girl
underneath— the girl he briefly knew so intimately— would ultimately win out. But as he
watched her change over time, and as he witnessed other friends age in a similar manner, Mark
realized that people often didn’t grow into adults as much as they hardened into some kind of
regrettable, permanent form— often haphazardly, unknowingly, or even against their will.
“I’m sorry,” Christina continued to confess, “You just couldn’t possibly understand or
appreciate the work we’re dong.”
“That’s rather presumptuous, isn’t it?” Mark struck back.
“Is it, though?”
“Yes, it is.” Mark found himself unable to hesitate any longer. “You’re talented, but it’s
outdone by how unbelievably pretentious you are. Your supposedly high-cultural taste is
completely undercut by... just, this— stunning amount of arrogance.”
Christina scoffed. “I think I’m just being truthful. I don’t presume to know certain things
about the law— if I asked you questions, I probably still wouldn’t understand even after you’d
explained it.”
“I don’t think that’s actually true. And anyway, the point is I’d actually try, without
talking down to you, or... thinking I’m somehow better than you. Jesus.”
“Well, you could still probably lecture me,” Christina retorted, “and point out how offbase
my questions were.”
“Except that I just wouldn’t do that. That I never would do that.”
Mark conveyed a look of disgust. What had become of his former lover? When they
parted later that evening, Mark was unsure whether he would ever convince himself to see her
again.
