The Writer's Life 7/18 - Perspectives

“Potholes are universal truths — nobody loves them, everyone hates them,” says Jim Bachor, 54, in an article in today's NY Post. A guerilla artist, he fills them and does a ceramic portrait on top of the cement he uses. Recently, he shifted his work from Chicago to NYC. He has filled five potholes in a series he calls Vermin of New York, which includes a dead cockroach on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, a dead pigeon on Pacific Street in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, and a cheeky portrait of President Trump’s face in the East Village. He has yet to reveal the location of three other pieces. He does not have permission to ply his trade. He and his crew don neon vests and put down traffic cones to cover their illegality. The Department of Transportation says it will pave over the works, claiming they're a hazard that might distract drivers. Here's one:

This morning talk radio host Mark Simone mentioned a study, which sent me on a search. Here's the gist of what he said: "In a research database created at the Institute for Policy and Strategy at Carnegie Mellon University, between 1946 and 2000, Russia/USSR meddled in 36 elections, while the U.S. meddled in 81." Apparently, the Russkies are catching up to us.

Here are more uncommon words from the work of non-fiction I'm reading: Afflatus: divine creative impulse or inspiration; Sardanapalus: a king willing to destroy all of his possessions, including people and luxurious goods, in a funerary pyre of gore and excess. Muliebria: female genitals; Impudicities: immodesty; Hellebore: poisonous flower. Here's the 1827 painting the writer was referring to, The Death of Sardanapalus by Eugene Delacroix. It hangs in the Louvre:

My thanks to the young woman who purchased two books in Russian, and to Michael, who bought two more Catherine Coulter romances. He recently had his wallet pilfered from a traveling bag at the Kings Highway train station. He had to go through the rigmarole of filing a police report and canceling credit cards. His Jet Blue card was used immediately by the thief. My thanks also to the gentleman who donated about 20 books, an interesting mix of fiction and non that includes classics and two handsome pictorials. All three of these patrons did not show until late in the session. Before that I was contemplating eliminating all hardcover fiction from the inventory, just giving it away, leaving it in the lobby of my building. Why lug it back and forth for so little reward? Much of it is by authors outside the top ten - but still popular. I decided to reduce the price to a dollar, although I doubt it will make much difference, as so few people even ask about them. Anyway, my negativism immediately bit me on the butt when I spotted a woman pushing her husband in a wheelchair, waiting for the change of light at the corner in order to cross Avenue Z. They are in their late 50's. He had a stroke while they were on a cruise. I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't think he'd remembered me, as the stroke was quite severe. Fortunately, I forced myself to approach and he did remember me. In fact, it seems his mind hadn't been affected - or had recovered a great deal during rehab. Understandably, he is bitter about what happened to him. I, on the other hand, have nothing to complain about.

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