Right Across the Street

New York magazine (issue dated May 3rd, 2010) arrived earlier this week. (Kim Chan’s long-term subscription, from which I had previously tried to free myself, continues.)

“Food/Openings” on page 52 notes that Thistle Hill Tavern, 441 Seventh Avenue at 15th Street, is scheduled to open in early May.

If Thistle Hill Tavern turns out to have a Bavarian feel, I might skip over, to relive some of the vacations I took with The Old One.

But when will a shoe-repair shop open nearby?

I take my shoes to a repair place several blocks away, a place where the people grunt at me.

If I discover that those shoe-repair people on Ninth Street are calling me Chinita or some such, I will stop going there. My oxfords and T-straps deserve respect, not epithets, and so do I.

Recently the professor who has an apartment on the third floor uttered the words Chinese woman! as she passed my door. I happened to be looking through the peephole.

The third-floor professor, chatting with her friends, made some unpleasant remarks about me.

I am sure that she considers herself superior.

It could be said that The Old One also considered himself superior. That was one of the reasons he resisted assisted living. “Those are ordinary people,” he noted after his first visit to Prospect Park Residence, where he moved in early 2007.

Kim refused to live alone in that strange place, so I stayed there, too.

Sitting in the ornate Theatre/Worship room, which was right across from our apartment, we whispered loudly that many people at the old folks home had no cheekbones.

We were proud of having matching black travel vests, and we showed them to the director of Prospect Park Residence. But we were even prouder of our high cheekbones.

After I read about it being common for the elderly to hoard newspapers, I became more serious (and active) about reducing my supply. Like Kim, I prefer not to be seen as ordinary.

For the first few months of this year, I did not cry. But I also did not throw out many newspapers. Now I cry a little, and I throw out lots of newspapers.

A friend in Lake in the Hills, Illinois, explains that before, I was stuck; but that now I am making progress.

Gentrification is sometimes seen as progress; at other times, as just the opposite.

When I moved to Chelsea, there were condemned buildings across the street.

When I moved to Park Slope, there were condemned buildings across the street.

I doubt that I will be socializing at Thistle Hill Tavern. Anyway, I do that at Parco (where the workers are artistic and dreamy-eyed) and Henry’s (where the workers speak rapid-fire Cantonese while serving banh mi and bubble tea).

The owner of Hanco’s (on the corner of Seventh Avenue at 10^th Street) claims that the owner of Henry’s (on Seventh Avenue between 14^th and 15^th streets) stole his recipes. Apparently the owner of Henry’s was once an employee of the owner of Hanco’s.

So the day before Easter, Ira Glass interviewed me for This American Life, for the episode titled “Inside Job” (April 10^th and 11^th, 2010).

Glass and his staff were digging for dirt. But all I said was, “I eat tofu every day.” (Via e-mail, I also pointed out that while the fare at Henry’s is Vietnamese, Henry’s staff appears to be from southern China. And that Ten, the Japanese restaurant diagonally across the street from Thistle Hill Tavern, is run by northern Chinese.)

So the Slope scandal of dueling banh mi, surely a tempest in a bubble teapot, never hit the airwaves.

The people behind the counter at Henry’s were relieved when I reported the no news.

High up in the mountains, The Old One and I used to practice yodeling. That exasperated our hostess, Monika, whose house in Riegsee was rigorously clean and uncluttered. She let us know that she considered us both “juvenile.” It was not just the yodeling, but the way we cried out, “Wow, a cow!” whenever we saw one.

When the third-floor professor walks by, should I call her a bitch? Nah. “Wow, a cow!” would be so much better.

Cease and Desist

When I opened the left front door of the garbage shed, I saw it. Stuffed into one of the cans languished a large wheeled suitcase, electric blue, apparently in good condition.

To think, someone had actually discarded a perfectly usable item. Why?

Just a few months ago, a young white hetero couple purchased one of the top-floor units. (The apartments on the top floor come with roof rights, so their monthly maintenance is slightly higher than mine.) Then they left for a honeymoon in Colombia.

Perhaps they have returned. But why would they have abandoned this suitcase? Did it contain evidence of illicit substances? Could it be that I have watched Maria Full of Grace once too often?

Joshua van Praag was the electrician on Maria Full of Grace. Van Praag directed, produced, and wrote The Dig, an omnibus film in which Kim appears as a grandfather.

Kim did The Dig for free. He was happy to do it. Van Praag and his team were absolute pros. Kim’s scene was shot in a real kitchen in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on Sunday, April 4th, 2004.

There were plenty of times when Kim donated his services to student projects. Volunteering allowed him to continue honing his craft, and the kids found him “awesome.”

Whether or not he was being paid, Kim took every production seriously. “I’m going to work.”

After a day of strutting his stuff, Kim would generally pour himself a vodka martini. Such libation sent him to what he called “the twilight zone,” but at least he was still alive. One of his phony cronies joked that the alcohol acted as a preservative, that it kept The Old One going.

Kim’s older sister Kay was murdered in Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Her body was found in a car. I am not sure what year that happened, but the case was never solved. Kim suspected her of somehow being involved in drug trafficking. “She would do practically anything to make a little money,” he related.

She would never let him do without.

She called him by his middle name, Shung, which means “bright.”

Kay was probably employed at one of the family laundries. I believe she had more formal education than Kim, but she spoke English with an accent that most likely was not considered marketable, or even charming.

Kim attended junior high school in Providence. He was selected to lead fellow pupils in a parade celebrating the New Deal. (Several years before, in the old country, he was the one chosen to beat a gong that would rid the village of demons.)

In August 2004, the two of us took a train there to attend the Rhode Island International Film Festival.

Kim, shaved clean, duded up in black-on-black stripes, accepted its Lifetime Achievement Award at the Columbus Theatre. We were informed that the venue found its proper name after the auditorium seats were counted: 1,492.

When asked about performers whose work he admired, Kim spoke movingly of Marlon Brando, who died the month before. He graciously neglected to mention that Brando had pursued his wife.

We were delighted to find Annie Bradley at the festival. She had worked with Kim in Toronto; for some episodes of Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, Bradley was second assistant director.

Her short Tongue Bully, shot in Havana, won the Grand Prize for Best Cinematography at the 2004 RIIFF.

Before leaving Providence, Kim and I walked along Knight Street in search of a laundry where he had once lived and worked. It was gone.

The rehabilitation project involving the common areas of XYZ Umpteenth Street has been interrupted. Some of the shareholders complained that the red paint caused the interior of our building to resemble a crime scene.

Our superintendent has left the electric blue suitcase on the sidewalk with the items to be recycled. A scavenger will surely roll it away.

I know of three songs with the title “Wheels.” One was written by Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman; one by Amanda McBroom; one by Jamie Cullum. The soundtrack of my life is eclectic.

Several months ago, a hookah bar opened in the South Slope.

When Kim was a child, he cooked opium. It took his older brother to a twilight zone of zero pain before he crossed the ultimate border. For tuberculosis patients, no more could be done.

Dreams of a Jew and Goy

Observe the confluence of Valentine’s Day and Lunar New Year (Tiger).

So many expectations and yearnings.

The “Domains” column of this past Sunday’s (February 14^th, 2010) New York Times Magazine revealed the Manhattan rental apartment of Christiane Amanpour, CNN’s chief international correspondent.

It was heartwarming to discover that Amanpour does not know how to cook.

I have not seen my own kitchen stove in several years. Our relationship was basically dysfunctional. We simply could not tolerate each other.

Last summer, I merrily indulged myself by going to see the movie Julie & Julia twice in the same week. It was playing at The Pavilion, right here in the hood. I laughed, I cried—but I still refused to make amends.

I used to try to cook, but all my attempts at the culinary art proved humiliating, even more humiliating than the time I auditioned to be a touring Muppet.

I had actually aspired to impersonate a toy.

The trial at The Jim Henson Company took place while I was still living in Chelsea, on the island of Manhattan.

Caetano Veloso’s version of Rodgers & Hart’s “Manhattan” changes a few words; instead of “dreams of a boy and goil,” his rendition cites “dreams of a Jew and goy.”

That is just the type of thing my mother would have picked up on immediately. She was exasperated by Joan Baez’s alteration of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.” The distinctive lyrics “For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind” were flattened to “ ’Cause she’s touched you, and she’s moved you, and she’s kind.”

I think my mother would have found Veloso’s change of the “Manhattan” line very amusing. We were crazy about a Lower East Side bialy bakery.

When I was working as a figure model, my mother was impressed by my range. Besides drawing and painting classes, I posed for sculpture classes. “You mean they’re putting up statues of you?” she asked.

The sculptors measured my flesh with calipers.

(I am remembering all this because of the current frigid temperatures. At art schools, I often posed in cold studios that employed inadequate space heaters.)

My mother predicted, “Someday, Hollywood will pay you a million dollars to take off your clothes!”

Way back at the celebrated House of Chan, on West 52^nd Street in Manhattan, show business clientele befriended the young maitre d’, Kim, who offered them drinks on the house.

A famous white bandleader asked Kim to find him some attractive young Chinese ladies.

Kim’s father, Lem, developed a crush on a famous white chantoosie.

A famous and infamous white actress with an enormous appetite grabbed Kim between the legs and proclaimed, “I’ve got to have a Chinaman tonight!”

Life was work and work was life, because that was what immigrants knew.

Near The House of Chan stood movie houses. The fare was in English, still a mystery to Kim, but he surreptitiously devoured whatever was screened.

There came an evening when Lem demanded to know what his son had been doing for the past few hours. Out of Kim’s mouth spilled words catalytic as well as false: “I washed my socks.”

Lem’s response lacked empathy and compassion. He grabbed an umbrella belonging to one of the paying customers blissfully gorging on duck or lobster. Lem whacked. The umbrella broke.

But Kim did not. He went to work for some of the show business people that Lem considered trash.

Last year, some longtime pals discovered a DVD of one of Kim Chan’s early (April 17^th, 1951) live television appearances.

In “The Juiceman,” a previously “lost” episode of the series Suspense, he was a thug who twisted the arm of a Chinese-American schoolteacher played by Cloris Leachman.

Lem Chan’s instructions: “If you have a talent, keep it to yourself.”

The site of The House of Chan is now a Rosie O’Grady’s.

Mobsters

When he stepped out of clerical attire, Kim played crime bosses. Capo di tutti capi, as I enjoyed repeating.

Twice, he played a capo named Uncle Benny.

Lethal Weapon 4 (1998)

Uncle Benny Chan

Directed by Richard Donner

The Corruptor (1999)

Uncle Benny Wong

Directed by James Foley

Some APA kids continued to call him an Uncle Tom.

Hattie McDaniel:

“I’d rather play a maid and make seven thousand dollars a week than be one for seven dollars.”

After both of my parents had departed from the earth, I needed an old one. And The Old One stepped up to the plate. Kim told me, “Now we must take care of each other. Now we’ll be a family together. You’re not alone anymore.”

For over a decade, we were a twentieth-century Hansel and Gretel, wandering together through alleys and boulevards, opera houses and airports. We shared the highs and the lows.

Note to pedants: During famine, plague, and other crises (as during the waning of the Middle Ages), it was not uncommon for parents to abandon their children in the woods.

Kim observed, “The other people in our family are nice, but they’re a completely different species from us. It’s you and me, kid.”

I always wished we could star in a production of Peter Pan. To play the forever boy, I could get a cute androgynous haircut. I hankered after a harness so that I could fly the way Kim had so many times. And I thought he would make a swell Captain Hook.

“I’m offering you the rest of my life.”

The whirligig years with Kim were the equivalent of running away with the circus. Now here I am in the South Slope, in my bright pink-and-green abode, surrounded by a million boxes and bags. From my parents’ house. From my former studio apartment in Chelsea. From The Old One. My place looks like Barbie having a nervous breakdown.

A dharma wheel usually hangs from each of my earlobes. These everyday earrings serve a purpose. When I touch the points on the rims of the dharma wheels, it reminds me not to make bitchy remarks or fly off the handle.

My mother had a copy of Frankie Laine’s hit “Rose, Rose, I Love You” (1951). I recently discovered that the song was adapted from a Mandopop (Mandarin popular music) number. In other words, the original was in Chinese.

In Lethal Weapon 4, Kim was speaking Cantonese while Jet Li was speaking Mandarin. I guess the attitude was: Foreign devils will never be able to tell the difference.

I think my mother’s vinyl records are in my second bedroom. I know I kept them. I can never let go.

Monks

Uncle Kim earned his keep mostly by wearing a dress and being flown on wires.

Wearing a dress: Kim, a character actor, played a monk several times.

(Kim opined that the difference between Zen Buddhism and Tibetan Buddhism lay in the colors of the robes.)

Flown on wires: Flying by Foy, wire fu.

Kim and my mother were related in some way, maybe distant cousins. Nosey Parkers insist that it was wrong for me to call him my uncle and for him to call me his niece.

Sometimes, influenced by Johan Huizinga’s famous book of cultural history The Waning of the Middle Ages, I refer to Kim as The Old One.

Long ago, I declared myself to be a pacifist. But I often find stage combat fascinating, even thrilling.

It was good to see Kim beating up villains.

And when people made fun of him, I wanted to kill them.

No one can say that Kim skipped paying his dues. He sweated in laundries and restaurants just like other immigrants. Just not all his life.

In 1992’s One of the All-Time Greats, he played an opinionated waiter. A group of people involved in a floundering Broadway play huddle at a Chinese restaurant, trying to figure out how to fix their show. Their waiter suggests that Asians be included in the cast.

The character of the waiter had no name.

After appearing in that Off-Broadway production (at the Vineyard Theatre), Kim landed a steady job on television.

He originally auditioned for the minor role of a shopkeeper. But the casting people, as well as the star, David Carradine, took one look at those box-cutter cheekbones (catching the light!) and knew that this old guy was destined to be their old guy.

The steady job actually consisted of two roles: Lo Si (also called The Ancient), an apothecary; and Ping Hai, a monk from another time.

Kim was already past what many would consider retirement age, but he could never be sure by how many years. He had no birth certificate.

Kung Fu: The Legend Continues (1993–1997) was a spin-off of the series Kung Fu, and it continued the debate over whether viewers could or would tolerate a Caucasian (Carradine) playing a biracial person.

Some Asian-Americans, mostly young and college educated, insisted that Kim should have turned down that decent-paying job. They felt that Carradine had cheated Bruce Lee, and that The Old One was an accomplice.

Two non-Asians who I thought were friends shared their particular take on Kim’s newfound glory. “So what? Even if your uncle becomes really famous, it’s not going to do him any good, because he’s old, and he’s just going to die before he even gets to enjoy it.”

Beyond the F Line

Destination: Murnau am Staffelsee, Bavaria, Germany

If you feasted your eyes on the recent Guggenheim (New York) retrospective of the work of Russian painter Vasily Kandinsky (1866–1944) and now crave a little backstory (not to mention sausages and beer), a week in the countryside of Bavaria is sure to satisfy.

Between Munich and the Bavarian Alps, you’ll find Munter House, also known as Russian House. From 1909 to 1914, this was the summer residence of Kandinsky and his partner at the time, Gabriele Munter (also an accomplished painter). Munter House was the birthplace of Der Blaue Reiter (The Blue Rider), a movement considered a precursor to Expressionism.

If you’re starting out from the United States, you’ll probably be taking a plane. It’s up to you, but there’s something appropriate about choosing Lufthansa for this trip. First class provides an oversize deep blue sweater that you can pull over your black leggings.

When you arrive in Munich, get hold of as many color postcards of Mad King Ludwig as you can. This royal guy had plenty of dark curly hair and fancy outfits. Come December, Ludwig’s image can substitute for that of Santa Claus. As a matter of fact, I find these postcards appropriate for most festive occasions.

Just so you know: One of the Mad King’s castles, Neuschwanstein, was the inspiration for Sleeping Beauty Castles at Disneyland sites worldwide.

From Munich, take the train approximately 70 kilometers south, to Murnau am Staffelsee, a market town in the district of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Don’t worry about lugging your luggage up and down the stairs at the train station. As if by magic, strong citizens, generally of the distaff persuasion, will appear and assist. This seems to be some point of honor. Remember to say “Danke schon.” [Thank you.]

If you’re not familiar with the area, don’t drive yourself crazy looking for a place to stay. The centrally located Griesbrau zu Murnau consists of two restaurants (the informal one serves a daily lunch special), a hotel, and a movie house. Its staff can help you find a car service and anything else. Don’t forget to say “Bitte.” [Please.]

This town isn’t as kitschy-glitzy as neighboring Oberammergau, but in Murnau you can exchange your euros for lederhosen, dirndls, and cuckoo clocks. A dollar is worth less than a euro, so be careful when you say “Stimmt so.” [Keep the change.]

Don’t be surprised if you happen upon a herd of cows.

Before you leave this fairy-tale setting, pick up a CD or two by Hubert von Goisern. You haven’t lived till you’ve heard this Alpenrocker’s version of Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz” (on his live Wia Die Zeit Vergeht), on which he addresses “Herr Gott.” [Mr. God]

Cooperating

When I arrived at XYZ Umpteenth Street in 1998, I studied the house rules very carefully.

I noted that it was verboten to change anything on the exterior of my unit without permission from the other building residents.

I had the interior of my apartment painted three shades of orchid pink and two shades of apple green.

This elicited sneers and jeers from various people in the building. Besides being mocked during coop meetings, I was actually shrieked at when I stood on the second-floor landing. (To be fair, most of the shrieking was uttered by an opera singer—a genuine prima donkey.)

I was repeatedly informed that my home was simply too feminine.

(Please note that the family who previously occupied apartment 2Q chose bright orange for their walls.)

Several months ago, during one of the meetings, the coop voted to refurbish the common areas of the building. This enterprise would include fresh paint in the hallways.

The online bulletin board of the $%& Unhinged Avenue Owners Corporation provided a ballot. (The front of the building, where Bobo’s Salon has its entrance, bears the address $%& Unhinged Avenue.) Not having a particularly strong opinion regarding new colors for the branches and leaves outside my private nest, I ceded this vote to one of my neighbors.

The work is in progress. Now people in this building anticipate that the combination of blood-red walls and tinkling chandeliers will render an appearance and effect reminiscent of a bordello.