Pile Of Stones

The Metropolitan Museum first opened on February 20, 1872. The columned entrance is located at 681 Fifth Avenue. I have been going to the museum at least twice a year since 1976. My favorite exhibits are the Asmat collection featuring cannibal carvings from Papua New Guinea and the American wing's Hudson school paintings. Each time there I discover another personal treasure, but as much as we look, we do not see.

A week ago a friend remarked that above each set of columns at the entrance were stacked large slabs of limestone. He googled a photo. He was right. Four separate pyramids of roughly hewn stone almost the same white color as the Museum.

"Supposedly they came from the Old Penn Station."

"Really." I knew that much of the Beaux-Arts terminal had been transported to the Meadowlands after its destruction to build Madison Square Garden in the 1960s. Comparing the new and the old Penn Station, Yale architectural historian Vincent Scully wrote, "One entered the city like a god god; one scuttles in now like a rat."

On Monday evening I was invited to a rooftop opening at the Met for Petrit Halilaj's iron sculptures by Italian skateboarder/photographer Ale Formenti. As I approached the entrance, I glanced upward to see the limestone blocks. I would have never noticed them, if my friend hadn't mentioned them. The

As for the opening veni, vedi, ivi. A paraphrase of Caesar's Conquest of Gaul. I came, I saw, I conquered. Mine was I came, I saw, I went,

The event on the roof was crowded with rich sponsors and talkative art dealers. I lurked on the outskirts of the hubbub and then peacefully sat in a garden, speaking with Ale about life and eternity with my dear friend.

I was under-impressed by the sculptures. The welding was amateurish and the figurine reminded me of a Halloween pumpkin, but this was a great feat for any artist, recognizing my appreciation are somewhat twisted by having working in a metal shop.

After a few minutes we sought his wife, who had spent four years organizing the show. As we passed through the melee, I sought a wealthy patroness. None eyed me for more than a second, recognizing the danger of a poet bien-inconnu. They were more interested in gay walkers. I am not in their world and they are not in mine.

After a few words with his wife, we descended to sit in the statue atrium by the exit for the hors d'ouvres, whilst restrainng from golwering at the upper crust glowing in high-class elation. Neither Ale nor I drank the offered wine or champagne. Both of us have been sober for years. He spiritually. Me for health reasons.

We spoke to no one else and I reached over to touch the Rodin. Everyone was watching themselves and not me. The bronze was cold and having worked in a metal fabricator shop I saw the sculptor building a casting form and

Not Recommended Price

In the late-1970s I haunted the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The suggested admission was $5. I gave the cashier a quarter, since a fiver bought a nice meal at the Dorothy Draper's elegantly designed Fountain Restaurant.

Over the years I might have been to the museum a hundred times.

I know the Asmat sculptures, the Thomas Coles, and El Greco's VIEW OF TOLEDO.

Back in those days no one went to the museum.

I had it to myself on many occasions, but over the years the public sought Art and thronged to the 5th Avenue institution in the millions.

The suggested admission has risen over the decades to the present $25, but I fight that inflation by staying true to my 25 cent contribution. Few people know that you give what you want to give and the confusing placard at the museum's several ticket booths are not designed to enlighten the public that they don't have to pay a single cent.

Two lawsuits are challenging that deception and Mayor Bloomberg has signed a lease to the Museum that permits whatever entrance charge the board members deem appropriate. The lame-duck mayor signed similar contracts with the American Museum of Natural History and the Museum of the City of New York.

According to the Daily News Lawyer Michael Hiller, who has filed one of two lawsuits against the Met claiming it duped museumgoers, blasted the new lease. “The museum‘s effort to arrange a lease amendment, in the dead of night, without notice to the public and without regard to the democratic process, is nothing but a desperate stunt by the museum to defeat claims its lawyers must know are valid. It won’t sell politically. It won’t pass muster legally, and if anything, merely reinforces the fact the museum has been violating the lease for the last 43 years and that it must stop.”

The mayor’s office declined comment.

More proof that Mayor Bloomberg serves the rich.

After all they let him become a billionaire.

And we the people can only react as sheep or enter the Met with a shiny quarter in our hands and say, "Admission for two."

The revolution starts small.

25 cents small.

Uncool Punk

During the late-70s I often visited the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The suggested admission was $2. As a punk from CBGBs I gave nothing. That paintings on the walls belonged to rich people and the antiquities had been stolen from around the world. My favorite paintings were el Greco's VIEW OF TOLEDO and Thomas Cole's THE OXBOW. After studying the art I had lunch in the dolphin fountain cafeteria. The food was bland, but a glass of wine was cheap. This week superstars Beyoncé and Anna Wintour, Editor-in-Chief of Vogue offered the world a view of punk fashion. Hundreds of celebrities turned up for a $100,000 a head gala at the Museum on 5th Avenue. Cameron Diaz and Jessica Sara Parker were epitomes of phoneyism. Anne Hathaway less so. And Miley Cyrus was so so yes. For the most part the Rich and Famous are so uncool Unlike Debby Harry. Or Psy. Gabba Gabba Ho-Hum And no mention of Johnny Thunders, X, or Sham 69. Fuck you all.

Dead Fish Auction

In the winter of 1969 a foul storm blew an unknown sea creature onto Duxbury Beach south of Boston. The WBZ radio announcer reported it to be a 'sea monster'. My brother, sister, and I jumped into our VW and drove through a hard rain to a forlorn stretch of beach. A crowd was gathered around a massive sea creature. Its extremities were frayed by hungry fish. Everyone was offering their opinion on its identity.

A whale, a shark, a octopus.

No one said it was alien, although the shape was unlike anything we had ever seen on Jacques Cousteau's underwater TV adventures. My brother stepped forward and touched the dead flesh. He put his fingertips to his nose.

"It smells like fish."

After his assessment the gathering started hacking up the creature. Not to eat, but to store in glass jars and show future generations a piece of the Duxbury monster. The next day the radio said it was a Basking Shark. Most people threw out their decaying mementos. Fish stinks after three days and this fish had already been dead a long time. My brother kept his, although he can recollect where.

Several years ago I thought about this episode while at the Metropolitan Museum. They were exhibiting a floating shark of Damien Hirst. It looked as ratted out as the water-logged Duxbury monster. The town had buried its corpse in the sand. Damien Hirst's shark was worth millions. A dead shark in formaldehyde. I certainly don't know shit about art, especially when art collectors around the world shelled out millions on a financial doomsday to purchase recopied original masterpieces of the artist. By the way copies usually means fakes unless they are by the artist themself, then it's an original reproduction.

I still don't know shit about art.