September 12 - Day 6: The Worst Case of Pyorrhea I’ve Ever Seen

I almost feel like I should combine Wednesday’s and Thursday’s posts because, in a way, they both (each? I’m never sure on that one …) deal in a way with visiting the one-time homes of some of my heroes. I think it’s better to leave the posts separate, though; not just for the sake of orderliness, but to present them as variations on a theme.

As late as I got to bed Wednesday morning, it was even later on Thursday (by nearly two hours), so much so that not only was the morning commute well underway, it might already have been over. Regardless of my bedtime, I roused myself to putter around the apartment (actually, “putr” might be better, given the size of the place) until I figured it was time to leave for an outing to the Society of Illustrators. I had planned this trip from the beginning, but was going to postpone it until the show opened, since it’s only about four blocks from the theatre to their building. I was feeling kind of guilty, though, about not doing anything “touristy” (despite the fact that I’ve done all those things at least once), so off I went.

After the Great Peanut Butter Tragedy, I was disinclined to stop for breakfast, figuring I could pick up something on the way—and, in the event, that decision proved to be fortuitous (but let’s not get ahead of ourselves ...).

Knowing how much walking I was planning, there was no way I was going to walk the three-plus miles to the Society’s building on east 63^rd, so the subway was my best option. I hiked over to Astor Place and took the R uptown, got out, walked confidently in the wrong direction, realized I was going the wrong way, got oriented, made it to 63^rd, walked down the street, saw a number of lovely brownstones, even if none of them seemed to be the right place. Checking my phone, I realized I’d walked confidently in the wrong direction again, so I turned around, and soon saw the building, which couldn’t have been more obvious. (If nothing else, it has a big-ass flag out front.)

I was there to see three exhibits: “The Art of The Avengers and Other Heroes,” “Funny Ladies at The New Yorker: Cartoonists Then and Now,” and “Tales from the Crypt: The Revolutionary Art of MAD and EC Comics.” The point of the first and the third were to showcase the original comic art, and in some cases, seeing it was easy, and in others, it was bafflingly difficult. The New Yorker one was a little disappointing in that most of the cartoons on display seemed to be copies rather than originals; it was fairly comprehensive in terms of the magazine’s female cartoonists, though. As much as I love Roz Chast, it didn’t start with her.

As far as the original comic art went, though, it was truly fascinating to see it up close. In some cases, there wasn’t a lot of difference between the size of the pages and what was actually printed, though those page sizes varied wildly. The EC pages were huge, and the Marvel pieces ranged in all kinds of sizes. The “Avengers” label was (admittedly on their part) a catch-all to tie in with the general public’s familiarity with the movie franchise, but (despite his being a founder) one could hardly call the Hulk or Adam Warlock “Avengers,” and Spider-Man barely qualifies.

The artists represented were all over the map. Someone like Herb Trimpe (whose art I love, I hesitate to add) is a little more primitive than, say, Walter Simonson or Gil Kane, but almost all of the pages were still very nice. The highlight in that area, though, may have been the Spider-Man pages by Steve Ditko. Now, while every comic artist is unique (and I’m always surprised by how many I can tell at sight), Ditko may have been the most unique of all (and, yes, I know you can’t qualify “unique”). To see the specificity of his line work, shading, layouts, and overall inking would have been a master class if someone took the hours required to fully appreciate it. The Marvel exhibit took up the ground floor and the basement, and the second floor was devoted to the New Yorker work. The third floor was the prize—and the puzzler.

The third floor of the Society’s building is mainly a café; it has a bar and lots of tables and plants, and squeezed in-between and behind these tables was the reason the Ditko pages weren’t the only master class; these pieces were breathtaking, even the pages from the notorious horror stories. Al Williamson, Reed Crandall, Wally Wood, Joe Orlando, Johnny, Craig, and Harvey Kurtzman were all represented on huge pages. The problem was that I had to work around and squeeze behind tables to get a really close look at some of them. The thing that most surprised me was that the lettering, which I always assumed was typeset, looked done by hand.

Fortunately, the café wasn’t serving, so no one was seated at the tables, but it was still baffling why they’d go to all the trouble of putting up the pages if they were going to make it so difficult to see it all. There were also a number of pages from Mad Magazine, as well; Al Jaffe (who knew the fold-in originals were that big?), Wood, Bill Elder, Antonio Prohias, covers by Frank Kelly Freas, Norman Mingo, even Dave Berg. And who ever expected to see originals by Don Martin? I could have spent a lot more time there, but felt a little rushed by the rest of my itinerary (even though both destinations were outdoor-only, I still didn’t want to be trying to see them after dark).

I’ve been to the 92^nd Street Y a number of times to see cultural programs, but why I never made the connection with what’s on east 93^rd, I have no idea. Ever since I became a fan of the Marx Brothers in the late 60s, I’ve wanted to visit the brownstone they grew up in. (The family lived there from 1895 to 1909.) Since 1977, I must have been to New York twenty times, but it never occurred to me to go see the building. I resolved that this was going to be the day. It was a mere thirty blocks from the Society’s building to the Marx building, so I could get in the start of a good walk.

On my way, I was still looking for someplace to have breakfast. I looked at a couple of possible spots, but either there was just something about them that felt wrong, or the Yelp rating was mediocre. Finally, I came to the corner of Lexington and 83^rd, and I felt like someone stranded in a desert must feel upon seeing an oasis. It was the Lexington Candy Shop. 

 The second stool from the left? Mine.

It’s been on that corner since 1925 and seems like it hasn’t changed much, if at all. Calling it a “candy shop” is deceptive, nce it’s really an old-fashioned greasy spoon diner, albeit one with the original fixtures from the 20s. They have a full menu, plus real milk shakes and malteds (I may have to go back and try one), and make their own lemonade and orangeade from scratch—meaning, when a person orders one, they squeeze the citrus fruit right then and mix it with water and simple syrup. I bellied up to the counter, and despite the numerous temptations, kept it simple with a bagel and cream cheese and an iced tea. Since it’s not that far from the theatre, I may have to go back some Saturday during our long layover between shows. I’ll admit it wasn’t cheap, but I have no doubt their rent has skyrocketed in recent years. Finally having something in my stomach, it was time to cover the final ten blocks to 93^rd.

Now, admittedly, there are no traces of the Marxes left; the building has doubtless been renovated and painted in the century since, and the front door has certainly been replaced, but I guessed that the stoop and railing were probably original, as were the buildings across the street, so I could easily stand there in the same spot the brothers had occupied and imagine what it might have been like circa 1905. It was thrilling in a way, but nothing like what was coming.

The Marxes lived on the fourth floor.

Now is the time to explain today’s title. There’s a story that’s probably apocryphal, but is too good not to hope it’s true. One of Houdini’s most famous illusions was called “Needles.” In it, he would produce a packet of small sewing needles, and appear to swallow them, one by one, then in bunches. He would then take a spool of thread, break off a long string, and swallow that. Then, he would ask a group of volunteers from the audience to inspect his mouth and make sure there was nothing in it. After the audience was assured there wasn’t, he’d regurgitate the thread, which now had the needles tied to it at regular intervals. As the story goes, Groucho Marx was in the audience one night and was one of the volunteers for Needles. Houdini asked him what he saw in his mouth, and Groucho replied, “The worst case of pyorrhea I ever saw,” then left the stage.

I’ve been a fan of Houdini’s almost as long as I’ve been a fan of the Marxes. I can really trace it back to 1981, when I saw a truly terrible production of Macbeth at Lincoln Center. As I was reading the program and the actors’ bios, I saw that one of them had been in productions of Houdini and Macbeth. I misread it, though, and thought it was one play about the two of them together, rather than separate plays. Even after I realized my mistake, though, the concept stuck with me. There was something there; some connection. I just couldn’t figure out what. Then it hit me: ghosts. There are a bunch of ghosts in the Scottish Play, and even in my then-limited knowledge of Houdini, I knew he had spent a good portion of his career exposing phony mediums and spiritualists. I began researching Houdini, and ended up writing three plays about Harry interacting with Macbeth and two other characters (Hamlet and Sherlock Holmes). He’s remained fascinating to me ever since.

I’d known Houdini had lived in a house uptown, but (as with the Marxes) had never visited it. The prospect became especially enticing when the house was sold earlier this year. When the open house was announced, John Cox flew here on short notice to actually see the interior, something almost no one had been able to do for decades. (The people who owned the house knew its history, but—understandably—didn’t want people constantly pestering them to see inside.) Over the decades, the building was broken up into separate apartments and flats, but the new owners have plans to renovate it back into a reasonable facsimile of what it looked like when the Houdinis owned it, turning it back into a one-family home.

Street-wise, it’s not that far; just ten blocks, but walking there involved walking from the East Side to the West, including a sojourn through the extreme northern end of Central Park, where I’d never been. By this time, it wasn’t really raining, but was still pretty wet and humid out, so I needed an umbrella for most of the trip. When I got into the Park, the thing that most surprised me was that there were no cars. I remembered that the city had cut off motor traffic to most of the Park, so it was just me, some joggers, some cyclists, and no one else. I also noticed just how dead quiet it was. Here I was, in the middle of one of the biggest, noisiest cities in the world, and I might as well have been in a Kansas prairie.

The unfortunate thing about all of it, though, was how hot and sweaty I was getting. The humidity, as always, was murder. The heat wasn’t bad, but combined with the humidity, I was getting overheated. I got to 113^th, turned left, and walked up the block. Up ahead, I could see some scaffolding that indicated that someone was doing renovation work, and I was a little concerned that it would be 278 (the Houdini house), but it turned out to be a couple of buildings away. 

 "Can Harry come out and play?"

Finally, I got there, and it was just stunning to see a place I’d been reading about for years in the … well, not in the flesh, but in the bricks. And, again, there was the sensation that Houdini had stood right here; had looked at those buildings across the street; had looked up and down this block; had probably even turned the corner I was about to take. Yeah, it’s only a house and a sidewalk, but it’s got a ton of history and meaning for me behind it.

Having finished my pilgrimage, it was time to head back downtown. While the thought of walking the six miles back to the Village was tempting, I was just too hot and tired to try it. Fortunately, there was a Starbucks at the corner where the subway stop was, so I ordered an iced tea and slugged it down in ten minutes (it usually takes me at least an hour). I was headed down to Union Square.

I was going there for two reasons. The first was that I was looking for a tobacco pipe. (I soon learned I needed to refer to it that way, rather than just as “a pipe.”) I figured the Walgreen’s on 14^th and 4^th would have one (in my memory, drugstores always carried them), and they did, but it was $37, and I was damned if I was going to pay that much. (I wanted a pipe because I used one in the original production of Mother Night and want to use it again, but one I used in San Francisco had vanished when I went to pack it.) As well, since it was Wednesday, I needed to stop at the comic store and see what new books had come out. I stopped at both places, bought some stuff, then decided that it might be nice to find some nice quiet little spot and have a glass of wine. As well, I thought I’d stop at a smoke shop and see what their pipe selections were. I located the former on 8^th, and the latter on 11^th and 1^st, which I could make into a stop on the way, but for all their selections of “other” pipes and smoking equipment (and I think you know what they’re used for …), none of it was for tobacco (well, except for the cigars). On my way to the bar, I tried a couple more smoke shops I stumbled up, to the same effect.

I arrived at the bar (The Immigrant), eventually found a seat at the bar, and ordered a pretty good French pinot noir. I’d intended to have a couple of drinks, but about halfway through, decided I wanted supper and tried to figure out where to go, settling on John’s of Bleecker Street, which has been making pizzas in their coal oven since 1929, and was reputed to be good. Even though I’d already walked about six miles, and it meant walking all the way to the West Village, I pulled the trigger. I paid the bill and walked down to St. Marks, thinking that it was countercultural enough that there might be a smoke shop with tobacco pipes. (I even stopped at a couple more drugstores.) At every shop, though, it was the same; they all reacted as though I were asking for tires for a moon buggy.

Eventually, I made it to John’s. I wasn’t sure if there’d be a line, since there’s sometimes an hour’s wait (and, as I learned, half of the space is closed for renovation), but I figured that, between the late hour (8:30 or so) and the crummy weather, it might not be too bad, and it actually was; there were only four people in front of me, and I was inside within ten minutes. I was seated at a booth for four, and felt guilty about taking up that much space, but you take what you get.

 

Not actual size.

I ordered a medium cheese pizza and another iced tea (I really didn’t want beer or more wine), and it came much more quickly than I expected. I was hungry (and had walked) enough that I ate the whole thing (though it wasn’t that big). I was actually a little disappointed in the pizza. It was very good, but I’ve had better. I paid and debated whether I should walk back home, or take the subway or a bus. Timewise, it was about the same, so I sucked it up and walked. I put in about nine miles on Wednesday. When walking I’m a little stiff and sore at first, but once I get up a head of steam, I’m fine—except for the humidity. On the way, I found yet another smoke shop—which actually had tobacco pipes! I found a dandy one and bought it, then made the last leg to the apartment.

I’ve detailed how late I’d been staying up, but knew I had to turn in early in order to get up early for my train trip to Connecticut, about which more next time.