Following Philip Roth and a shoe called Narrative

NARRATIVE OF THE DAY: Following Philip Roth.

So I am walking north on Columbus, thinking about the pair of shoes—a pair of really, really nice shoes-- I have just seen in a store with the model name "Narrative." I am thinking: "Note to Self for Blog. Object of Desire of the Day: A shoe called Narrative. Maybe elaborate that into some little narrative about the death (or at least declining prestige) of narrative. And maybe an LFAQ: Would I desire the shoes quite as much if they did not sport a name with such theoretical cachet--knowing my predeliction for possessing ideas or concepts rather than objects. (Hence my collection of random domain names.)?" So, in any event, I'm walking up Columbus, thinking about a shoe called Narrative, when who do I see pass but that Professor of Desire and narrative himself, Philip Roth. Yup. Philip Freaking Roth. Plain as day--sporting a navy blue blazer and grey pants and walking sort of stiffly, his arms hanging, it seems, ever so slightly asymmetrically--the right one a bit lower than the left. Needless, to say, I immediately stop my reflections about a shoe called Narrative and turn around to follow in the famous narrator's footsteps.

He turns off of Columbus ("Goodbye, Columbus", I think to myself) and onto 72nd St. No one else seems to recognize him--ah blessed anonymity (or at least discretion) of NY--so much so that I am momentarily concerned that I have stumbled upon a mere lookalike. An accountant doppelganger. My doubts are put to rest when a husky red haired man sporting multiple Tip Top Shoe bags and some dry cleaning effusively accosts him. The man, looking like a cross between Michael Moore and Drew Carey and sounding a bit like the chubby guy in Superbad, thanks him "for everything...for everything" and tells him some story I can't make out about a friend who writes for the New Yorker that must in some way be a propos. Phillip Roth thanks him--looking genuinely interested and appreciative. When he bids adieu and is about to pass me (I have been standing still, slightly past them on the street, watching the exchange), it is all I can do to repress my impulse to say "I am the real Coleman Silk” and I end up offering a simple "High regards" --a pithy statement of appreciation for which he seems again genuinely appreciative. (As much, I suspect, for the brevity as for the sentiment.)

But where is he going, I wonder? And don't I owe it to myself or at least to my blog to find out? After all--this is NEWS! This is the kind of thing that can get me big hits when people Google "Philip Roth New York City" –so long as I remember to mention it in my posting title! This is what I’ve learned from the Tonto Kowalski episode. So I continue to follow him --at discreet private eye distance--west on 72nd St. where, again totally unrecognized, he peeks with a sort of brusque, peckish interest at the Shining Star Deli, Tip Top Shoes, Flix Video and a few other neighborhood establishments.

Philip Roth turns north on Amsterdam and, half way up the block, I hit a crisis point in my narrative. There, I see evidence that the long awaited event has arrived: A Chipotle Grill has opened in my hood. I am thrilled to make this discovery –but am suddenly being forced to choose between my identity as vigilant investor and irrepressible brand enthusiast and my identity as committed blogger and literary stalker. O cruelty of such abundance! Ultimately, I figure the Philip Roth thing has a bit more urgency and color to it (indeed, makes a better narrative if not a better burrito) and I resolve to return to the Chipotle later—to welcome them to the 10023 and ask about the briskness of business.

Meanwhile, the famous writer strides on. As I follow the creator of Portnoy, Zuckerman and the Swede north on Amsterdam (and it does strike me that all of those characters and their memorably articulated worlds sprang from within the half naked cranium a few paces in front of me), I begin to wonder more about his ultimate destination. Is he on his way to lunch? To get a bunion removed? To a mid-day assignation? Then, with regard to this last conjecture, I think: Did he really suffer impotence as a result of a prostate surgery operation or was that just the character that he wrote about in The Human Stain or American Pastoral or whichever one it was? As I watch him peer, improbably, into the Candle Bar (a local gay establishment) and, less improbably, into the Chirping Chicken, I also begin to wonder if, curiosity-deficient as I am, there is any other famous male I’d be interested in following for more than a block? Maybe a few sports stars (Steve Nash, Pedro, Roger Federer and John McEnroe come to mind) just to size them up and see if I could take them. :) But in the non-sports realm, I’m coming up empty. Let me leap ahead to say that, in the course of the entire walk and the subsequent 2 days since, I was only able to come up with Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen for sure and Jean-Luc Godard and Don Delillo for maybe. The list of women, needless to say, would be substantially longer --beginning with, and in no way restricted to, Charlize Theron, Natalie Portman and Jennifer Connely. Of course, the list of lovelies for whom I’d be (STALKER ALERT STALKER ALERT) willing to go a block or two out of my way is in no way restricted to celebrities. But I digress (and, yes, stalk). Anyhow, back to the narrative present and, as it were, my original digression/stalking. I am following the scrivening septuagenarian and finding myself impressed by his vigor. Indeed, though I seem to remember that he’s had some major health problems in the last few years, the old literary lion is walking at a rather healthy clip and, in truth—and to my embarrassment—I am actually finding myself getting a bit winded trying to keep up with him. (Would he still be so spry if he were wearing a shoe called Narrative instead of his Merrills?)

As we reach W. 77th St. on this lovely Saturday afternoon, I see some kippa-clad orthodox Jews out on the street doing startled double takes. (Which reminds me for a moment—a bit incongruously-- of the old holocaust survivors in Marathon Man recognizing the Nazi torturer played by Laurence Olivier as he walked through the diamond district). One man, pushing a baby carriage with his wife, leaves her to run ahead of the great writer then suddenly stops and, casting all tact to the wind, turns around to gawk. Then he allows the writer to pass and, safely gathered in his wake (and in my way), emphatically whispers and points with his wife and friends. This pantomime of passing and peering then falling behind to whisper, gawk and point repeats a few times until it hits me that this is truly "Sabbath's Theater." For a moment, I start to worry that this little walk of indeterminate length and uncertain destination will end up providing dramatizations of every title in his oeuvre. Oy. I hope my legs can hold out.

Phillip Roth turns east on 79th shadowed by Teddy Vegas and an ever growing caravan of gawking yids. I start wondering: Is he aware that he is being followed by a strange bearded guy…and, if so, what story is he telling himself about me? I am reflecting on the strange ghostly relationship between a writer and his “life," on the curious phenomenon of being winded chasing a 74 year old and on the fact that we are about to hit Columbus Avenue again (“Hello Columbus”) when the object of my interest suddenly and unceremoniously gives me the slip--disappearing into the Austin apartment building and resuming his status as a textual rather than a physical presence in my life.

"Exit Ghost."

LFAQs of THE DAY:

Has any all time great athlete aside from OJ ever suffered a greater post-career loss of prestige than Isiah?

What famous person would you most like to discreetly stalk for a few blocks?

Would I get more hits if I had entitled the posting "Phillip Roth's Address in NYC?"

Would I have sullied my bloggeristic dignity by so doing?

Who knew you had to tip the bathroom attendant at Fiddlesticks?

(Apropos of the Obama Elitism charges): Haven't we confused competency with elitism?
Or have we actually started to confuse sentience with elitism?

OLFACTORY OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:

The Time Warner AOL center. It smells like the fancy hotels in Vegas. And the malls in Miami. And the airports in the Caribbean. It’s the universal perfume of buying. The scent of consumption

CULTURAL CRITIQUE OF THE DAY:

Cupcakes are the new yuppie art form. What we have chosen to do with our unprecedented surplus of capital and possibility? Make sugary, buttery treats.

CELEBRITY TRIANGULATION OF THE DAY:

Richard Jenkins (The Father in Six Feet under) in the new movie "The Visitor:"

Bob Newhart,
Rudy Guiliani
David Boise.

DRUNKEN QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

“I want to have a threeway with you and those 4.”

DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY: (In Re: My friend's real estate agency).

La Cage Aux Folles meets Glengarry Glenross.

AMUSING OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:

In the credits to the aforementioned film ("The Visitor"), I was struck by the fact that the role of Sprinkles the Dog was played by Walter the Dog.

RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:

Listening to her talk is like being in a car with someone who is trying to learn to use a stick shift.

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Posted on 4/29/2008 ( Permanent Link )
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