Rome: The Stone Cold Statue Dialogue

The Capitoline Museum in Rome has so many beautiful rooms, so many beautiful statues. You can’t appreciate them fully when they’re all together like that – you get immune to the beauty of carved marble - so I suggest that Rome should share it’s wealth of amazing statues with the rest of the world, and Steve thinks this is a good plan, and that perhaps each person should be given a statue as they leave the museum, like a very heavy goodie bag.

They have so many that they jumble statues of gods and emperors together, and sometimes even just throw in a statue of a head or a even a foot. This is what I was thinking of when I wrote this dialogue between two statues that face each other in a gallery room– one of Apollo, the god of poetry, archery, and the sun – and a mortal one of Augustus Caesar.


Apollo: So…you’re new.


Caesar: What do you mean new? I’m an ancient statue as well.


Apollo: Of course, I mean you’re new here. I used to face Hermes.


Caesar: Yes, I heard someone stuck something called ‘gum’ on his toe, so he had to go get cleaned, and they moved me in. But this is a much better view than I used to have, so I’m happy.


Apollo: Hey, what’s it like outside? I can’t believe they put me, the God of the sun, facing inward, so I never get to look at the weather.


Caesar: Well, it’s not raining.


Apollo: That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got? No descriptions of golden rays? Azure skies?

Caesar: I dunno. You’re the poetry and weather guy. It’s not bloody raining.

Apollo, sighing, then muttering under his breath: Mortals.

Ceasar: Was that a dig? I’ll have you know I was Emperor of the Roman Empire.

Apollo: Yes, but didn’t you just kind of, you know, give yourself that title?

Caesar: Well, technically, yes….

Apollo: Then I’ve made my point.

Caesar: Look here, at least we know for certain that I was real. You may be just an abstract idea.

Apollo: Are you joking? I’ve been holding this bow and arrow for thousands of years. Could a mere mortal do that? Come on. Admit it. I’m magnificent. Look at my perfect physique.

Caesar, snickering: Well, it’s not exactly perfect.

Apollo: What do you mean? Look at this six-pack. I hear people comment on it all the time.

Caesar: Fair enough….but (giggle) you’re missing your, uh, bits and pieces.

Apollo: What?!

Caesar: Your tackle. Your junk. You didn’t know? Okay, I’ll try to put this delicately. Um….someone snapped your penis off hundreds of years ago.

Apollo: What?! No!

Caesar: Oh yes. It’s even sort of, um, concave down there where it should stick out. Shame, really.

Apollo: Oh, if only I could look down to see if you were telling the truth! Hermes teased me about it once or twice, but he was such a jokester, I thought it was just posturing. You know, cause I’m a superior God.

Caesar: You know who’s superior in that department - if you know what I mean – is Priapus down on the first floor. You try not to look, but, well, you know.

Apollo: Well, at least I had something at one time. You’re fully clothed.

Caesar: Yes, the mortal statues all are. It would be a bit creepy wouldn’t it, if we made naked statues of ourselves with great physiques, and then had to run into people at the market after a few big meals? Unkind comparisons could be made. But at least I know I’m all man, uh, underneath this skirt.

Apollo: Pff. Whatever.

Pause.

Apollo: Has anyone ever told you that you look like Voldemort?

Caesar: Who’s Voldemort?

Apollo: I think he’s a modern day God, from a play called Star Wars. (I try to pick up as much as possible from the clothing and conversations I hear amongst the young people, you know.) It’s because your nose is all smashed off. That’s what they used to say about Hermes – his nose was smashed too.

Caesar: I know, I’m a bit sensitive about it….I used to have the most magnificent Roman nose. Hey, I hear there’s a beautiful statue of Venus on this floor who’s got all her fingers. I could go for some of that, let me tell you. Do you think I’d have a chance with her, or would I be completing against this Voldemort?

Apollo: Bah, don’t even bother trying. We’ve all had a go, to no avail. That statue is one stone cold bitch.

Caesar, giggling: Good one.

Apollo: he he he…..I’ve still got it.

Stylish Little Stay

The über fancy SLS Hotel in Beverly Hills was designed by famous French designer Phillip Starck (the guy who makes the uncomfortable looking clear plastic chairs). Its lobby is lit like a nightclub—very dark at all hours-- and has a tall glowing box behind the front desk with a written series of phrases that try to hint at what SLS stands for:

Soft like silk

She looks spellbound

Seriously lovely space

Scribble love sonnets

Sparkle like sunshine

Share lovely sunsets

Sleepy little sighs

And it seemed kind of cute and only just a tiny bit precious as we read these phrases while sitting on a mirrored bench, in front of a mirror, waiting to check in. Across from the bench was huge black horse lamp-- the size of an actual horse-- with a light bulb and a lampshade sticking out of his head. Beside him was an enormous pot belled pig statue, carrying a tray of tiny apples on his back.

Lisa grabbed an apple so I did too, and we ate them in about 3 bites and then found ourselves holding apple cores with nowhere to put them. “I want to think of an SLS phrase about there not being a garbage can anywhere,” I said to Lisa.

“Seriously lacking sanitation,” she shot back right away.

The room was beautiful, heavily mirrored, and featured many more SLS phrases. The Room Service menu was entitled Some Light Snacks. The mini bar drinks menu said Sip Luscious Spirits. There was a little box beside one bed called Sensuous Little Secrets that you could purchase for $26. Inside it were 2 condoms and 2 very sexy ‘adult antimicrobial wipes’. Ew. I felt they missed an opportunity by not labeling the condoms with the subtitle ‘stops little swimmers’. Oh well.

The bathroom was another adventure: were the toilet not immediately visible upon walking into the room, I would have assumed I probably had to climb up on the counter to relieve myself, since this stainless steel sink looked more like a stylish bedpan than anything else.

I loved the half-a-white-jelly-bean bathtub with mustard coloured curtains, although it was a bitch to get in and out of, and the position of the hand held shower wand caused me to knock the shampoo onto the floor every time I used it.

And, the four mirrored bathroom walls were a bit much too; short of closing my eyes, there was no way to avoid watching myself pee. (No picture of that, sorry.)

On our guestroom floor while we waited for the elevator to go out that night, we could have sat in this chair featuring a cat head on a suited person’s body,

sitting next to a lamp with a gun for a base,

beside a huge 15 foot by 7 foot backlit photo of Penelope Cruz writhing around with a snake,

and a pool table (because all of these things go so well together, obviously).

On the pool table was a little sign saying ‘sink lovely shots’, telling us to ask at the concierge desk if we wanted the billiards stuff. Perhaps they had to put the sign there because people kept bringing in their own snakes and then climbing up on the table and writhing around like Penelope? I’ll admit, it was tempting.

Only place in the whole hotel without mirrors: the elevator. Instead they had life sized pictures of people avoiding looking at each other, they way they do in a real elevator.

But what do I know about style? Nothing! When I’m in a hurry, I’ll occasionally wear crocs out of the house, and recently I got my haircut for the first time in eighteen months. Sometimes when she looks at my outfit, my ten year old daughter pats my arm condescendingly and says “It’s okay, mom.”

Ah, but what do I know about hotels? A lot. I used to be a manager in a few upscale hotels, taught hotel management in a college, and have even written textbooks on the subject, and this hotel was great in all the right ways: our room was perfectly silent, I slept soundly, the soap smelled good, and, most importantly, the staff were so kind and professional I’d say I haven’t experienced better service anywhere. So what if their breakfast menu features a twenty five dollar dish of quail eggs, mixed with bananas, rice, and salsa? Who am I to judge? Maybe that’s a thing now.

So long, SLS-- it was a sweet little stay (especially because Lisa's husband generously gave us his airline points to pay for it). And if you ever go, now you know -- do not pee in the sink. You're welcome.

White in Watts

Simon Rodia isn’t the first guy to build stuff in his backyard, but he’s probably the coolest.

In the early 1920s, Rodia bought a triangular lot in Watts, Los Angeles and spent the next 30 years building 3 huge towers next to his house that still stand today--using only small hand tools, re-bar, coat hangers, cement, and stuff he found nearby. Two of the towers are over ninety five feet tall; Rodia himself was less than five feet tall. He had no ladder, no helpers, and no education. He influenced modern day builders with his structural methods and he was so admired by the Beatles that his image is on the album cover of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, right beside Bob Dylan. And almost no one in LA today seems to know who he is.

Lisa and I went to LA for the weekend and decided to go see the Watts Towers. It wasn’t the easiest place to get to – our taxi driver had no idea what we were talking about when we asked him to take us there- and he sped away pretty fast after he let us out. We knew that the area wasn’t great – but I read today that Watts has the lowest median household income in all of LA and that 50 percent of people there live below the poverty line. It’s the home of huge riots in both the 60s and the 90s, and is where the infamous ‘bloods’ and ‘crips’ gangs hang out. So it was obviously a perfect place for two middle aged white Canadian moms to get dropped off with their luggage on a Friday afternoon.

All the structures Rodia built are behind a tall locked metal gate and fence (as are all the homes and trailers in the neighbourhood). If enough interested people gather and pay the $7 entry fee, one of the three women who work in the art centre building nearby will unlock the gate for a minute while they let in and lead a tour group. We aren’t allowed to touch the towers, but we can see up close how Rodia recycled pop bottles, broken plates, shells, tiles, and just about everything else he found at an abandoned factory nearby to decorate his work. He even decorated the floor by making impressions in it with heat vent grates and pieces of metal screen doors. Check it out:

In a few spots he pressed his simple tools into the cement along with his initials SR, the way Van Vogh would scribble ‘Vincent’ in the bottom right hand corner of a painting.

The towers were amazing and the African American and Hispanic women who worked there were great. They called us a taxi when the tour was over, and Lisa and I chatted with them for a few minutes about where we were from before we headed outside to wait for the cab. We sat in the California sunshine and talked for at least half an hour before one of the women stuck her head out of the art centre and called out “Hey! Vancouver!”

“Yeah?” I said.

“I called the cab again. It’s gonna be, like, 20 more minutes.”

“Okay, thanks.”

School had been out for a while when three tween African American girls walked by and started skipping double dutch behind us with two long ropes. They were obviously trash tracking each other, although the vernacular was so hard for me to understand that the only word I could pick out that they were saying to each other was nigger. We also witnessed a pit bull growling and biting a skateboard so fiercely on the street in front of us that none of a group of about twenty laughing teenage boys could get it away from him until one sprayed the dog’s face with water.

When the taxi showed up, over an hour after he’d been called, the driver didn’t even want to get out of the car, and he admonished us for going to that area. Later in the weekend I curiously asked another taxi driver if he knew what Watts Towers was and he had no idea. But he did say “YOU TWO went into Watts? Two WHITE girls?!” Why is race still so bloody complicated?

Rodia himself was Italian, but he asked someone local to translate the phrase ‘our town’ into Spanish and he inscribed Nuestro Pueblo on the entrance because he wanted it to be for everyone – and yet some people who lived nearby used to get their kids to purposely vandalize the towers anyway. Some say this is why after 30 years of building, he deeded the property to a neighour for free, walked away, and never returned (although he lived another ten years). And yet later when the city wanted to knock the towers down, people in the neighbourhood were some of the folks who rallied around to save them.

In any case, I came away from Watts Towers wanting to BUILD STUFF. I procrastinated like crazy about writing this today by cleaning out one big kitchen cupboard and found the following items I never use and can donate to my building project:

- 15 christmas tins
- The glass part of a blender for which I no longer have the base or lid
- A woven plate holder I have never figured out a use for…why would a plate need a holder?
- 2 jars of ancient jam I made once that was so solid that I broke a knife trying to spread it, but couldn’t bring myself to throw away because I’d worked so hard making it
- A spare fridge door tray from a fridge we no longer own
- A my little pony comb
- Parts of 2 different sets of popsicle molds
- A metal wine bottle holder we got for our wedding 17 years ago that we have never used

So…what can I MAKE? Any ideas?

And will you put me on your album cover?