Two Strangers Carrying A Cake Across New York (4*)

 

"Two Strangers" felt like a homecoming, not only because I returned to Broadway after a four-month absence but because the show thrillingly celebrates what it feels like to fall in love with New York City for the first time.  

I'd wanted to see it before departing for Florida but the wait afforded me the opportunity to familiarize myself with cast recordings from both sides of the pond.  Chiffon immediately added three songs to his 2025 playlist, an unusually high number for a single score. With New York, the opening number, two songwriting teams--Comden and Green, and Kander and Ebb--finally have some 21st century competition; it impresses as much with its savvy movie allusions, including Midnight Cowboy ("I'm walkin' here"), as its unbridled, infectious enthusiasm. What'll It Be cleverly captures the directionless yearning of a barista and He Doesn't Exist tenderly warns how a son's desire for a relationship with an absent father can mask can mask the reality of the situation.

Christiani Pitts as Robin, a no-nonsense native New Yorker, and Sam Tutty as Dougal, in town from London for his father's nuptials to Robin's sister, command the revolving luggage carousel stage set with chemistry, charm and talent galore for just over two hours, to say nothing of a very visible band that seems never to take a breath.  Tutty, IMHO, has the slightly heavier lift because both his cockiness and looks bear a slight resemblance to the current occupant of the White House as a young man. Let's hope Tutty's preternatural bravado--which should certainly earn him a Tony Award nomination--doesn't age into insane megalomania.

The book, unfortunately, is more-than-occasionally farfetched, especially in terms of the revelations that drive it.  Jim Barne and Kit Buchan develop the personalities and motivations of Robin and Dougal much better than they do the mechanics of a rom com that sometimes doesn't make a lot of sense. This also explains why the original cast recordings left me clueless about the action on stage.

In the end, however, it doesn't matter.  Two Strangers Carrying A Cake Across New York is an utterly delicious romp that delivers laughter, goosebumps and tears in equal measure.

The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny (5*)

Ilan de Toorjen Foss, an abusive European artist with a cheekily chosen name, makes only brief appearances at the beginning and end of Kiran Desai's wondrous, utterly heartfelt novel, but he's central to its theme in his role as a monstrous and manipulative overseer of Western culture.  After all, The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny ends up being exactly the book he forbids Sonia from writing while he's busily--and successfully--stealing her culture (and virginity) for himself.

We know from the outset that she's no fool, and probably inspired by the author, who won the Booker Prize more than two decades ago, at the ripe old age of 36.  As Sonia writes in her thesis:

Superstition possessed the richness of art. A fantastic tale was another kind of mirror, another kind of metaphor, a way to expose larger-than-life brutalities, a rot beyond rational understanding, a way to say things about a dictator you could never say outright. Also, there was the practical purpose of being able to leap between times and places, to reveal patterns and connections beyond the reach of a realistic book in realistic time.

Desai has done just that and more in an "arranged" love story that explores multiple parental and other family perspectives as thoroughly as those of the protagonists, including their unquestioning acceptance of the caste system.  As Sonny's Uncle Ravi says in an observation that captures the novel's meandering vibe:

Western psychology is no match for an Indian family. We are too slippery, we change shape, we don’t distinguish truth from lies. Lies are truth and truth are lies—you can’t pin us down. 

Desai also moves confidently between India and America with brief detours to Italy--including a dramatic reveal in the "obscure" Fortuny Museum, which I had visited just months earlier--and Mexico, where Sunny has taken refuge in a North American country populated by brown people at just the moment that America loses it innocence.  Her characters' reactions to the September 11th terrorist attack--which intrude on their sympathies--are the gut reactions of people long traumatized both directly and indirectly by the global oppression of colonialism: now they know what if feels like to be on the receiving end.

The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny plunges readers into the worlds of two young Indians whose lives don't really seem to begin until they reach America as college students. The title characters are fulfilling the dreams of their parents, the first generation of south Asians who look to the United States rather than the United Kingdom for self-validation. Both fall into relationships with white people. Sonia's near enslavement to Ilan is uniquely scarring and does metaphorical duty with a significant dose of magical realism, while Sunny's infatuation with Ulla gives Desai an opportunity to generalize broadly about the dynamics of mixed relationships from the perspective a man with significantly more agency. 

Sunny overheard Mala [a mutual friend] begin to denounce the disheartening and repetitive occurrence of Indian boys running after white American women, always picking the most pallid, androgynous ones, the kind who withdrew to spend moody hours scribbling in diaries. This was what attracted them, said Mala, because no Indian woman was bequeathed enough privacy to thus indulge herself with a solipsistic obsession over her own psychology—encouraged to chart the fluctuations of her temperament in response to deep crises that were inevitably banal. These women, meanwhile, realized they could snag a Third World man far higher up the ladder of class and money than any fellow white American, where their prospects were dim, simply by using the bargaining power of their citizenship and their pale complexion.

  

The question of how Sonia and Sunny will end their loneliness drives Desai's six-hundred plus page novel which never flags.  It veers from scorching analysis to comic observation about the differences between Indian and American culture.

Why was it that in the Western world, snooping to uncover a crime was a worse crime than the actual crime! Ulla’s civilization was built upon not snooping and wandering about naked. Sunny’s civilization was based on donning your clothes and listening to every conversation.

*  *  *  *  *

While Sunny understood that Ulla was emphasizing that he had never invited her to join him on a trip to India, he was intrigued to be traveling to a part of the country that was unreachable to a foreigner, an America he could never see on his own. A mythic land imbued with memories of Dust Bowl poverty, of fields worked by migrant labor, of proms, sports heroes, and cheerleaders; six hours to the nearest mall; real cowboys swearing genuine curses on cattle farms; a black-sheep uncle covered in tattoos in a trailer park; an ancestor whose diary from the Civil War indicated he didn’t know which side he was fighting for, although he had carefully recorded each time he ate bacon.

*  *  *  *  *

All of us Indians who are educated to be Westernized are fated to make the same journey. If we have any intelligence or any heart, we have to search for ourselves backward. This was true of Gandhi, it was true of Nehru, it is true of me, and it will be true of your generation. You may think it a fine thing to be in America, and when you’re young, making your way, there’s enough reason to be anywhere in the world—but eventually you begin to wonder who you should have become instead of the person that you are.

*  *  *  *  *

He sat for a long time by his one window holding the miraculous piece of paper, experiencing the seismic shift to his fate from heaviness to lightness, weighing this lightness of being against the gravity of what had occurred, mulling, as if at an occasion where one simply does not know what to feel, what to think, how to behave—as at a circumcision, a loss of virginity, a rite of passage that is a wake and a celebration at the same time. He anticipated that no struggle would feel as important or real as this one. The green card would proceed staidly to citizenship, he’d live at an even farther, safer distance from true life, and life would never be quite real again.

In the end, Desai proves Thomas Wolfe, who wrote a classic doorstopper about a young American writer, wrong:  you can go home again even if you have been successful in your pursuit of the Indian Holy Grail.

Welcome Overstimulation

The roof of 47 Pianos was briefly in sight as my Delta flight from Florida flew over the Jacqueline Kennedy Reservoir in Central Park.

Thanks to the excellent Palm Beach County Library, I started Yesteryear the next morning in my usual post-Central Park bike loop reading spot.  The reservoir's cherry blossoms were in abundant bloom, and it seemed as if all of New York were walking, running or biking past, making concentration difficult.

Despite the unseasonable heat--it was hotter in Manhattan than Lake Worth Beach--I walked along the Hudson River to Chelsea to catch a gallery show that was about to close.

"All One" by Jason McCormack (2025)

Surprisingly, the tulips on Pier 63 hadn't wilted.

"Two Strikes on a Snowman" at Picture Theory featured collages by Lucy Sante, a classmate of mine at Columbia long before she transitioned.

I found myself apologizing for referring to "him" when discussing her work with Rebekah Kim, the gallery owner who asked me what she had been like.  "A real beatnik.  We weren't friends but you couldn't miss him.  He wore a beret and smoked stinky European cigarettes.  He seemed way smarter than me, that's for sure.  And braver.  He truly lived the life of an artist in the East Village." 

"Crust" by Lucy Sante (2023)

When Rebekah mentioned she worked in several different galleries before opening her own in 2023, I recommended The Loneliness of Sunny and Sonia (now that I'm living on my own again, I make conversation where I find it).  The main show at Picture Theory paired the work of two artists, born on different continents forty years apart, whose visual works were as experimental as their musical compositions, although John Fahey is much better known as a guitarist.

Untitled by John Fahey

I had forgotten that Jean Dubuffet introduced the world to the concept of Art Brut. 

"Exaltador" by Jean Dubuffet (1973)

More art--and crowds--awaited on the High Line, just around the corner.

"In Mortal Repose" by Diana Al-Hadid (2011)

 It was great, if a little overstimulating, to be back home.

FLASHBACK: 491 Bay (2008-2010)

We called it The House of Five Gables and stayed put for three summers.  Instagram wouldn't launch until a year after we left, but once it did we could observe in real time what happens when a Pines landlord caters to the quarter-share market, renting to four different groups a month: lots and lots of parties, coupled with rapid deterioration of the amenities.  The interior--which included a baby grand piano!--is stripped of its quirky charm, a reflection of the former owners' ungepatchke taste, and wooden, cushioned lounge chairs give way to the plastic kind.

I particularly loved this flag.

The hot tub, however, did survive. My sunglasses caught the reflection of the setting sun, a premature metaphor for my tenure in the Pines, which would last another 13 sumers in two more houses.

2008

Shortly after throwing a substantial portion of the house's kitschy teapot collection into the Great South Bay (appalling, especially for a guy who embraced Crocs from the get-go!), Patrick discovered how a diva could make best dramatic use of a fairly wide and very long bulkhead.

Randy embraced the runway strut.  And no wonder: at 52, he never looked better.

For the first time in more than a decade, we had spectacular sunset views without ever leaving our deck.

Was sun-averse Chris the first person to commute to the Pines from Pakistan?

He and Steven always take a good picture.

Andrew really, really rocked a wig, British Invasion style. 

Our collection grew to include one his sister-in-law bought to camouflage the effects of chemo therapy.  We referred to it as the "cancer wig."  She recovered.

Randy and I thought he looked like Rula Lenska in this one.

Most of our guests, including Rault (far left) and Andrew (in pearls) never missed an opportunity to put on a cocktail dress designed by Thom (white tank top).  Andrew, the founder of N2N Bodywear, always brought samples of his latest creations which he deposited in a bowl on the living room table, first-come, first served.  Truth be told, I was more amenable to a plunging neckline than a pouched thong.

I took this jubilant photo of Sue, Chris and Thom from inside the Ascension Party on the beach.

Randy's posse kept getting younger, including a new, dewy recruit named Richert whose eventual transformation into the embodiment of "masc" definitely would have seemed counter-intuitive at the time.

2009

Mateje emerged like a demented butterfly from a soporific cocoon during our Drag Summer. He's giving Suzanne Pleshette here.

Each of Mateje's looks became more outrageous than the last

. . . culminating in a Phyllis Diller resurrection, minus the cigarette holder, that failed to resonate with some of our younger housemates or foreign guests who never caught her act on the television variety shows of the '60s and '70s.

Thom also brought suitcases filled with so many of his slinky creations that we could dress according to whim. Steven veered from off-the-shoulder femme fatale 

 

to Coffee, Tea or Me?, yet another reference that dated me.

Andrew (later and still his husband) let loose in other ways.

Patrick could go from demure

. . . to fierce with just a wig change. Cue (I think) "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going."

Marty, however, radiated the realness--if not the bitchiness--of a Pines housewife.

Meanwhile, someone had to devil the eggs (once a house mother, always a house mother!). Florian, always the bearer of thoughtful gifts, brought me this apron from the Art Institute of Chicago.

No one loves to dress up more than he.  Drag made him Schatzier than ever.  I had given him that nickname because it's how my father always referred to hot frauleins when we lived in Munich and Heidelberg.

Schatzi was no slouch when working the runway in free N2N swimwear.  That's a silver star on his crotch.

But he also used his resourcefulness to help others realize their runway dreams, too, 

. . . flapping a beach towel to create a wind-blown effect for Steven on a still, sultry day.  

We were SO on trend.  Although Ru Paul's Drag Race had premiered only the February before, Mateje was ready to take her latest look to the Invasion where she could score free drinks without having to ride the ferry from Cherry Grove as these glamazons no doubt did.

Chris killed among the geopolitically-minded set with his imported-for-the-occasion burka. Mateje had no time for traditional Muslim wear.

Neither Richert nor I had been quite ready to go public in our frocks

. . . although we both got into the margarita-fueled spirit of things back at the house.

Ebullient (just a fancy way of saying really, really lit), but scary. Very scary!

There were quieter moments in civvies, too.  

Varick introduced us to Ted, now his longtime companion--never bitten by the Pines bug--who had served in the Coast Guard

. . . and with help from his guest Andrew--and imported "cow"--he added Beef Wellington to our usually pedestrian menu.  

Magda, my goddaughter, made her first adult visit to the Pines with Joe, her new boyfriend. If you think the drop earrings made an impression, you should have seen his cut-off jeans! While officiating at their wedding five years later I referenced the night they "danced ecstatically with me and my friends as the Black Eyed Peas sang I gotta feeling tonight is a gonna be a good night.” Joe had asked:  why isn't dancing at straight clubs this much fun?" Perhaps because not all eyes there were upon him!

Some of our guests were a lot more random, including one whose name I didn't catch.  I believe Victor had met him on Grindr, then a brand new dating app.  

No doubt Kissy Poo was looking for an invitation to crash overnight.  It wasn't forthcoming but his revenge must be sweet:  he's probably still in his thirties!  

A fire burned down several houses not far from where Victor eventually would buy his own home.

On some nights, it looked as if the bay itself was bathed in flames.

Honestly, much of the summer remains a blur.  The blender was going constantly.  And we got almost as much mileage out of this platinum wig that someone purchased on 14th Street along with much of the costume jewelry.

Lamont and Ryan, members of Randy's posse who had begun dating at Harvard, later married. And then divorced, with one forced to continue paying down the cost of their expensive wedding for years afterward.  So smart, yet so dumb.

Was it unkind of me to tell Victor he looked like a truck stop tranny?  Yes, I know it was definitely politically incorrect but this was well before the Awakening . . . 

Michelle, now Andrew's former sister-in-law, was our only female housemate in my 34 years of sharing in the Pines.

She and Schatzi, however, did bear a resemblance when wearing the same wig.

This giddy runway shot became the cover for a book of photos (so analog!) I made to commemorate our Drag Summer.  (Wo) Man, did we ever have a good time--it's among my top three favorite seasons!

 

2010

The next and final summer at the House of Five Gables brought two new additions: Grayson, the newborn boy whom Patrick and Marty were able to adopt more quickly than anticipated, and Curtis, now sadly gone.

Drag seems to have taken a back seat to the baby monitor, or perhaps I just got tired of photographing a bunch of drunken queens. Nevertheless, it appears from the date of this shot that I did make my debut at the Invasion, channelling my mother.  But I recall dancing in heels one night at the Pavilion with Thom in the same outfit with much greater detail because of mother's little helper (although Mary preferred downers) and going home with blisters on my feet that took more than a week to heel.  It was worth it, too:  I'd NEVER before been the center of attention on the dance floor.

And there was impromptu drag after the Ascension Party where I drank up the courage to invite Eric, a longtime French crush and perhaps the most outrageous flirt in the Pines, back to the house for cocktails. Varick had once brought him back from tea for dinner and more.

 

Bitch stole my dress!  Mine reminds me of a line ad libbed by Maggie Smith in Gosford Park.  "Difficult color, green."

We also established an enduring tradition over the Columbus Day weekend, our last in the house, which we called Pines Thanksgiving.  Mataje decreed the dress code.  It didn't stop her from multitasking with Grayson.