Ellen Stewart of La MaMa Theater, RIP

This week saw the passing of another Grande Dame of East 4th Street, the amazing founder of La MaMa Theater, Ellen Stewart. Ms. Stewart, who died at 91, was always a kind presence on our block; always friendly and engaging. Whenever I saw her, I knew I'd seen someone Great. She was a celebrity's celebrity. So many hugely talented people found their bearings under her supportive wing: Sam Shepard, Landford Wilson, Robert DeNiro, Phillip Glass, Bette Midler, Al Pacino, and countless others who passed through her open doors.

Ellen was beautiful. Even when she became so ill that she needed a wheelchair, she had a commanding presence, larger than life. A makeshift memorial has popped up on our block in front of her theater. It saddens me to think that the votives and flowers have been washed away by the three inches of slush we've accumulated in the last 24 hours. Certainly, there will be a beautiful memorial to her in the days to come. For those of you who haven't attended La MaMa, why don't you? We take for granted that we live in a city where people are creatively supported, but behind these Off-off Broadway productions are a stalwart few who consistently put their money where their mouth is, who show up, who contribute and support. Ellen wrote the book, offering struggling playwrights and actors places to live over the last decades.

For those of you with elderly patrons of the arts in your own neighborhoods, frequent their efforts. Without them, the support diminishes. Without the support, often the inclination to create. I'm lucky that because of Ellen there are now at least a dozen theaters on my block alone, and without her, I can say with certainty, there would not be. Thank you, Ellen. You will be missed.

You can read the New York Times's obituary of Ellen Stewart here (http://nyti.ms/g9uePN).

Rare Insomnia

A fresh cold is keeping me awake. I have Nyquil, but the last time I drank it I felt as though I were waking up next to the toilet after the most idiotic college party ever to be thrown, and so it shall remain tightly sealed on my bathroom's window ledge.

I haven't blogged for a few weeks. It's not that I have nothing to say, it's that I don't understand this part about blogging yet: how does one write without a theme? Were I to develop one, it might have to do with what I miss when I walk down the streets in New York. Day in and out, butcher paper slaps windows with the ubiquitous "lost our lease" or "retail space for rent" scrawls. These stories are well-documented and practically a cliche now. 

What they would read were I hanging them would be a different matter. "Jamie's best friend moved away from this huge apartment complex with the turtle sculpture in the playground." Or, "Sometimes I desperately miss the old people that are rapidly dying on my block." Hank, who showered Jamie with toys every holiday with money he didn't have to spend after dialysis. Marva, who brought Kayla to his third birthday party, in the rain, before any one else arrived. Maritza, who invited us to every party she threw and who used to lean out of her window and shout to me 'He's gonna be a football playah!', her love birds twittering away in the background. Little Sarah, who spent her entire life on the block, went to the Church of the Nativity every day, and pushed her own groceries till the ripe old age of 90-something. And most recently, Albert, the Cooper Square elevator operator whose smile lit up the whole block.

East 4th Street, between Bowery and 2nd Avenue,  is changing so quickly, and casual passers-by can't tell just by Lost Our Lease signs in the neighborhood. Goodnight, all.