Yesterday I trekked to the darkest and most dangerous recesses of the Middle/Upper East Side and learned two very important things.

1. All those stuck-up Richie Riches and Mayda Munnys sitting in the outdoor cafes along Lexington Avenue sure get a grapefruit-sized bug up their asses when you ask them a simple question like, "Hey, Richie Rich, you gonna finish that Caesar salad?" and
2. That Whistler fellow sure did could paint himself a purty portrait.

I'm pretty much always up for a visit to the Frick Collection, especially when I have the rare opportunity to see seven (soon to be eight) full-length portraits by James McNeill Whistler in the Frick's intimate Oval Room. The lighting could be a lot better (there's a distracting glare from the skylights) and I'd think they might have found a better place for Whistler's Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensacthan (the exhibit only shows Whistler's paintings of women) than in the back of the theater showing the bio film of Frick's life, but these are small distractions compared with the powerful concentration of the works, especially within sight of the Gainsborough portraits. Definitely recommended.