14 posts tagged “new york”
Perhaps no one else but myself cares about this, but Bette, the tree planted in December, 2007 outside my window as an early holiday present (okay, it was actually part of the million tree plan initiated in NYC by Mayor Bloomberg and Bette Midler's New York Restoration Project) deserves an update. Here, the before, middle and after spanning just under two years:
Before:
First Spring (April 2008), and now with a collar of stones around the tree base:
Full bloom, June 2008, complete with water skirt:
But the badge did get us into a nice buffet dinner and open bar pre-show, which was the last ever (tune in in 5 years, folks) Police show, held at Madison Square Garden on August 7. Unlike a lot of other bands, I do believe this is the end of the Police -- I think there's some brotherly love there, but it's way deep down and on the surface I think they're well rid of each other -- and so that made it a big important evening, at least for me and 18,999 other fans, including my friend Kelly (hook 'em horns in that there photo).
I'd never seen the Police (unless you want to count the taping for a new TV show called "Spectacle" that'll be on the Sundance Channel in December, with Elvis Costello hosting, interviewing and playing with select musicians -- the Police started things off; I went there on the 6th) and while it was a good show it wasn't quite the barn-burner I'd seen in video form from the "Synchronicity" tour back in the 1980s.
Still, they kept things lively: The NYPD drum corps filed on stage to play along with "Message in a Bottle" while Sting donned a policeman's cap); there were two covers ("Sunshine of Your Love" and "Purple Haze") and the lute stayed well tucked away, though there was a gigantic gong for Stewart Copleland (so precious in his gloves) to use. I tried taking photos, but the best I could manage was of the gigantic screen suspended above the stage; loads of people brought digital cameras, which officially aren't allowed but nobody seems to stop them coming in any more, and I know there are loads of better shots out there.
I made a video of it myself, but it's already up all over YouTube, so there's no point in contributing to the bandwidth, but the thing almost everyone seems to remember from the show was how between the end of the main set and the start of the Obligatory Encore Set, the band left the stage and Sting, who had been bearded and looking pretty grizzled all through the show, sat down and got shaved by two blondes, while someone else buffed at his fingers and a third person shone his shoes. On the one hand, tres amusing. On the other hand, how bloody typical of Sting, who while still dead sexy in his late 50s still has the ego of a redwood forest. There was something deeply attractive and yet off-putting about the whole display, but in the end, I guess it is all about Sting after all.
The end.
Two more days, and things return to normal.
Maybe.
Miss you all!
XO
Me
But before that, there was pie.
A whole group of us got together at Grand Central Terminal for dinner, and in the lower depths of the facility there is this food court, and in the food court is a place that makes pies and cakes. Josh and I spied the pie and mulled over whether key lime or mud was the better option and of course went with key lime.
Over dinner, as the pie sat between us at the table, Josh noted that we should eat it on the subway. "Train pie!" either he or Rose cried, and so train pie was born.
Look, if Improv Everywhere can take off their pants on the subway, we can all share a pie. It was very communal, as well as being very yummy.
But all of this was mere prelude to the evening, and why we were on the subway in the first place: We were taking the 7 train to the Q25 so that we could disembark and walk into the formerly named InSpa World -- now called Spa Castle, clearly after the many whirlpools and hot tubs available back in medieval times.
It might sound a little dodgy, but this brand-spanking-new building looks like a 5-star hotel. You walk in, fork over $35 and can stay all day (we were just going for about four hours, until midnight). You get a uniform of unfortunate pink and orange if you're a woman (gray and blue for the menfolks) in the locker room, and a wristband that resembles a watch with a number on it (and an RIFD chip to access your locker). You leave everything but your bathing suit and the uniform in your locker, including shoes, and the place is yours. Anything else you buy -- from massages to scrubs to slushies -- gets rung up on your number and you check out later and settle the bill.
We hit the pools. You have to hit the pools. On the roof of the building are these large, elongated outdoor swimming pools with spray jets and massage hoses and a little flume area that makes you feel like you're rushing down a river, there's a hot tub alongside the main pool, there's a hotter hot tub on the far end made of cedar (aka "the lobster pot"), there's a kiddie pool (no funny animals, just a lovely shallow reflecting pool), there's a sauna. There's a food area, and a place where you can buy whipped or fruity drinks and drink them while still inside the pool.You can sign up for massages but by the time we got there they were all full up so I can't report on that.
Inside the locker rooms there are mineral (allegedly) baths if you don't mind getting nekkid in front of everyone else -- these went from 102 degrees to 109 and let me tell you, those 7 degrees do make a difference; there are also two
By the end of the night prunes and raisins had nothing on us for wrinkles, and we were tired but happy as if we'd done some kind of major workout. I am absolutely, totally going back there again. Sooner rather than later.
Thanks, Rose!
Arrr, she is a fine tradition we have here in Jackson Heights: The cutting of the hair of the dog.
Just in time for the temps to hit 100, Ciara got herself all shaved off on Friday after almost a year without a groom. (I know, I know, but it's more than I pay for my own haircuts and I've learned to trim her toenails so sue me!) Rainbow Pet Supplies did a nice job, if you're in the market in the Queens area.
Here she is, all fresh and clean and wide-eyed.
For reference, this is Ciara after her first "cut it all off" grooming in June 2003, and I think we've come a long way, baby:
By the way, folks? It's goddamned hot here in New York.
Growing up in Maryland, we had crabs. We had Ocean City, we had bragging rights to Washington D.C., and we had crabs. What I was too young to realize was that we also had John Waters.
Until I saw "Hairspray" (the movie) in the theaters, with mom. She hadn't grown up in Baltimore, but she loved musicals and so did I and we just swooned over "Hairspray." Somewhere, Waters was snickering.
In the years since, the rise of the king of disgusting films Waters has probably been doing a lot of that, as our basic culture has lowered to his expectations, while simultaneously he's gone more legit (no more feces-eating in his films, thankyouverymuch). And nothing is more legit than Broadway, or a Broadway musical. I didn't care all that much for "Hairspray" on Broadway (although the rest of the world did) and I've never had the urge to see the second "Hairspray" musical. But once I heard a friend of mine (Adam Schlesinger, the genius in Fountains of Wayne and Ivy, among other things) was part of the musical team for "Cry-Baby" on Broadway -- another Waters film -- I was definitely charged up to go.
And last night was the Broadway debut. Waters was of course in fine form, striding in with a blue blazer lined in white and camouflage pants; he wasn't mobbed but he was certainly the center of a lot of attention. The show itself was about 60% entertaining. It's got some fun lines and one amazing dance routine where Cry-Baby is in jail and breaks out, and in the process everyone ends up tap-dancing on license plates (seriously, it works) but I'm not sure about the rest of it. Poking fun at the '50s feels ... dare I say it, dated.
"I think it celebrates old-fashioned juvenile delinquency, which is a term that no one uses anymore because juvenile delinquents now kill people," Waters told the San Francisco Chronicle, and that is what makes it fun -- but there's something rather ho-hum once you know how he defines crass. You get pregnant juvenile delinquents dancing up a storm, an anti-polio picnic, elaborately choreographed make-out sessions and a lot of wink-wink behavior. I know this isn't his film, and it gets away from the film in a lot of ways but ... there's nothing shocking here. And that may be the most bizarre part about the show.
However.
The party afterwards, held at Mansion downtown -- that was incredible! I ran into some industry friends (a lawyer, his co-worker and an aspiring actress) at the coat check, and as we headed into the main area we were handed large brown shopping bags and told to go pick up stuff. But before we did that, libations were in order. I'd put in an order for a boring vodka-Coke, then saw one of the special drinks of the night was absinthe poured over a sugar cube. Nobody else in our group was willing to sample, so what the hell, and I ordered it. The bartender turned on a tap from a raised vat filled with a watery liquid and ice cubes and let it dribble over a suspended sugar cube balanced on a glass. Classy.
"Kinda nice that you can get this stuff now, since it used to be illegal," I noted. They were actually paying attention, so you know I had to go there: "After all, you know what they say about absinthe ... it makes the heart grow fonder."
And then they kicked my ass to the curb.
Actually, no: the lawyer said that was just exactly his type of humor and I survived another very bad attack of punning. The drink arrived. Kind of, um, dull: Only about 1/3 of the glass was filled with what looked like water , with a small mountain of sugar piled on the bottom. But what the hell, I tried it. Vaguely licoricey, but no kick. I passed it around. We all shrugged. I figured I'd end up on the floor later if this stuff had a delayed reaction, and off we went to do some grown-up trick or treating.
The main level had a dance floor, and hired dancers in 50s-dress were doing the Lindy and all kinds of fantastic moves; trannies and cross-dressers wandered the room in full regalia, and stations of goodies drew us forward to filil our bags. There was a kissing booth around which mounds of Altoids gum canisters were arrayed; we picked some up but no smooching went down. Further along, a makeup stand handed out some high-end "makeup couture," while cigarette girls bumped into us, offering candy smokes.
Upstairs we got our pictures taken at the "prom" by standing behind cardboard cutouts (and I got a paper "corsage"), we visited a "doctor" and his "nurses" who asked where it hurt (I poked at my elbow) and got a bag of candy (Neccos, Clark Bars, Smarties) to ease the pain. We were escorted out of the badly-protected VIP area and briefly met one of the big cheese Nederlander clan of Broadway theater owners/producers. We stopped by a table where we approached one of three primly-dressed 50s ladies who asked us questions in return for goodies.
"What did they make in the prison?"
"License plates."
"Correct! But how do you know so much about what goes on in jail?"
"Don't tell anyone!"
"I have no secrets from the LAWD."
But she reached down and gave me a box of butterscotch Tastykakes for my trouble.
Hello! HEAVEN.
We headed back to the dance floor, which had quickly filled up, and tried to get new drinks. I'd finished my "absinthe" but, well, there was something absent in the absinthe, so we bellied up and ordered more. This time, they did it right: The alcohol went in first, then the vat of ice water over the cube. Duh. Apparently I'd had a virgin absinthe, aka sugar water, last time. And this stuff definitely had a kick. The lawyer also got one; later the co-worker got an absinthe mojito. So we were all well and pleasantly toasted as we headed to the dance floor.
Now, I don't dance well, but I love to do it. And most people I dance with either can't, or don't like to, or are just all bashful, so I don't get much opportunity. Turns out our lawyer friend knows how to dance, at least far better than I do, so I actually got to twirl and do a few funny moves while the 50s classics moved into 60s classics and John Waters took Kathleen Turner (aka Serial Mom) out for a spin. After a James Brown song we collapsed into the sofa seats and played "Name that Band" and added lyrics to "Mony Mony" when it came on. But slowly the songs segued into "Hollaback Girl" and worse (I do like HBG, though) and it became far too loud to talk, and that's the sign to go.
We redeemed our raffle ticket at the Taste truck outside for a selection of cookies and Rice Krispie treats and got a cab. I think I finally crashed out at home around 2. Now, that's a party.
Moral of the story: None. But if you're going dancing with John Waters and drink absinthe and get home past the witching hour, try not to do it on a weeknight. Oy!
For the record: I have no kids.
But I love "Supernanny." When I watch it, I'm simultaneously reminded why I'm glad I don't have kids, and saddened that these clearly overwhelmed people are the ones raising the next generation. But then Supernanny comes in and puts a few babies in the corner and writes up a few lists and yells at a few vacant-faced parents and then all is well. I'm usually itching to try out her technique when it's done and have to restrain myself from running down the street looking for a child to discipline.
However. I have noticed a few commonalities in the "Supernanny" episodes. For one thing, these families of upwards of four kids have houses that could swallow a schoolroom's worth of them. For another thing, there's absolutely no sense of decoration. It's like they came into their preprogrammed house with the beige carpet and the white walls and threw up a bedroom set, a dining room table and a TV armoire and called it a day. Does anyone have a plant? Art on the walls that didn't come from Bombay Company? Maybe even a coat of paint that doesn't suggest white? Yes, I suppose if you're having difficulties disciplining your eighteen children in the space of a small hangar airport, making sure there's a bookcase with knick-knacks is maybe not a priority. But ... maybe it should have been before you hit child No. 15. It's like watching families try to live in the Soviet Union's idea of suburbia.
The worst part is that -- and I know, this is "reality" television so we're not seeing all of it -- the kids never seem to go out. If they do, it's to their own (highly-fenced-in, can't see beyond the slats) backyard. There's no sense of neighborhood, of going out to play with local kids in the front yard or a nearby playground, no sense of just letting the kids go ride their bikes and have an adventure. In fact, Supernanny has more than once chastised parents who just let their kids go out roaming in the neighborhood. She did take issue with them not telling mom they were going out -- makes sense -- but the larger problem seemed to be that they might be Out There Without Supervision (OTWS).
I love Supernanny. And I state again: No kids. But they're wrong. They're just dead wrong. It makes me so sad to see these kids bored to tears or playing videogames or bouncing around their wrecked basement playroom when it's clearly perfect weather outside and they're driving mom insane anyway. Isn't that what the outdoors is for? To get kids to run off that excess energy and give the parents at home a break? To foster some sense of independence?
Well, I used to think it was a combination of me being childfree and insensitive to the Major Dangers of being OTWS. And that may be some of it. But I read this column today, and I just had to grin.
"(F)or weeks my boy had been begging for me to please leave him somewhere, anywhere, and let him try to figure out how to get home on his own. So on that sunny Sunday I gave him a subway map, a MetroCard, a $20 bill, and several quarters, just in case he had to make a call.
No, I did not give him a cell phone. Didn’t want to lose it. And no, I didn’t trail him, like a mommy private eye. I trusted him to figure out that he should take the Lexington Avenue subway down, and the 34th Street crosstown bus home. If he couldn’t do that, I trusted him to ask a stranger. And then I even trusted that stranger not to think, “Gee, I was about to catch my train home, but now I think I’ll abduct this adorable child instead.”
Long story short: My son got home, ecstatic with independence.
Long story longer, and analyzed, to boot: Half the people I’ve told this episode to now want to turn me in for child abuse. As if keeping kids under lock and key and helmet and cell phone and nanny and surveillance is the right way to rear kids. It’s not. It’s debilitating — for us and for them."
Sing it, sister. She's taken a lot of shit for it, but I'm with the commenters over at Boing Boing: There's a difference between being the mom in "Gone Baby Gone," who leaves her 3 year old alone in the apartment while she's down at the bar hoovering up illegal drugs and drinking -- and being a parent who assesses her child's maturity and independence and lets him at 9 years old (because that's the kid's age in the story above) assert that maturity and independence.
I grew up in the Washington, D.C. area, and was not allowed to ride the Metro alone. Period. Given: The closest stop was a good 15 minute car ride, and until age 16 I had no car, but even then it would have been questionable. So when I was about 14 or 15, probably more like 15, I wanted to go down to see this musician I loved do a signing at Tower Records. He was coming in on a summer's afternoon when I was supposed to be a camp counselor in training, so it wasn't like I'd miss any school. But when I mentioned it to mom, her response was, "Well, it's a shame you can't go." So I kept my trap shut and told camp I wouldn't be in and after mom took my brother to his camp on her way to work while I waited for my ride (to not come), I headed to the bus stop and took the bus to the Metro, and the Metro down to Tower Records, where I met up with my friends and had a jolly old time. Then we all came back together. And guess what: We all came back.
(Confidential to Larry: Mom's never heard this story, so if you're in a mood to keep next Passover weekend on an even keel, you might want to not share this entry.)
I don't know what I'd be like if I had a kid. I'd like to think I'd still back all of this up 100 percent, and that I'd want to raise a kid who would feel comfortable enough in the world that when he or she finally entered it full-time, permanently, on their own, it wouldn't be a foreign territory. But for now, what I'd really like is to know that more parents were acting that way. Because who wants to live in a world where the first time someone's offspring sees the true light of day it blinds them?
Phew! That was a whirlwind.
I think I can literally and figuratively say this was the sweetest birthday I've ever had -- and the nicest part was it lasted just about a full week. Since I'm about to run out the door to Thanksgiving in the state I like to mess with, this'll all be way too much information compressed into too short a space. But: Photos! That'll do instead of words, right?
So it all started out on the 8th with a lovely dinner from Julia and Sanjay. They said: Pick a restaurant, and swanky is not a problem. So I picked the revamped Russian Tea Room, which I had not been in since the re-opening. Still a little over the top, but service is impeccable and attentive, the booths are luxurious and the food -- ah! My goodness, so rich and so lovely. You really feel cared for.
If I look like a lush in the photo, I can't explain it: I'm very shiny and reddish these days. Though I did have that one cherry-flavored vodka cocktail ... that could explain things.
Anyway, the sweetness got underway with the dessert: A souffle we all shared. Delicious!
Things then continued on Sunday with an early birthday present from Mike: Tickets to the annual Chocolate Show.
At which there were enormous chocolate tower cakes, a fashion "show" of chocolate dresses, and of course lots of delicious goodies, many of which were sample-able. It's supposed to be a trade show, but really what it is is a bunch of chocolate freaks checking out the samples.
If you weren't aware of it before you went into the Chocolate Show, you'd know by the time you came out (definitely overloaded on cocoa) -- the next big wave of delicacies is in chocolate. Single origin, dark chocolate, often flavored oddly, and tasted the way a person checks out wine. Sure, Dove and M&Ms were on hand (dark chocolate peanut candies coming to a theater near you soon), but most of these were independent dealers with their own unique blends of chocolate from countries like Madagascar and Ecuador. Mike knows his chocolate, and ended up getting some amazing -- if expensive -- bars.
Also, impossible to get in the U.S., and ordering means you have to be able to read Japanese from their Web site, which means I'm screwed. So I got two boxes, one for Thanksgiving and one to save. (Anyone who knows Japanese and can help me order, do drop an email!
Then, the pièce de résistance: Mike came through for the big birthday surprise -- dinner at One If By Land, Two If By Sea, one of the most romantic places in the city. Again, the food was amazing and rich and just enough -- none of this "neverending pasta bowl" philosophy of dinner.
The dessert came with a special personalization for someone with a name close to my spelling, but not entirely right. Ah, who cares? The point was, it had a candle and was beautiful.
Score! Afterwards we hit the Upright Citizens' Brigade (best described by Mike here) and as if that wasn't enough, I also landed a copy of Absolute Sandman, Vol. 1. Yes indeed, a sweet ride all around.
Happy Thanksgiving, all!
This is how you know a) you're in New York and b) you're on your way to Brooklyn.
"On average, I think the toilet paper is the more impactful image."
I should hope so.
