“I’m just taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line
‘Cause I’m in a.…I’m in a New York state of mind….”—Billy Joel
New York City is an unsolvable mystery to those just passing through, a clamorous explosion of sounds and colors and non-stop excitement, all of it moving at hyperspeed, leaving confusion, uncertainty and wonder in its wake as it cascades impertinently onward. It’s impossible, this New York, with its sea of honking taxis, mobs of caffeinated ambulators, endless lists of places to go, people to see. How do humans actually live here?
Quite nicely, thank you. The boroughs outside Manhattan are considerably more restrained and residential, but the Island, itself, is not unknowable given time to display its wares. New York is, at once, explosive and serene, uncaring and sentimental, hostile and friendly. The city is not easy on introverts, the underconfident or people of modest means, but many of them have survived there, taking the time to learn its nuances, its language, its predilections, assaying how to gauge its pace.
When the Subterranean Circus was a fact of life, I visited New York two to four times a year, hunting merchandise for the store. I lived there briefly, just out of college in the early 1960s, in a hooker-filled dump on Lexington Avenue called the Hotel Lindy. The tab was about $14 a day, scandalously high for a person of my means, particularly when one had to carry his shaving mirror down two floors to reach the level to which the hot water rose. A typical day started with a trip down the stairs through clusters of girls berating their johns: “Listen you rotten little weasel….oh, hi Bill….I’m not in this line of work for my health, y’know,” etc., etc. During these days, there was plenty of time to amble down the avenues, to note the distinctions and peculiarities of various areas, to memorize the subway routes, to stumble across little gems of the city generally hidden from view. I saw Grease in its first week on Broadway. I was an early customer of artist Paul Bellardo’s iconic shop on Christopher Street which took in fabulous work from local artists and craftsmen and sold it at affordable prices. I bought women’s clothing from Betsey Johnson when she was starting out at a company called Paraphernalia.
At its heart, after all, New York is just like everywhere else. It is a collection of people. Are some of them grouchy? Sure. But for every cantankerous cab driver or Soup Nazi, you run across, there are legions of people who will spend five minutes directing you to the nearest subway station, steering you to the best delicatessen, or carefully explaining to you why Joe DiMaggio was better than Ted Williams. New York is not like anywhere else. It has a higher pulse, an endless cornucopia of gifts to impart, opportunities that are not available elsewhere. And, best of all, it is always open.
Okay, the cell phone photos aren’t wonderful. Just wanted you to see what a $14,000 dress looks like. Who knows when you’ll get another chance?
On The Avenue
Hotels in big cities generally do not offer a complimentary breakfast service, so each morning it was off to the Times Square McDonalds, about half a block away. Despite the constant lines, things moved quickly and there was little delay in getting the day started. Okay, there was the one day a little illegal welding was going on in the kitchen but we checked our coffee for metal shards and, finding none, moved on.
One of the engaging things about large cities is the permanency of many of their institutions. As for NYC, Carnegie Hall is always going to be there. Radio City isn’t going anywhere. They won’t be putting any housing developments in Central Park. The management only serves dinner on Mondays now at the Rainbow Room but at least it’s still in action. We walked north on Seventh Avenue to the Park, took a right and headed for Fifth Avenue. Our first morning in NYC was to be spent wedding-dress hunting. We were a little early for Bergdorf’s to open so we took a spin through the lobby of The Plaza, just across the street. I’d stayed there several times when the National Boutique Show was held at the Coliseum and it was largely unchanged, even to include the spiffy open bathrooms on the bottom floor. It’s always interesting to see how the other half washes their hands.
Bergdorf Goodman has two stores on Fifth, the second being a menswear business just across the street from the original building. The bottom floor of the latter is entirely devoted to perfume and cosmetics, enough to fill an airport hangar. Nothing is cheap. We ascended to the designer clothes level and meandered around. It wasn’t very busy so nobody threw us out. We were looking for ideas, basically, not inclined to spend $10,000 on frou-frou. The collections were interesting but not for us. We moved on to Saks Fifth Avenue, which, believe me, is not like the version at your local mall. Having had a store of my own, I’m not inclined to waste the salespeople’s time and told them so. One elegant gentleman said, “Well, I’m not doing anything, anyway,” and began showing Siobhan dresses. He came up with a terrific beaded lilac number with a $14,000 price tag, which she loved. He insisted she try it on so she did. The salesman and I took phone pictures and she forward one to her brother, Stuart, manning the farm back in Fairfield. “That dress is great!” he responded. “And after your wedding, you can cut the bottom third off and wear it for other occasions.” Siobhan, in shock, shot back: “Are you kidding? That’s $4000 worth of dress!” For some reason, she decided not to buy it. We moved on, finding a few near-misses and getting several ideas. An African fellow in the West Village promised he could duplicate any design and have it made in his country for peanuts, which is much cheaper than $14,000. We got his card. The pressure is on. There’s only ten months to go.
After the morning dress hunt, we emigrated to Christopher Street, not to don our gay apparel but to visit McNulty’s, which is the Saks Fifth Avenue of tea and coffee. Siobhan discovered this place last time we went to New York and it has now become an essential stop. From there, we walked down Bleeker Street to The Village, bought a poster for old times sake and took a left on McDougal. I was in need of a hat to repel the beaming sun and all I could find were repugnant versions of I (Heart) New York, entirely unsatisfactory. I picked up an acceptable straw topper for a pittance and strolled on down to St. Mark’s and over to the East Village. Everybody told me the EV was much different from days of yore, but it’s not. I like it there because it’s still possible for local entrepreneurs to afford the rents, not that they’re ridiculously cheap, and come up with something unique. Still possible, but not in evidence. Shopped out, we hit the subway for a little R&R before a light meal. This night, it was a trip to Broadway.
Inside and outside the Eugene O’Neill Theater, home of The Book Of Mormon.
The Book Of Mormon
The play is basically a religious satire of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in musical-comedy form. It has won an impressive nine Tony Awards and is packed every night. The performers are absolutely first-rate, the singing and dancing nonpareil. As with most all musical-comedies, the story is secondary to the music, often providing a thin thread to wrap the songs around. A couple of leading examples of this formula would be Mamma Mia, which is a vehicle for songs by Abba, and Jersey Boys, a similar effort recalling the music of Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. In the cases of these two, excuses could be made for a weak book (story), since including the more popular songs of the groups doesn’t always lend itself to a clever rendering. In the case of Mormon, however, the book was written along with the songs and a better story might be expected. Didn’t happen here.
The culprits responsible are Trey Parker and Matt Stone, best known for creating the animated television comedy, South Park, which took advantage of the groundbreaking success of The Simpsons to make it big in that market. I’m sorry, but while I can admire the cleverness and originality of The Simpsons. I have never been a fan of South Park. I think what suffices for humor here is highly eclectic and not very funny, the authors going for cheap gags and easy laughs. If some of them border on blue material, all the better. And so it is with The Book Of Mormon, in which the writers are free to be significantly more profane and vulgar than they are on television and miss no opportunities. We are forced to listen to an African man exclaim half-a-dozen times that he has “maggots in my scrotum!” Thanks so much for that happy image. The audience responds with nervous tittering and outright laughter at much of it but these are cheap laughs, not unlike those earned by stand-up comedians who substitute vulgarity for clever humor. It’s easy. Anybody can do it.
All that said, the play is a booming success for the usual reasons. The actors are, to a man, great. The song and dance numbers are often spectacular and there are few gaps between them. Overall, I enjoyed the evening very much and would certainly recommend The Book Of Mormon to anyone not easily offended by off-color material. I would probably leave home Aunt Bessie and her church group.
The Freedom Tower
The last time Siobhan and I were in New York was the summer of 2000, just over one year before the Twin Towers were demolished. We still have a photo taken of the both of us on the Liberty Island ferry, the two buildings prominently in the background. We haven’t been avoiding the city since then, talked about getting back there every now and again, but never with any desire to return to the scene of the crime while it was still a depressing crater or even in the early stages of restoration. We’ll go, I told myself, when the Freedom Tower is finished. That happened earlier this year and the results are spectacular. The surrounding area, featuring the reflecting pools and the 9/11 Memorial Museum, is beautifully done. The marble wall surfaces around the pools, containing the names of 2,983 victims inscribed in bronze and dotted with the occasional flowers of remembrance, are elegant. The people who reshaped the area managed to find one lone callery pear tree which had survived the blast, put a protective fence around it and left a plaque celebrating its mettle.
The Freedom Tower, itself, is not like any other building. While the icons of old, like the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, strike a bold pose against the blue sky, the new tower is much more subtle, almost a mirage, a soft light in the sky meshing with its background. You find yourself looking up at it once, twice—it’s really there, isn’t it?
Once inside, it’s a 1,250-foot climb to the top, which takes only 60 seconds in the building’s sleek Sky Pod elevators. During the ascent, the walls of the elevator serve as a movie screen for a depiction of the development of Manhattan over time. Once visitors reach the top, they are treated to an interactive video, at the end of which the screen draws back to unveil real-life views from the 102nd floor. It’s a knockout. The crowds on Saturday morning were not excessive and it was possible to circle the tower and get a view of the city from all sides. The Statue of Liberty was prominent. Downstairs again around ten-thirty a.m., the number of visitors to the grounds had doubled since we went inside. There was a significant line entering the museum and hundreds of people circulating around the pools. Fourteen short years ago, the area was a disaster. Today, it’s a shrine to courage, resourcefulness and determination. We Shall Overcome is a banner serving many purposes. Go there. See it. You will not be disappointed.
A Walk In The Park
The afternoon of the Freedom Tower visit was spent galumphing around Soho, checking out shops, picking up some lunch and inspecting the sidewalk art, which was atrocious. Back in the day—when artists actually lived in the area thanks to cheap or free housing—there was a ton of good work on display. Also, many of the businesses were operated by first-time owners and featured quite a bit of unique and original inventory. As Soho grew in popularity, of course, the rents rose and most small-time entrepreneurs were forced out. Like in Georgetown, the chains took over and a lot of Soho’s original color and zaniness is gone. There’s still a little room on the periphery for marginal businesses but it’s only a matter of time. ‘Twas ever thus. Siobhan did find an interesting store which sold plastic shoes—very expensive plastic shoes for the most part. But she found an appealing pair selling for a mere $100. Or you could always buy one shoe for fifty bucks. “What? I can buy ONE shoe? Who does that?” The salesgirl assured her that a lot of people did. I wondered which sold better, the rights or the lefts? Siobhan, flying in the face of the New Conformity decided to strike a blow for old habits and actually bought two shoes. She’s very protective of them, too, since they almost suffered the unspeakable trauma of separation. There oughta be a law.
That night, we went to Central Park for a carriage ride. Yes, I know—PETA doesn’t like horses pulling carriages, but they don’t like horses racing either, so I’m locking them in the Fanatics Closet and throwing away the key. Our horse, Dolly, was ten years old (Siobhan checked her teeth) and in fine health. The carriage horses get one day on, one day off, and are only allowed to work seven hours a day. Nobody we saw looked bedraggled and Ahmet, the driver, obviously loved his animal. Ahmet, by the way, was from Turkey, spoke excellent English and was going to school to be an actor. He was the Great Hope of his family back in the old country but was now 27 and the years were sprinting by. When you’re going to school in the daytime and driving a carriage at night, there’s not much time for actual acting. Nonetheless, Ahmet was upbeat and optimistic, so who knows? His next customer could be a talent scout from L.A. We circulated through the park for about an hour, and a busy park it was on a Saturday evening. The Tavern On The Green had recently reopened in yet another incarnation, so let’s keep our fingers crossed. We need all the institutions we can get, even if they’re revamped imitations. The building looks the same. The park, itself, remains unchanged, so thanks for that.
After a pleasant sixty minutes, our driver pulled back onto 59th street and curbed his horse. The ride costs a cool c-note and we always pay $20 for a good life story. True or not, Ahmet’s qualified so we gave him a smile and sent him on his way. Our time in The City was running short. We drifted over to Third Avenue, got a little dinner at an empty hotel restaurant (very good), meandered back over to Sixth and the sanctuary of our mini-hotel. It’s always a little sad when a visit to a favorite place is over. It’s been fifteen years since we visited—if it’s fifteen more, they’ll be wheeling me around on some form of dubious transport. The good thing about a multi-faceted vacation, however, is the end of one aspect brings the start of another. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, George would be pulling up in his wonderful Town Car to limousine us to JFK. Thanks for everything, Manhattan, it was a blast. But, as Bob Dylan once remarked, “So long, New York. Howdy, East Boston….”
That’s all, folks
