“It was a blur … first we did ... and then we jumped on … and the next thing you know, we were over … but then after two hours sleep, we were … and then we did this … and then we did that ... “
You get my drift.
I was tentatively excited my first night in town. After quickly setting up camp, we bolted off for the first of eight plays (six for me) in eight days. Tonight we were going to see old “Harry Potter” himself, Daniel Radcliffe, in “The Cripple of Inishman.”
Once across the water, I hailed the first vehicle to come by, hopped in, and excitedly asked the driver, “Is there any chance this is “The Cash Cab”?
He looked at me dryly and slowly responded, “No, this is city bus 7A.”
Well … anybody could make that mistake.
My first impression of the city was one that fit the stereotype I had lurking in the back of my mind, of the city being just one big, mean, den of iniquity. As we walked through Times Square, I was taken aback by a street performer aptly named “The American Cowgirl.” She was a topless, guitar-playing cowgirl.
Now, that wasn’t as exciting as it sounds. She was about 75 years old and was letting it all hang out … and down … way down … right there in front of hundreds of tourists. Not the greatest first impression of Diedre’s beloved New York City.
Diedre was just so excited by all the theatre she was going to see. I rallied from the “Cowgirl” exposure, so to speak, and fired up when I saw there was a giant “Hershey’s” store AND it was right across the street from a giant “M&M’s” store. It was legendary—the battle of the chocolates … like Godzilla versus King Kong.
Our “fine” first meal in megalopolis cost us $53 for a chicken sandwich and a jumbo lump crab cake hors d’oeuvre's. I guess you had to expect the higher prices. But it gets worse. The ceiling-tall window-door right next to our table was open. A grubby New York guy was standing about 11 inches away from Diedre’s food while he was eating some vendor-cart “corn-on-the-cob.” And of course, he was, so to speak, “cutting the cheese.”
“WAITER! CHECK, PLEASE!”
Normally, our first night in a town includes setting up camp, grabbing a quick nap, and then ambling off for pizza at a nearby eatery. But this was New York! There was no time to waste!
And then it was back to the absolutely packed and sweaty PATH train (subway) for our trip back to camp; it took forever.
We experienced smells we had never smelled before.
These were not auspicious signs for my introduction to The Big Apple.
It would get better.
We had changed our usual Sunday-Sunday travel schedule in order to see major league games at both Yankee Stadium and at the Mets’ Citi Park, since both teams rarely are in town on the same time. Sunday, July 13, was our Mets game in Queens at their relatively new ballpark. It was a day game which would allow us plenty of time to get to play #2 that evening.
Queens is an interesting borough. It’s said that more languages are spoken in the 109 square miles of Queens than anywhere else on the planet. I’d believe it.
Led by third-baseman David Wright’s two doubles, the Mets crushed the Florida Marlins 10-1 on a mostly nice day at a mostly nice stadium. That bumped our home team record to 7-4. That would be good enough for the lead in the National League East if Diedre and I were a whole team.
We hopped off the subway after the game in “Hell’s Kitchen.” No, that’s not where I cook when Diedre’s out of town. It’s a very ethnic, plethora of wonderful and exotic smells: down the street I spotted an Afghan restaurant next to a Mexican eatery next to an Indian one beside a Caribbean diner next to an Irish Pub next to something simply called “Humus.” Well, that could be anything. And then … and then … well, that was as far as I could see, but you get my drift.
Since I get to choose all the baseball games we go to, Diedre gets to be in charge of our theatre schedule. But here’s where she made a key mistake: she asked me what I wanted to see that night. I quickly answered, “Rocky,” the musical of the Sylvester Stallone movie of the same name.
Diedre blanched once, swallowed hard, and then went quickly to “Genie,” her combination magic-lamp/cell phone for some reviews. To her surprise, they came back positive … VERY positive. Sooo … game on!
“Rocky” was staged at The Winter Garden Theatre. The play’s book (writing) was credited to Sylvester Stallone and Thomas Meehan. And it had been Tony nominated. For $45, it seemed like a pretty good deal …
… and it was!
Much to my classically trained, theatrical wife’s surprise, “Rocky” absolutely KILLED!
The songs were good, the voices sufficed, but the story and the set grabbed the audience by the throat and wouldn’t let go. In an incredible bit of staging during Act II, the first 10 rows of audience members made their way on stage and sat on the bleachers behind the ring, all the while the play was still going on. And then, the entire stage and bleachers rolled forward right out into the theatre, coming to rest on top of the now vacated 10 rows of seats. We had a great view from the first row of the balcony, but when the stage moved out into the audience, “great” became “stupendous.” We were now looking straight down on the ring and the fight.
I got to tell you, by the end of the fight, everybody in the place was on their feet cheering! It was as if they all now really felt they WERE at a boxing match, not a play.
I was exhausted. Diedre was thrilled that the show turned out so unexpectedly good.
On our way back to the PATH train, I had another exposure to some street theatre. Now you remember last night and the topless granny to whom time had not been good, both to her and her assets, so to speak. This time there again were tons of people hanging around two women … two VERY good looking blonde women. They, too, were topless, although their’s was definitely not a case of “swinging low.” They also had the good sense and loophole-achieving ability to avoid the cops coming down on them by having their bodies painted. And ever the capitalists, they were charging guys to have their pictures taken with them. Let me tell you, there were no shortage of takers there. Now, that’s something you don’t see every day in Mesa, AZ. I mean, you may catch a glimpse of the occasional topless granny, but those are usually more a case of just being a little forgetful.
After an oh-so brief night of sleep, we were back at Monday morning. The AB1 Kitchen was shut down for the week to permit maximum time in the City. We had breakfast at The Old Amish Market (yes, we were still in NYC) after a very nice nine-minute ferry ride from Jersey City, as opposed to the 45-minute, total sweatbox, idiot New Jersey train ride we took to go the same distance the night before (the ferry stops running at 9 PM, so that’s why we got stuck using the PATH train for return trips). Oddly enough, at the Amish Market they had electricity, they had television … they had it all.
Kind of shatters your belief in their beliefs.
I quickly learned that in New York City, crosswalks are more of a “suggestion” than a “rule.” Cars and cabs don’t really stop for you. It’s like they’re at the “Bear at the Fair” shooting gallery. Similarly for pedestrians, the “don’t walk” sign … also just a suggestion. Both sides kind of take it for what its worth and then go about their business.
That morning we began our walk-about of Lower Manhattan. First we did a quick sprint through Chinatown, then onwards for a self-guided tour of Little Italy. From there, I was greatly excited to finally arrive in “The Bowery,” a site I had dreamed of visiting ever since my daily 4 PM viewings as a nine-year old of “The Bowery Boys” films we all so loved as kids. I mean, was their any friend of yours who DIDN’T do Horace DeBussy “Satch” Jones imitations? Personally, I was a Terrence Aloyisius “Slip” Mahoney fan, even swiping my father’s good hat and pinning it in front a’ la Slip.
I spent that part of the day vainly searching the neighborhood for any trace of “Louie’s Sweet Shoppe,” the movie land home-away-from-home to Slip, Satch, Whitey, Gabe, and the rest of the gang. I even had Diedre use Genie to see if there was a facsimile sweet shop in the area. To my dismay, nothing showed up on-screen. Hey, what a great idea for a business! A reproduction of Louie’s Sweet Shoppe. We’d probably only get a clientele in the age 60-75 age range.
Moving on.
We then made it over to the Washington Square area where we had a nice visit with our Terravita (Arizona) friend, Lynn Hagman, at her lovely apartment overlooking just about all of Manhattan. From there, we headed over to the much talked-about “High Line Park.”
This place was great. It’s a one-mile public park that used to be an elevated railway track; now it’s flowers, plants, art, and great views looking down on the city as you walk the mile. My cousin Duncan, who lives in Rob Petrie’s “New Rochelle,” came by with his daughter, Claire, and his girlfriend, Diane, to join us for the High Line walk before the five of us went out to dinner. During the walk, Duncan did point out that the section we were currently walking on had once been part of the building where the Oreo cookie was invented. My heart skipped a beat.
Monday would be the only day Diedre didn’t see a Broadway show, but she would be back the next day with a vengeance, ferrying to the city on her own to secure theatre tickets at the half-price booth for the rest of the week . I, on the other hand, took my only day-off from the urban madness and instead went to a neighborhood bar to catch the Major League Baseball All-Star game with my buddy, Strauss (see both Atlantic City and Philadelphia blogs) who had driven in from Philly to watch the game with me. He’s such a good guy.
During the game, a reporter did an interview with the man I hate most in baseball history while he (the most hated) sat next to the man I admire most in baseball history. One was Commissioner Bud “Sleazebag” Selig and the other was “Hammerin’” Hank Aaron. What are the odds? I’ll let you guess which is which.
While we were getting our athletic fix of baseball, beer, and bratwurst, Diedre was improving herself artistically by seeing Broadway show #3, “Once,” at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre (opened in 1927). “Once” was the winner of eight Tony’s in 2012 including Best Musical. Needless to say, my wife loved it.
Afterwards, she met up with two New York actresses, Heather Cambanes and Aryn Nemerov, who had once worked for our theatre company, Darkknight Productions, back in Scottsdale, AZ. They had both been so young when they worked for us, college age, but now they were women of the theatre. Time does march on.
Summoning all the courage I had left after driving an RV in New Jersey, I decided to take my first ever solo New York City subway ride. I would be venturing from Lower Manhattan to the stratified atmosphere of Upper Manhattan. Diedre said I would not need a canister of oxygen. She, meanwhile, would be off and about the city doing that Broadway thing she do so well (show #4 was an “If/Then” matinee at the Richard Rodgers Theatre, a musical with John-Travolta-name-manglee Idina Menzel. A discount ticket was $45).
I have to admit that when I fearlessly came out of the deep recesses of the bowels of the subway station and up into the daylight, I felt like one of the Morlocks from the movie, “The Time Machine” (the original one with Yvette Mimeaux). Yes, I was now emerging from the darkness and up and into the blinding sunlight.
“I’m hungry now,” I thought. “I think I’ll have an ‘Eloi’ sandwich.” (If this needs explaining, see the above-mentioned movie.)
On Lexington and 61st, I spotted a “Famous Original Ray’s Pizza” established in 1964. For me, it was a “Seinfeld” moment. I knew from watching Jerry’s show that this was better than FORP’s rivals, “Ray’s Pizza,” “Famous Ray’s Pizza,” or “Original Ray’s Pizza.” They’re all different. This goes to show you that my whole orientation of New York is based upon nine years of watching “Seinfeld” episodes and then another 16 years watching his reruns. What I saw on “Seinfeld” is all I know about New York … actually, that pretty much sums up all I know about life in general.
My trial subway trip was taking me to “The Society of Illustrators’ Museum of American Illustration” which was created on February 1, 1901, to promote the art of illustration. I, of course, had mixed that up with “The Comic/Cartoon Museum,” which is really more my speed. You know, like “Superman” and “Doonesbury.” I was sadly mistaken at the SIMAI, which was like “The New Yorker” cartoons: lightly drawn and not-funny jokes. There was $5 I would never see again.
Speaking of “5,” our 5th show of the week would be the controversial, yet superb “The Book of Mormon”at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre, book, music, and lyrics by my close personal friend, Robert Lopez (see last year’s Chicago blog to clear up what I just wrote). TBOM was the winner of nine Tony’s including Best Musical. Therefore, it was no cheap deal. We were, however, sitting in the second row, but were so far to the right that we qualified as Republicans. The show was funny, but from that hard angle to the right, it was hard to keep abreast of all that was going on in the show.
Thursday was an absolute monster day. We started out with our usual rise-and-shine, ferry, Amish breakfast, but then before the day was over, we set a personal “Grand Canyon training” record as we wore out shoe leather to the tune of 11.75 miles.
NOTE: Here’s an observation: I hear more cars honking in one week in New York City than I hear in Arizona in two years.
Whatever.
We knew we had to make a planned trip to the World Trade Center monument to pay our respects. It strikes you hard when you’re standing on the hallowed ground where in one day, 2,977 people from 90 countries ranging in age from two to 85 were killed. It hurts even more when you realize that 400 of those deaths were first-responders who died while performing their heroic duties.
It was hard to keep from misting up when looking down into the two massive buildings’ footprints, now with free-flowing water going down into the abyss. There were several thousand people crowded all around the openings, yet the place was eerily quiet.
One small ray of light struck both Diedre and me: the survivor tree. It was a Callery pear tree that had been reduced to an 8’ stump in the wreckage at Ground Zero. Miraculously, it had been nursed back to health by the City and now stood 30’ tall, full of leaves and blooms. It really embodies the story of survival and resilience.
From there, we took off for our long awaited march across the Brooklyn Bridge. Years ago, a fellow I knew was in need of money, so he let on to me that he owned the Brooklyn Bridge and that he might be able to let it go for a song. No dummy, me, I couldn’t pass that up. So now all these years later, we’re finally in New York City, and I thought I’d drop by and take a look a look at my investment. Yessiree, that bridge is going to be worth a lot of money to me someday. The Brooklyn Bridge: it took 14 years (1869-1883) to build, but just 26 minutes to walk across. All I can think is:
KA-CHING!
From the bridge, we made our way into City Hall Park. It was great fun watching the guys play chess just like we had seen in the movie “Searching for Bobby Fischer.” But challenge as I might, I couldn’t get any of those so called “experts” to take me on. It might have been because I was trying to get them to play “Jenga.”
Who knows?
Another … well, actually “two” more of Alexx’s New York observations which you don’t need to pay attention to :
1) nobody speaks English, and
2) everybody smokes.
I didn’t think anybody still smoked, but out east (and especially in the south), everybody has a ciggy-butt dangling deliciously from their bottom lips (“sarcasm” alert just sounded). I mean, this city is becoming just one big ball of cancer. Everybody’s going to drop dead here any minute.
Deep breath …
We kept exploring the city, returning once again to Little Italy for a light lunch, then wending our way across the island to find the house that Peter Brown, subject of my most recent (and only) book, “The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown,” lived in as a youth. From there it was back to the Chelsea Square cave mall under the High Line Park.
Play #6 was the strangely titled “Kinky Boots,” a show I thought I’d hate but which turned out to be my favorite one of the week, even counting the sports-oriented “Rocky.” It was staged at The Al Hirschfeld Theatre. The book was written by Harvey Fierstein while music and lyrics were by that girl who just wants to have fun, Cyndi Lauper. Who’d have thought those two goofs could put together something as great as this. Six Tony awards including Best Musical were soon to follow. We agreed with the Tony electorate.
After the night’s show, we met up with yet another one of our actors, this guy from our time in Minnesota where he and Diedre were part of a rehearsal group who had professional acting as their goal. Keith “Skip” Maxwell had been on Broadway for many years since Minnesota and was still making a living at it. I was intrigued to find out in that night’s beer-conversation that Skip’s brother, Jed Lowrie, plays professional baseball for the Oakland A’s.
When we got home that night, I thought I’d check with “Penny,” our GPS, to find out the exact mileage to our next campground in Cape Cod, MA. Penny is usually pretty accurate concerning the mileage and drive time it’ll take us to get to any destination. We have her programmed to help us avoid all toll roads. The RV/car combo is not cheap at toll booths, so we usually don’t mind the extra 10 miles or 20 minutes it takes by not using the allegedly speedier turnpikes. This time, however, her computing took an inordinately long time for her to route us. And when it finally came up … it would take us … THREE-THOUSAND, TWO-HUNDRED MILES!!
WAIT, WHAT?!
Yes, 3,200 miles and about 50 hours to make the trip using no toll ways. She was sending us through Akron … that’s OHIO!
I quickly reprogrammed her, this time USING toll ways. That route would be 2,960 miles less ... hmmm … well, not being total idiots, I guess we’ll use the toll ways … JUST THIS ONCE!
Today is Friday, July 18. Our long-awaited week in New York is almost over.
It seems like wherever I go in New York, there are things that remind me of a late 50’s TV show and its theme song (which I can’t get out of my head, and which now, you, too, won’t be able to). It goes like this:
“There’s a holdup in the Bronx;
Brooklyn’s broken out in fights.
There’s a traffic jam in Harlem
that’s backed up to Jackson Heights!
There’s a scout troop short a child;
Khrushchev’s due at Idylwild …
CAR 54, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
I think the musicals are finally getting to me.
Friday was another instance where Diedre and I went our separate ways during the day and then would meet up for the theatre that evening. I started out on the subway, now being an old hand at dealing with the mole-people. My destination was way north in Upper Manhattan: the National Track & Field Hall of Fame.
Diedre and I have developed a long-standing rule regarding theatres and restaurants: call first and make sure they’re at least: 1) open, and 2) still in business. I should have extended that rule to Halls of Fame.
I took the subway to what seemed like the nether regions of the solar system. It was all the way out to 136th Street, about an hour-and-a-half by Morlock Metro. Upon arriving at the Hall, I was aghast to find out that the place was closed for electrical work. I pleaded my case, so tearfully that the young lady behind the desk, also with tears in her eyes, let me in just to look around the first floor (there were three levels). Here, for you sports freaks, are just two of the wonderful things I did see:
1) the baton Jessie Owens held as he anchored the winning 4x100 gold-medal relay team at the 1936 “Hitler” Olympics;
2) a picture of Forrest Smithson who won the 1908 Olympic 110-meter hurdles event. A very pious man, Forrest even competed carrying a Bible in his hand.
Diedre had spent her solo-portion of the day meeting up with longtime friend and Kaye-Stuart
bridesmaid Pam Lubbers. Their morning brunch get-together lasted until 3 PM. So much to catch up on.
Meanwhile, back at subway-central, I made my way down to General Ulysses S. Grant’s Memorial, also known as “Grant’s Tomb.” President Grant died in 1885. His tomb was finished on April 27, 1897, the 75th anniversary of his birth, and was dedicated in 1898. My trip there was going to help me answer that age-old question: “Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?” (HINT: I think it’s some guy named “Al.”)
Anywho, I got there at 3:22 p.m. And … it was closed … for the moment.
WHAT?!
Yes, it seems it’s only open for an hour at a time on even numbered hours.
Again … WHAT?!
At noon, 2, and 4, it was open for an hour. Then they’d close for an hour. How’s that for a national monument?
So I figured, “What the hey?” (I’m often thinking profound thoughts like that.) I had 38 minutes to kill. And of course, the nearby outdoors satellites were padlocked shut. Nothing like sitting around at a national monument waiting 38 minutes to go.
In the interim, I read some fun facts about the memorial:
-it’s 150’ tall;
-it took 12 years to build;
-Grant’s Tomb is the largest mausoleum in North America;
- over $600,000 was donated by 90,000 people to build it; it was the largest public fundraising effort ever at that time.
I finally got in at 4 PM and paid my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Grant. He has historically been criticized for drinking, but he did do a fine job as president in carrying out many of the programs originally proposed by President Lincoln.
From there, I walked 30 blocks to the north end of Central Park, determined to see the whole of it for the first time. Let me just say this:
Central Park is one big ass park!
I started on 108th and walked all the way to 56th , staying in the park the entire time. In the center is one good-sized lake. I found the softball fields where Seinfeld played against Bette Midler’s team. There were a lot of games going on, and if I hadn’t had to meet Diedre for play #7, I would have hung around the fields until some team, short a player, would ask me to play.
The park also has tennis courts and a running track. It’s just a wonderful park with a little bit of everything there.
It’s funny: 51 years ago when I came here with my family (1963 for those of you at home keeping score), we had three or four days to see the basics, i.e. a Yankees game, Wall Street (my dad was a stock broker), Radio City Music Hall with the Rockettes, a cruise around Manhattan Island, and a Broadway show (“How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying” with Robert Morse, Rudy Vallee, Charles Nelson Reilly, and one of my early first loves, Michelle Lee). So other than a short, three day visit Diedre and I made here in 1994 as part of our dual mid-life crises where we saw just one Broadway play, this venture here in 2014 was my real first introduction to all things New York, sort of a “New York 101 Class.” And I really covered the basics: the subway, the single pizza slices, the garbage in the streets, the people. After all that, I came to the realization that I really was having a good time (except for Day 1 and the PATH (New Jersey) train).
Of course, when I came here in 1963, my parents made me wear a coat and a tie (it was August, mind you) wherever we went. I never could understand why. Now 51 years later, I asked Diedre how I should dress for Broadway shows. She looked at me with surprise in her eyes and said, “Anything goes!”
And it did.
You’d get to the theatre and everybody’s there dressed in anything from tuxedoes to an “I’m With Stupid>>” T-shirt. This year it was hot, so I wore shorts to the theatre, although I did try to class up the act by wearing one of my collared baseball golf shirts … or should that be my “collared golf baseball shirts”?
For play #7, we met up once again with our young Arizona actress, Aryn Nemerov, for dinner and the show, “The Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder” at the Walter Kerr Theatre.” It was OK, just not memorable. For a murder-mystery musical, I expected a lot more slamming of doors and confusion with who was messing around with whom. To each his own.
Last NY day coming up.
Saturday, July 19, again we ferried, ate Amish, and then walked. This time, I saw a guy watching some workers clean the front window of a business. He obviously couldn’t afford theatre tickets, so (I surmised in that way only I can) he brought his folding chair, set it up just off the curb, and watched them change the beauty supply window. I figured they gave him a program so he knew what was going on. When they got done, he applauded like mad (again, I assume; we were long gone by then). Ah, street theatre; it just doesn’t get any better than in NYC.
Today was our day to see the “new” Yankee Stadium. I had been to the old one before in 1963 (Yankees beat the Indians 3-0). During our pre-game, external stadium walk, I saw T-shirts for sale that I really enjoyed. They showed how seriously the locals took their rivalries:
-BUCK FOSTON!
-“M-E-T-S” STANDS FOR “MY ENTIRE TEAM SUCKS!”
-I’D RATHER MY SISTER WAS A PROSTITUTE THAN A METS FAN!
We found the hallowed ground where the old Yankee Stadium, built in the Bronx in 1923, had stood. We even found part of the iconic “Yankee Stadium frieze” near a youth baseball field standing exactly where the old stadium resided for almost 90 years.
We were joined at the game by my cousin Duncan (his dad was my dad’s younger brother), his daughter Claire, Duncan’s lady-friend Diane, and her two kids (young adults) Joseph and Valerie. We had great seats, although we had to take out a second mortgage to finance them. In one of the rare instances where I cheered for the Yankees, they beat the Cincinnati Reds 7-1.
One of the highlights of the game, besides me getting a gigantic, refillable popcorn-bucket that I still use today when bailing out sinking boats, was Derek Jeter, in his third-to-last month as a major league player, getting a hit and an RBI, so that was great to see. We also witnessed Carlos Beltran hit a home run while Cincy garnered a mere five hits.
Home team record: 8-4.
After this fine victory and then a nice dinner, the seven of us made our way “off-Broadway” (but not too far off) to see our 8th and final play, my favorite Broadway franchise, “Forbidden Broadway.” Not great theatre, but a lot of laughs. And the show was a depression-era fee of only $29. You can’t beat that.
DK’s week in New York was a record for her: she walked 47.5 miles. I probably did the same, although instead of a walk, I called it “a forced death march.”
OK, I was probably getting a bit smug with my enjoyment of the city, so New York had to bring me back to my knees. While Diedre was extolling the virtues of our being able to see the Statue of Liberty right from our campground, I began noshing on a bar of Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy (sugarless, of course). Soon enough, one of my crowns came dislodged. No pain, and at least I didn’t swallow it, but nevertheless, it was New York’s way of telling me, “You’ve been here long enough, kid! Time to move along.”
And move along we shall. Next stop: Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
These were not auspicious signs for my introduction to The Big Apple.
It would get better.
 |
| Stadium #23 on the 2014 Alexander Adventurers' Trek |
Queens is an interesting borough. It’s said that more languages are spoken in the 109 square miles of Queens than anywhere else on the planet. I’d believe it.
Led by third-baseman David Wright’s two doubles, the Mets crushed the Florida Marlins 10-1 on a mostly nice day at a mostly nice stadium. That bumped our home team record to 7-4. That would be good enough for the lead in the National League East if Diedre and I were a whole team.
We hopped off the subway after the game in “Hell’s Kitchen.” No, that’s not where I cook when Diedre’s out of town. It’s a very ethnic, plethora of wonderful and exotic smells: down the street I spotted an Afghan restaurant next to a Mexican eatery next to an Indian one beside a Caribbean diner next to an Irish Pub next to something simply called “Humus.” Well, that could be anything. And then … and then … well, that was as far as I could see, but you get my drift.
Since I get to choose all the baseball games we go to, Diedre gets to be in charge of our theatre schedule. But here’s where she made a key mistake: she asked me what I wanted to see that night. I quickly answered, “Rocky,” the musical of the Sylvester Stallone movie of the same name.
“Rocky” was staged at The Winter Garden Theatre. The play’s book (writing) was credited to Sylvester Stallone and Thomas Meehan. And it had been Tony nominated. For $45, it seemed like a pretty good deal …
… and it was!
Much to my classically trained, theatrical wife’s surprise, “Rocky” absolutely KILLED!
The songs were good, the voices sufficed, but the story and the set grabbed the audience by the throat and wouldn’t let go. In an incredible bit of staging during Act II, the first 10 rows of audience members made their way on stage and sat on the bleachers behind the ring, all the while the play was still going on. And then, the entire stage and bleachers rolled forward right out into the theatre, coming to rest on top of the now vacated 10 rows of seats. We had a great view from the first row of the balcony, but when the stage moved out into the audience, “great” became “stupendous.” We were now looking straight down on the ring and the fight.
I got to tell you, by the end of the fight, everybody in the place was on their feet cheering! It was as if they all now really felt they WERE at a boxing match, not a play.
I was exhausted. Diedre was thrilled that the show turned out so unexpectedly good.
On our way back to the PATH train, I had another exposure to some street theatre. Now you remember last night and the topless granny to whom time had not been good, both to her and her assets, so to speak. This time there again were tons of people hanging around two women … two VERY good looking blonde women. They, too, were topless, although their’s was definitely not a case of “swinging low.” They also had the good sense and loophole-achieving ability to avoid the cops coming down on them by having their bodies painted. And ever the capitalists, they were charging guys to have their pictures taken with them. Let me tell you, there were no shortage of takers there. Now, that’s something you don’t see every day in Mesa, AZ. I mean, you may catch a glimpse of the occasional topless granny, but those are usually more a case of just being a little forgetful.
After an oh-so brief night of sleep, we were back at Monday morning. The AB1 Kitchen was shut down for the week to permit maximum time in the City. We had breakfast at The Old Amish Market (yes, we were still in NYC) after a very nice nine-minute ferry ride from Jersey City, as opposed to the 45-minute, total sweatbox, idiot New Jersey train ride we took to go the same distance the night before (the ferry stops running at 9 PM, so that’s why we got stuck using the PATH train for return trips). Oddly enough, at the Amish Market they had electricity, they had television … they had it all.Kind of shatters your belief in their beliefs.
I quickly learned that in New York City, crosswalks are more of a “suggestion” than a “rule.” Cars and cabs don’t really stop for you. It’s like they’re at the “Bear at the Fair” shooting gallery. Similarly for pedestrians, the “don’t walk” sign … also just a suggestion. Both sides kind of take it for what its worth and then go about their business.
I spent that part of the day vainly searching the neighborhood for any trace of “Louie’s Sweet Shoppe,” the movie land home-away-from-home to Slip, Satch, Whitey, Gabe, and the rest of the gang. I even had Diedre use Genie to see if there was a facsimile sweet shop in the area. To my dismay, nothing showed up on-screen. Hey, what a great idea for a business! A reproduction of Louie’s Sweet Shoppe. We’d probably only get a clientele in the age 60-75 age range.
Moving on.
We then made it over to the Washington Square area where we had a nice visit with our Terravita (Arizona) friend, Lynn Hagman, at her lovely apartment overlooking just about all of Manhattan. From there, we headed over to the much talked-about “High Line Park.”This place was great. It’s a one-mile public park that used to be an elevated railway track; now it’s flowers, plants, art, and great views looking down on the city as you walk the mile. My cousin Duncan, who lives in Rob Petrie’s “New Rochelle,” came by with his daughter, Claire, and his girlfriend, Diane, to join us for the High Line walk before the five of us went out to dinner. During the walk, Duncan did point out that the section we were currently walking on had once been part of the building where the Oreo cookie was invented. My heart skipped a beat.
During the game, a reporter did an interview with the man I hate most in baseball history while he (the most hated) sat next to the man I admire most in baseball history. One was Commissioner Bud “Sleazebag” Selig and the other was “Hammerin’” Hank Aaron. What are the odds? I’ll let you guess which is which.
While we were getting our athletic fix of baseball, beer, and bratwurst, Diedre was improving herself artistically by seeing Broadway show #3, “Once,” at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre (opened in 1927). “Once” was the winner of eight Tony’s in 2012 including Best Musical. Needless to say, my wife loved it.Afterwards, she met up with two New York actresses, Heather Cambanes and Aryn Nemerov, who had once worked for our theatre company, Darkknight Productions, back in Scottsdale, AZ. They had both been so young when they worked for us, college age, but now they were women of the theatre. Time does march on.
Summoning all the courage I had left after driving an RV in New Jersey, I decided to take my first ever solo New York City subway ride. I would be venturing from Lower Manhattan to the stratified atmosphere of Upper Manhattan. Diedre said I would not need a canister of oxygen. She, meanwhile, would be off and about the city doing that Broadway thing she do so well (show #4 was an “If/Then” matinee at the Richard Rodgers Theatre, a musical with John-Travolta-name-manglee Idina Menzel. A discount ticket was $45). I have to admit that when I fearlessly came out of the deep recesses of the bowels of the subway station and up into the daylight, I felt like one of the Morlocks from the movie, “The Time Machine” (the original one with Yvette Mimeaux). Yes, I was now emerging from the darkness and up and into the blinding sunlight.“I’m hungry now,” I thought. “I think I’ll have an ‘Eloi’ sandwich.” (If this needs explaining, see the above-mentioned movie.)
On Lexington and 61st, I spotted a “Famous Original Ray’s Pizza” established in 1964. For me, it was a “Seinfeld” moment. I knew from watching Jerry’s show that this was better than FORP’s rivals, “Ray’s Pizza,” “Famous Ray’s Pizza,” or “Original Ray’s Pizza.” They’re all different. This goes to show you that my whole orientation of New York is based upon nine years of watching “Seinfeld” episodes and then another 16 years watching his reruns. What I saw on “Seinfeld” is all I know about New York … actually, that pretty much sums up all I know about life in general.
My trial subway trip was taking me to “The Society of Illustrators’ Museum of American Illustration” which was created on February 1, 1901, to promote the art of illustration. I, of course, had mixed that up with “The Comic/Cartoon Museum,” which is really more my speed. You know, like “Superman” and “Doonesbury.” I was sadly mistaken at the SIMAI, which was like “The New Yorker” cartoons: lightly drawn and not-funny jokes. There was $5 I would never see again.
Speaking of “5,” our 5th show of the week would be the controversial, yet superb “The Book of Mormon”at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre, book, music, and lyrics by my close personal friend, Robert Lopez (see last year’s Chicago blog to clear up what I just wrote). TBOM was the winner of nine Tony’s including Best Musical. Therefore, it was no cheap deal. We were, however, sitting in the second row, but were so far to the right that we qualified as Republicans. The show was funny, but from that hard angle to the right, it was hard to keep abreast of all that was going on in the show.Thursday was an absolute monster day. We started out with our usual rise-and-shine, ferry, Amish breakfast, but then before the day was over, we set a personal “Grand Canyon training” record as we wore out shoe leather to the tune of 11.75 miles.
NOTE: Here’s an observation: I hear more cars honking in one week in New York City than I hear in Arizona in two years.
Whatever.
We knew we had to make a planned trip to the World Trade Center monument to pay our respects. It strikes you hard when you’re standing on the hallowed ground where in one day, 2,977 people from 90 countries ranging in age from two to 85 were killed. It hurts even more when you realize that 400 of those deaths were first-responders who died while performing their heroic duties.
It was hard to keep from misting up when looking down into the two massive buildings’ footprints, now with free-flowing water going down into the abyss. There were several thousand people crowded all around the openings, yet the place was eerily quiet.
One small ray of light struck both Diedre and me: the survivor tree. It was a Callery pear tree that had been reduced to an 8’ stump in the wreckage at Ground Zero. Miraculously, it had been nursed back to health by the City and now stood 30’ tall, full of leaves and blooms. It really embodies the story of survival and resilience.
From there, we took off for our long awaited march across the Brooklyn Bridge. Years ago, a fellow I knew was in need of money, so he let on to me that he owned the Brooklyn Bridge and that he might be able to let it go for a song. No dummy, me, I couldn’t pass that up. So now all these years later, we’re finally in New York City, and I thought I’d drop by and take a look a look at my investment. Yessiree, that bridge is going to be worth a lot of money to me someday. The Brooklyn Bridge: it took 14 years (1869-1883) to build, but just 26 minutes to walk across. All I can think is:KA-CHING!
From the bridge, we made our way into City Hall Park. It was great fun watching the guys play chess just like we had seen in the movie “Searching for Bobby Fischer.” But challenge as I might, I couldn’t get any of those so called “experts” to take me on. It might have been because I was trying to get them to play “Jenga.”Who knows?
Another … well, actually “two” more of Alexx’s New York observations which you don’t need to pay attention to :
1) nobody speaks English, and
2) everybody smokes.
I didn’t think anybody still smoked, but out east (and especially in the south), everybody has a ciggy-butt dangling deliciously from their bottom lips (“sarcasm” alert just sounded). I mean, this city is becoming just one big ball of cancer. Everybody’s going to drop dead here any minute.
Deep breath …
Play #6 was the strangely titled “Kinky Boots,” a show I thought I’d hate but which turned out to be my favorite one of the week, even counting the sports-oriented “Rocky.” It was staged at The Al Hirschfeld Theatre. The book was written by Harvey Fierstein while music and lyrics were by that girl who just wants to have fun, Cyndi Lauper. Who’d have thought those two goofs could put together something as great as this. Six Tony awards including Best Musical were soon to follow. We agreed with the Tony electorate.When we got home that night, I thought I’d check with “Penny,” our GPS, to find out the exact mileage to our next campground in Cape Cod, MA. Penny is usually pretty accurate concerning the mileage and drive time it’ll take us to get to any destination. We have her programmed to help us avoid all toll roads. The RV/car combo is not cheap at toll booths, so we usually don’t mind the extra 10 miles or 20 minutes it takes by not using the allegedly speedier turnpikes. This time, however, her computing took an inordinately long time for her to route us. And when it finally came up … it would take us … THREE-THOUSAND, TWO-HUNDRED MILES!!
WAIT, WHAT?!
Yes, 3,200 miles and about 50 hours to make the trip using no toll ways. She was sending us through Akron … that’s OHIO!
I quickly reprogrammed her, this time USING toll ways. That route would be 2,960 miles less ... hmmm … well, not being total idiots, I guess we’ll use the toll ways … JUST THIS ONCE!
It seems like wherever I go in New York, there are things that remind me of a late 50’s TV show and its theme song (which I can’t get out of my head, and which now, you, too, won’t be able to). It goes like this:
“There’s a holdup in the Bronx;
Brooklyn’s broken out in fights.
There’s a traffic jam in Harlem
that’s backed up to Jackson Heights!
There’s a scout troop short a child;
Khrushchev’s due at Idylwild …
CAR 54, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
I think the musicals are finally getting to me.
Friday was another instance where Diedre and I went our separate ways during the day and then would meet up for the theatre that evening. I started out on the subway, now being an old hand at dealing with the mole-people. My destination was way north in Upper Manhattan: the National Track & Field Hall of Fame.
Diedre and I have developed a long-standing rule regarding theatres and restaurants: call first and make sure they’re at least: 1) open, and 2) still in business. I should have extended that rule to Halls of Fame.
I took the subway to what seemed like the nether regions of the solar system. It was all the way out to 136th Street, about an hour-and-a-half by Morlock Metro. Upon arriving at the Hall, I was aghast to find out that the place was closed for electrical work. I pleaded my case, so tearfully that the young lady behind the desk, also with tears in her eyes, let me in just to look around the first floor (there were three levels). Here, for you sports freaks, are just two of the wonderful things I did see:
1) the baton Jessie Owens held as he anchored the winning 4x100 gold-medal relay team at the 1936 “Hitler” Olympics;
2) a picture of Forrest Smithson who won the 1908 Olympic 110-meter hurdles event. A very pious man, Forrest even competed carrying a Bible in his hand.
bridesmaid Pam Lubbers. Their morning brunch get-together lasted until 3 PM. So much to catch up on.
Meanwhile, back at subway-central, I made my way down to General Ulysses S. Grant’s Memorial, also known as “Grant’s Tomb.” President Grant died in 1885. His tomb was finished on April 27, 1897, the 75th anniversary of his birth, and was dedicated in 1898. My trip there was going to help me answer that age-old question: “Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?” (HINT: I think it’s some guy named “Al.”)
Anywho, I got there at 3:22 p.m. And … it was closed … for the moment.
WHAT?!
Yes, it seems it’s only open for an hour at a time on even numbered hours.
Again … WHAT?!
At noon, 2, and 4, it was open for an hour. Then they’d close for an hour. How’s that for a national monument?
So I figured, “What the hey?” (I’m often thinking profound thoughts like that.) I had 38 minutes to kill. And of course, the nearby outdoors satellites were padlocked shut. Nothing like sitting around at a national monument waiting 38 minutes to go.
In the interim, I read some fun facts about the memorial:
-it’s 150’ tall;
-it took 12 years to build;
-Grant’s Tomb is the largest mausoleum in North America;
- over $600,000 was donated by 90,000 people to build it; it was the largest public fundraising effort ever at that time.
I finally got in at 4 PM and paid my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Grant. He has historically been criticized for drinking, but he did do a fine job as president in carrying out many of the programs originally proposed by President Lincoln.
From there, I walked 30 blocks to the north end of Central Park, determined to see the whole of it for the first time. Let me just say this:
Central Park is one big ass park!
I started on 108th and walked all the way to 56th , staying in the park the entire time. In the center is one good-sized lake. I found the softball fields where Seinfeld played against Bette Midler’s team. There were a lot of games going on, and if I hadn’t had to meet Diedre for play #7, I would have hung around the fields until some team, short a player, would ask me to play.
The park also has tennis courts and a running track. It’s just a wonderful park with a little bit of everything there.
Of course, when I came here in 1963, my parents made me wear a coat and a tie (it was August, mind you) wherever we went. I never could understand why. Now 51 years later, I asked Diedre how I should dress for Broadway shows. She looked at me with surprise in her eyes and said, “Anything goes!”
And it did.
You’d get to the theatre and everybody’s there dressed in anything from tuxedoes to an “I’m With Stupid>>” T-shirt. This year it was hot, so I wore shorts to the theatre, although I did try to class up the act by wearing one of my collared baseball golf shirts … or should that be my “collared golf baseball shirts”?
Last NY day coming up.
Saturday, July 19, again we ferried, ate Amish, and then walked. This time, I saw a guy watching some workers clean the front window of a business. He obviously couldn’t afford theatre tickets, so (I surmised in that way only I can) he brought his folding chair, set it up just off the curb, and watched them change the beauty supply window. I figured they gave him a program so he knew what was going on. When they got done, he applauded like mad (again, I assume; we were long gone by then). Ah, street theatre; it just doesn’t get any better than in NYC. |
| Stadium #24 on the Alexander Adventurers' 2014 Trek |
-BUCK FOSTON!
-“M-E-T-S” STANDS FOR “MY ENTIRE TEAM SUCKS!”
-I’D RATHER MY SISTER WAS A PROSTITUTE THAN A METS FAN!
We were joined at the game by my cousin Duncan (his dad was my dad’s younger brother), his daughter Claire, Duncan’s lady-friend Diane, and her two kids (young adults) Joseph and Valerie. We had great seats, although we had to take out a second mortgage to finance them. In one of the rare instances where I cheered for the Yankees, they beat the Cincinnati Reds 7-1.
Home team record: 8-4.DK’s week in New York was a record for her: she walked 47.5 miles. I probably did the same, although instead of a walk, I called it “a forced death march.”
OK, I was probably getting a bit smug with my enjoyment of the city, so New York had to bring me back to my knees. While Diedre was extolling the virtues of our being able to see the Statue of Liberty right from our campground, I began noshing on a bar of Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy (sugarless, of course). Soon enough, one of my crowns came dislodged. No pain, and at least I didn’t swallow it, but nevertheless, it was New York’s way of telling me, “You’ve been here long enough, kid! Time to move along.”
And move along we shall. Next stop: Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
No comments:
Post a Comment