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Mad Monks' Guide to New York July, 1998 (Excerpts) Anthology Film Archives 32 E. Second Ave., at 2nd Street (East Village). [tel] 212/505-5181 This one is easy. There is only one truly unique and consistent place to view avant-garde/experimental films in Manhattan, if not America, and that's the Anthology Film Archives. The Angelika Film Center is very pleasant, with a latte bar, clean theatres, and a selection of mildly alternative films from Miramax and other leading independents. The Film Forum and Cinema Village, while not as nice-looking, also dependably schedule indie favorites. But the Anthology, located in a grungy, dark, and easily missed part of the East Village, is the one true venue for underground film activity in the city. And, as such, not as likely to be part of the mainstream film-buying and film-going loop. Everyone from Saul Levine to Georges Melies to Anthology founder and artistic director Jonas Mekas (editor of Film Culture magazine) are regularly shown here. Rare, outstanding places like Anthology Film Archives are clear examples of why intelligent, creative people feel the need to live in Manhattan, not just visit. Brooklyn Bridge The bridge of dreams, literally and figuratively. It lacks the monumental scale of the Golden Gate, but it carries great symbolic significance for generations of New Yorkers who made Brooklyn their home. Take it by cab with the one you love late some night--by far the most romantic back-window view of Manhattan. The next night, stroll from Brooklyn Heights back over to Manhattan, and enjoy the most romantic walk in the city. Some lore. When it was completed in 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge was the first bridge in the world to use steel cable. In addition, it is the only bridge to employ a spider-like cable design, one of its major visual hallmarks. Most important, when her husband was too sick to finish overseeing the final construction, Mrs. Washington Roebling messengered instructions over to the construction crew in her husband's forged handwriting, knowing that at the time the instructions would not have been followed were they seen coming from a woman. Central Park Between 59th and 110th Streets, Fifth Avenue and Central Park West Given how money-grubbing this island can be, it's something of a miracle that Central Park remains relatively intact more than a century after it was constructed. Consider this: Way back in 1904 one Ernest Flagg proposed a Champs Elysées-style boulevard right through the center of the park. The city almost bought the idea. Among other suggested "improvements": trenches in one of the park's meadows, to give a sense of what our soldiers were experiencing in World War I; an airport near what is today Tavern on the Green; housing projects; underground parking garages; and a plan to fill in the Reservoir to make way for another field. Thankfully, the Parks Department and the Central Park Conservancy have resisted them all. The park's highlights include The Great Lawn and the jogging track around the reservoir, but the most intriguing is the area (on the park's western edge between 74th and 79th Streets) known as the Rambles. Originally conceived as a wild garden preserve for native plants, it's evolved into a cruising ground for men who either enjoy having sex in bushes or, for one reason or other, can't have it in the privacy of their home. Fact: Beneath the park lie 122 miles of pipeline. Fact: Although Central Park is the site of numerous rapes and muggings, its police precinct is statistically the safest in the city. CBGB & OMFUG 315 Bowery, at Bleecker Street (East Village). [tel] 212/533-0456. www.cbgb.com. CBGB's has been a fixture for so long scarcely anyone knows what its name stands for. "Country, Bluegrass, and Blues" is what it stands for. Actually, the full name is CBGB & OMFUG. OMFUG stands for "Other Music for Uplifting Gourmandisers," an ironic allusion to the space's eclectic programming, and to its mohawk and chain-wallet clientele. This dumpy cradle of punk has launched everyone from the Ramones to Blondie to the Talking Heads to Tom Verlaine. But there's always been one important condition: Acts must perform original material. It's been a creative challenge for owner Hilly Kristal, but he's stuck to his guns. Elsie's 307 E. 84th St., between First and Second Avenues (Upper East Side). [tel] 212/650 9424. In theory, this is a public bar--except the public, by and large, is not invited. The night we peeked in, a chunky, grumpy, and decidedly tough-looking woman was tending bar to a posse of young straights, who were no doubt clucking over their good fortune in being admitted to this relatively nondescript hole-in-the-wall. Owner-operator Elsie keeps her customer base to a bare minimum, unlocking her door only for patrons she likes the looks of. She didn't like the looks of us, apparently. Waiting outside, we could hear the conversation inside. It seemed to center around what we were doing, which, in short, was standing around waiting to be let in. This may well be the focus of entertainment at Elsie's. It's hard to know where to put this place: Is it the very best, by virtue of its uncompromising meanness, or is it the very worst, by virtue of the same quality? We leave that to you. Just write us, if she lets you in. Fresh Kills Dump 310 West Service Road, Staten Island. [tel] 212/788-3919. Take the Victory Boulevard Exit off the 440 (West Shore Expressway) to West Service Road (take it straight to the end where you'll see a guard booth; do not follow signs to Fresh Kills Household Disposal). It's a freakin' landfill, but by the time our likable guide, Happy Dave Hendrickson, was done, you'd swear it was Aspen. The guy wouldn't admit to even one scintilla of doubt about the hazards here. He pooh-poohed the smell. He pooh-poohed the size (he was proud of it, in fact; "Fresh Kills is the largest landfill in the world, incorporating over 3,000 tons of trash")--He pooh-poohed it all, from the threat of spontaneous combustion to worker safety to pollution in the Kills to the ominous prospect of a planned 500-foot mountain of garbage. Dave pooh-poohed everything but the poop. Horse poop that is, which the landfill recycles, along with grass and Christmas trees. Dave was very proud of the Christmas tree recycling program. He even had us stick our hands in the Christmas tree compost, which winds up on gardens all over the city. All of it donated by the landfill. A nice gesture, we thought. Except for one thing: It's a drop in the ole bucket compared to the endless barges of refuse that find their way here--plastic bottles, pipes, newspapers, baby diapers, and a few items that people actually come and pull out of the mess. Dave says he's fished out $20,000 worth of jewels, $400 in rent money from a box of Lipton soup, and a pair of false teeth. He even helped a seventy-year-old woman recover a bag of raffle tickets. Fresh Kills does a few other good things, too: they crush and recycle rock, they trap and resell methane, which heats over 12,000 homes, and they are shockingly open about the entire operation (on the tour you can get pretty darn close to the mighty bulldozers, the giant smelly barges, as well as the seagull-infested landfills). It's a sanitized tour, but a revealing one nonetheless. Schapiro's House of Kosher and Sacramental Wines 126 Rivington St., between Norfolk and Essex Streets (Lower East Side). [tel] 212/674-4404. Once, in a bar in Kansas City, we went to the bathroom. On the wall behind the urinal someone had scrawled, "If you're one in a million, there are 11 of you in New York." As a general rule, the maxim holds true: In New York there are lots of most things, even rare, one-in-a-million ones. There are, for example, places where a person can buy Miracle Driving Glasses or petrified bull penis. Yet even here some things really are one of a kind, and one of them, perhaps surprisingly, is Schapiro's House of Kosher and Sacramental Wines. It's the city's only surviving winery--around since 1899 and dispensing wine that, as a sign toward the back of the store proudly boasts, is "so thick you can cut it with a knife"--but the place is a shell, no longer really in operation, so past its prime that it almost brings tears to your eyes. There's dust everywhere, and no customers whatsoever (at least none when we visited). The place has (we hope) seen better days. One hopes that Norman Schapiro, who runs the place, has also seen better days. When we arrive he is in his office with the door open. He doesn't even nod to us, but sits there discussing an imminent bankruptcy hearing with his lawyer. "It's like we just walked into history," Michael says. "We took one giant step back. The dust in here has been here for at least my lifetime." Most of the crushing happens upstate these days, so the tours, on Sundays, consist mostly of wine tasting. "Everyone loves Schapiro," says Norman. "If you look at all the touring guides--Europe or wherever it is--it always has Schapiro's in it." SchragerLand I have a major bone to pick with most Ian Schrager properties, whether it be Delano in Miami, Mondrian in Hollywood, or Royalton in New York: the problem, dear compassionate sir, is "attitude." Your hotels REEK of it. And in all the wrong ways, and in every nook and cranny of their being, from the wait staff to the desk help to the doormen to the bartenders to the publicists to the managers. It's unfortunate, for if one were to remove the completely gratuitous snobbery, one would find several compelling innovations at all Schrager-owned properties. At Morgan's, the originality is found in the communal seating at the Asia de Cuba restaurant, and the barless Morgan's Bar. At the Royalton and Paramount, it's "the hotel as theatre," taken to its full mind-bending extension. Unfortunately, despite their painfully articulated panache, these hotels remind me of an elegant funding proposal, held together by precious bamboo, printed on carefully aged parchment, in a hip new calligraphy, with a simple message inside: "We Don't Like You." Quite beautiful, quite clear--yes, even quite "chic"--but one must ask, "Where's the beef?" Or, rather, "Where's the love?" Despite French designer Phillipe Starck's sweet rhetoric about creating an "oasis of sympathy, of love, of tenderness," there is, in practice, absolutely no soul in any Schrager property, only concept--"Modern hotels for modern people" (roughly translated: arrogance, emptiness, and casual service for people who deliver the same). Concept, dear sir, no matter how beautifully designed, will only get you so far. Subway Inn 143 E. 60th St., at Lexington Avenue (Upper East Side). [tel] 212/223 8929. There are plenty of dive bars in New York. In fact, dive-bar diving has, for a long time, been a pastime of slumming celebrities (consider Madonna, Michael Stipe, and Drew Barrymore). Julia Roberts is reported to have been spotted at the Subway. Yet this place manages, despite Roberts' appearance, to retain its ambiance. More than any other, this is the dive bar of New York City. The regulars come in all shapes, sizes, and ages, but, for the most part, they're commuters who are here to get sloshed before the long trek home. The aged tile floors and wood bar, the Hopper-esque vibe, the film-noir feel of the neon out front, the Willy Loman pathos of the soused and sappy patrons, the dollar glasses of Bud, all would make the Subway a winner in anybody's book. But what tips this place into the top ten is the inimitable hard-ass charm of owner-operator Charlie Ackerman. I tried to ask Charlie a few questions. "I've got enough trouble answering questions," he told me. "Got environmental people, police. Leave me alone." "How long has this place been here?" I asked. "Talk to me about something that's interesting." "Did Julia Roberts tip?" "No! The only guy you ever tip is the rabbi who cuts your dick off." And then he asked me a question: "Where do you live?" "Williamsburg, Brooklyn," I told him. "That's not New York!" Charlie wouldn't let up. He disagreed with everything I said, no matter how accurate or complimentary. Finally, as I was leaving, he said, "You have a nice approach." Don't miss this place. Waldorf Astoria 301 Park Ave., between E. 49th and E. 50th Streets (Midtown). [tel] 212/355-3000. If Liberace were looking for a place to sleep, he might choose this ornate wonder (In fact, at one time he did choose this ornate wonder). There is something heartwarming and nostalgic about the Old World touches at this grand dame of New York hotels: the cordial, delightfully obsequious, and completely useless elevator operators; the dramatic entrance on Park Avenue; the tall ceilings and antique wood furnishings; the fabulous complimentary breakfast in the 26th floor Astoria Lounge; the history! However, its days as the world-class destination for world-class celebrities is long gone (though the current $60 million upgrade might change all that). Today it is the preferred destination for well-heeled Midwesterners looking for that tony New York experience they've seen in all those '40s movies, and for the Japanese and Euro tourists who've read about The Waldorf in all the conventional guidebooks. It's also the permanent residence of dozens of well-heeled couples, widows, and corporate execs. In fact, Herbert Hoover once lived here. The Royalton this is not. And, frankly, we like it that way. |
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