This morning we headed down to Coney Island.  I’ll explain why in a minute.

The train went out over the East River and slowed to a crawl, so I was able to get a shot of the Brooklyn Bridge, and if you look very closely you can see the Statue of Liberty in the far distance.

So why Coney Island? Forty years ago, I wed my Lovely First Wife in Roanoke, VA.  When she and her hellion brothers were children, there was an amusement park called Lakeside, and you may well imagine that taking those four children to an amusement park was a trial and a tribulation, so it didn’t happen often.  Naturally, if one of the siblings went to spend the night with a friend or something, the others would taunt him on his return by telling him that they had gone to Lakeside in his absence.

It was decided that it would be great fun to do that, then.  After the reception, we headed back to the family home where we hooked up with the wedding party and relatives, and many of us headed to Lakeside, where we proceeded to ride all the rides.  The roller coaster was particularly memorable, since the operator tumbled to the fact that we were a wedding party and let us zoom on through three complete cycles.

Thereafter, we celebrated major anniversaries by hitting an amusement park with as many as would join us: Six Flags, Disney World, Wild Adventures.  When I planned this trip, the LFW suggested we go ride the Cyclone for our anniversary.

Coney Island:

It’s pretty fabulous.  The weather was gorgeous, and it was not crowded at all. We noticed that the Muslim families were dressed to the nines — mothers in beautifully embellished hijabs, the little girls in sparkly ballerina dresses, men in exquisite suits.  It was puzzling until I remembered that it was Eid-al-Fitr, the end of Ramadan.

I will pause to say that every time we’re in New York that the astonishing diversity is inspiring.  You constantly hear other languages, see other cultures; at the Coney Island subway station, notices of schedule changes were posted in English and Russian. It’s fun and affirming that our country is, indeed, a nation of immigrants.

Our goal: the Cyclone.

Another view:

It opened on our Eldest Son’s birthday, 90+ years ago.

There was literally no line.  I had had some concerns that a wooden roller coaster was going to be a little rough on the old spine/sciatic nerve, but lo! they have super-padded the cars, so much so that we felt stuffed in.  But it worked — the ride was thrilling without being painful. Happy 40th, honey!

Off to the Boardwalk:

The view from the pier:

We had a hot dog at the Original Nathan’s — so there’s someone’s bucket list checked off — and then headed back into the city to go to the Met Breuer, in the former Whitney on Madison Ave.

There we saw the exhibit Life Like: Sculpture, Color, and the Body.

A very challenging show: a constant dialectic between the classical ideal of beauty (perfection/white) and… whatever the artist/culture did in opposition.

But first, Jeremy Bentham.  (Go look him up.)

For me, the exhibit resonated in many ways.  For example:

First, the Praxiteles — the ultimate in physical male beauty.  Young, fit, perfectly proportioned.  What’s not to like?

Those who have been reading this blog for a while will know that I founded my burn theme camp, 3 Old Men, as a response to this image of ideal beauty, and here’s why:

We as a society are taught to avert our eyes from bodies that are not perfect: young, fit, ideally proportioned.  But that’s where we end up, all of us.  3 Old Men rejects that impulse.  We reclaim the image of the aging male body as one of authority and power.  We got to where we are through trial and struggle, and we have things to teach and to offer.

So yeah, this exhibit had a lot to say to me. (And I to it, truthfully.)

Our show for the evening was Symphonie Fantastique, a Basil Twist performance, more about which in a moment.  The point is that the venue, HERE, is in the Village, which means… BARS!

We went to Amor y Amargo.  Oh my. It’s a tiny little place; twenty people would be a crowd.  The owner, Sother Teague, is an amiable hobbit-like man, greeting everyone as they enter, bringing them menus, mixing the drinks.  Everyone there hung on every word he said; one of the groups were clearly bartenders themselves, there to learn.

And the cocktails… What can I say?  Perfection. I had a Sharpie Mustache, served in a little bottle with a mustache on it. It was brilliant, and I don’t remember what was in it.

I was bold enough to ask him if he could make a Smoky Topaz and advise me on it, but alas, he had no barrel-aged gin.  So I made bold again and said that in Prague the same thing had happened and the bartender there had invented a drink that would please me in the same way — could he perhaps do the same?  This was early, only just 6:00, so he did have the time.

I’ll have to be bold again and contact him for the recipe — he used genever, rye, both chartreuses, and it was glorious.  I went back to the bar and showed him the recipe for the Smoky Quartz, the results in Prague, which also used genever as a base.  That was cool, I thought.

I bought three bottles of bitters — ALL THE BITTERS, YOU GUYS — lavender, hopped grapefruit, and one called Saturnalia.  I just liked the sound of that.

Our plan to was to head to Death & Co. a couple of doors down, but it was already backed up. We put our name on the list and then started walking over to Eldridge St to a new place that Sother Teague had highly recommended, the Bar Goto. He said that if he had only one night in town, that’s where he’d go.  The owner is a former bartender at The Pegu Club, another on my list, so off we went.  Of course, after a fifteen minute walk, as soon as we were seated, I was messaged that we were up at Death & Co. — I messaged our regrets.  Next time.

Bar Goto was phenomenal, both cocktails and food.  Highly recommended.

Then a cab over to HERE. Basil Twist is a puppeteer of renown, and his Symphonie Fantastique was a huge hit twenty years ago. This is a revival and has been reviewed very positively.  Essentially, Christopher O’Riley, the host of NPR’s From the Top, comes out and plays the Berlioz symphony on the piano while behind him in a giant aquarium pieces of fabric and tinsel swim and swoop in striking lighting.  This was our avant garde piece for the trip, for sure.

The first and last movements were the best.  The slow movement is my least favorite slow movement ever, and the visualization did nothing to change my mind.  The fourth movement, March to the Scaffold, was actually disappointing.  There were some gorgeous moments, and overall it was worth the adventure.

So I left my card with a note to check out William Blake’s Inn.  You never know when Basil Twist needs new inspiration.

Thursday, July 14

We’re at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, waiting to board our flight to LaGuardia, a/k/a the Trash Heap, for a very long weekend in New York City. I have begun my preparations: allergy meds, Afrin, special air pressure earplugs. I hate flying. Its cramped and my ears hurt and I can’t hear for 24 hours after landing.

But off we go.

This is in celebration of 40 years of marriage to my Lovely First Wife, and so I’ve jampacked our schedule because that’s the way she likes to travel. Six shows, the Met Museum, MOMA, a trip to Coney Island. Probably a visit to the Tenement Museum.

I had researched the top craft cocktail places, leaving a tab open in the browser for weeks. Yesterday I decided it was time to make some choices — the list had 50 bars — so I scrolled down and copied names, addresses, and hours of operation for my top five or six.

Then I had the scathingly brilliant idea of mapping this in Google. Hey, I’m Benevolent Placement Overlord™ for the Georgia burns; I can do maps. I put our hotel on it. I did a layer and put all the theatres in it. I did a layer and put all my bars on it.

As I said on Facebook, does anyone else see the problem here?

::sigh::

After all these years of traveling, I have learned a new thing: wherever you think you’re going to end up at the end of the day, that’s where you want your bed to be. As it is, it’s a 20–30 minute subway ride from our hotel to any of the bars. Why are they all in the Village? Why are none of them in the Theatre District??

And I learned this shortly after the 3:00 pm deadline for canceling the hotel reservation.

So this is not going to be my Manhattan bar trip. Alas.

—  —  —

We arrived at LaGuardia around lunch, caught a cab into town (LGA is in Queens), and headed to our hotel, the Paramount on 46th/8th.^[1]

Our room was ready, so we dumped our stuff and caught a cab to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

We had a street vendor hot dog for lunch, then headed inside. Our main goal was to see the Heavenly Bodies exhibit.

It’s staged in the Medieval Art gallery, so first we got to see some cool objects.

This is a Celtic brooch.  So is this:

The shape and decoration of these items fascinated me because of their surrealist form; they look as if the metalworker just squirted out a form.  I’d love to know more about the style.

Fun little animal figurines, fully in line with the ideas we encountered in Santa Fe’s Museum of International Folk Art.

Heavenly Bodies is a quirky exhibit, the best part of which is the runway of designer gowns/coats/cassocks based on the habiliments of the Church.

My favorite:

No, don’t ask me who did this.  I wasn’t taking notes.

There are actually three parts of the exhibit.  The second is in the downstairs Costume Institute, and there we found a opulent display of actual papal garments. (The third part is up at the Cloisters; we won’t be making the trip.)

Here’s part of a cape:

This is from a garment from an early 19th-c. pope. Look more closely:

That’s embroidery, not paint.  At this point, we were a little repelled by the intricacy and enormous amount of work that went into these items, doubtlessly made in workshops by very poor people who were paid very nearly nothing to create these things.  By the time we got to the papal tiaras, we called it quits and headed up to Modern/Contemporary Art.

There was a William Wegman exhibit with a charming video of him trying to get his Weimaraner Man Ray to catch a golf ball in his mouth and then drop it into a coffee can. It was hilarious but we decided to move on before the poor dog succeeded.  We immediately heard the *clunk* of success behind us.  Life.

I rather liked this:

There was an exhibit called History Refused to Die: Highlights from the Souls Grown Deep Foundation Gift.  It consisted of work by self-taught African-American artists from Alabama. So much to like:

“400 Years of Free Labor,” by Joe Minter.

Then there were the Gee’s Bend quilts:

There was so much more truth in these shabby, pieced-together masterpieces than the copes and albs and surplices and capes downstairs that it hurt.

Then it was back to the theatre district to meet up with my nephew Matthew, who works at Simon & Schuster converting print books to e-books.  He had had a late lunch, and we had an early show, so we just had drinks and appetizers at some forgettable little place down there.

And then we had The Play That Goes Wrong. I booked it expecting a pleasantly silly evening a la the Farndale Avenue plays, but holy crap — this show is a force of nature. From the preshow antics (pro tip: don’t sit on the aisle in the first few rows if you are an able-bodied male) to the cataclysmic finale: every moment, every line goes horribly, horribly wrong.  You think Noises Off was a shambles? Multiply that by 100 and you have some idea of what PTGW is like.

The cast is astounding, portraying members of a college theatre troupe who have somehow landed a berth on Broadway.  “For those of you who were involved in the box office mix-up, we’re sure that you will enjoy Murder at Haversham Manor just as much as you would have Hamilton.”

The script is goofy as hell, with Murder being a lame send-up of Agatha Christie that we barely get a chance to follow as wall sconces refuse to stay on the wall, doors refuse to close (or open), props are misplaced, lines are muffed, and actors disabled. Some critics complained that it was all a bit heavy-handed, to which I say pttttfffft. Yes, some of the bits were a bit long, but the thing is as fiendishly constructed as anything Christie ever wrote. An actor running into a post holding up a bare-bones platform (“the study”) is funny; doing is a second time is funny; just avoiding it a third time is great — and then in Act 2, running into it and knocking it down, sending the platform (and the actors and rolling furniture on it) plunging — that’s comedy gold.

Anyway, have a couple of drinks and see it.

—  —  —  —  —

^[1] For those who are not familiar with the layout of NYC, streets go across and avenues go up and down. Streets are East or West, divided by 5th Ave.  You say the street first, then the avenue. Of course, New York messes with you by naming some of the avenues like Park and Avenue of the Americas, but they’re really just 4th and 6th.  (Madison Ave is an outlier, having been carved out between 4th and 5th a long time ago for property development purposes.)