The moon is in the seventh house (or something) and Passover aligns with Easter (both Western and Orthodox), so the D.O.T. sent out a long-winded but welcome statement to its people: “Alternate side parking (street cleaning) regulations will be suspended Tuesday and Wednesday, March 30-31, for the first and second days of Passover, Thursday and Friday, April 1-2, for Holy Thursday and Good Friday, and Monday and Tuesday, April 5-6, for the seventh and eighth days of Passover.”
Surely this was a sign that I should bring the car in from Rockaway, where I left it for the winter. I could have brought it in last week, but I didn’t, and this turned out to be a mistake, because in that extra week the car languished … or at least its battery did. I ran into my neighbor and long-distance valet Mr. T., carrying his baby’s car seat in, and he said he’d had to jump the car the day before. He wasn’t sure whether he’d left something on, or if it got too cold, or if the battery was just old. (I have had the car almost six years, and have never worried about the battery, but I know it was a problem for the previous owner, who left the car in Rockaway all year round and drove it only to Dunkin' Donuts on Saturdays.) Mr. T. offered to go with me to see if it would start up.
The Eclair was parked in a Friday spot, and looked quite lovable to me, although it is true that it had grown despondent over the winter; the coffee residue in the bottom of the styrofoam cup next to the driver’s seat was green. And when I turned the key in the ignition, the car showed no vital signs. Mr. T. got his truck and jump-started me, and then led me to a place that he said carried my brand of batteries, to see if I needed a new one.
A mechanic named Julio (according to his shirt) stood by with a battery tester. Julio had a thick accent, so that even if I had known what he was talking about, I couldn’t have understood what he was saying. (He couldn’t pronounce the essential word “charge.”) He said the problem was both the battery and the alternator—“It can’t be both!” T. said—and he’d have to order the part and he couldn’t start the job till Monday. All that was clear was that it was already one o'clock on Saturday afternoon and Julio was eager to be gone for the weekend, and who could blame him.
I was all for driving—that recharges the battery, and I hadn’t been behind the wheel since New Year’s Eve. So I drove first west, to Breezy Point, and then east, over the Atlantic Bridge ($2 toll each way), through Long Beach and back, racking up about thirty-five miles before daring to park and cut the engine. She started up fine when I was ready to come back to Manhattan, although I think the muffler needs work.
Saturday at around six seemed like a reasonable time to look for a spot. The first block I went up offered nothing, but then I turned onto one of my old reliable blocks, K Street, and on the right was a Tuesday-Friday spot with a large piece of furniture parked in it. I double-parked to check it out: it was some kind of wooden wardrobe or bureau, as tall as me and as wide as a double bed, with an inset (broken) mirror. I dragged it up onto the sidewalk. The spot had looked more than ample, but either I lost my depth perception over the winter or the car got bigger, because I had to jockey back and forth three or four times to squeeze in. It was worth it, though: thank you, Jesus, Moses, God of the Old Testament (but not the current Pope!), my car will be safe in that spot for twelve days, until Friday, April 9th. Which is not to say that it will start up again when I need it, but I can always have it resurrected by AAA.
There is a new parking blog, called Parallel Spaces (http://www.blog.parallelspaces.com/), whose writer has developed a Manhattan Parking Map. I will add it to my links, along with the Parking Ticket Pundit.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Crossing
I took the ferry out to Rockaway on Friday for the last time—or so I thought. It was reported in the press that ferry service to Rockaway was stopping as of March 19th. What would keep this ride from being melancholy—if there’s no ferry, I’m back on the A train with Volume II of “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire”—was that it was my maiden voyage of the season. I persuaded my neighbor T. to come along—we could take the bus the rest of the way home, if her husband couldn’t pick us up in my long-lost car. 
We met at Pier 11, Slip C, where regular riders were waving signs that said “Save the Rockaway Ferry” and “Save Our Boat, Keep her Afloat“ and “No Boat? No Vote!“ At boarding, the demonstrators all rushed for the prow to wave their signs at a TV camera. That left some great seats for us up on the top deck, in the stern. The American Princess gave three long blasts of her horn and we hove to. Naw, we didn’t hove, or heave … I just like nautical language. What we did was we opened our brewskis and went to town, getting a jump-start on the weekend. One of the problems with this campaign to keep the ferry running is that its most vocal champions are likely to be the guys who drink to excess on the boat. One of them did get hold of the microphone as we approached the Brooklyn Army Terminal. “Brook-LYN, Brook-LYN!” The passengers who disembarked at B.A.T. were told that there would be an announcement at Riis Park Landing, and [wink, wink] “we will see you soon!” Later someone announced, “Look at that traffic on the Belt Parkway. Do you wanna be out there?” “Noooo!” bellowed the crowd.
On land, it was the first intensely warm, inviting day of the season. My feet had been so oppressed earlier, in their black shoes and socks, that I stopped at Paragon and bought a pair of purple Tevas. But it got nippy in the open ocean. A regular commuter, a businessman in a suit whom I recognized from a ferry meeting last fall, pointed to me, chillin' (literally) in my sweatshirt and sandals. “I’m tough,” I told him. I was cold but happy: T. had brought me a big bottle of Guinness.
She lives in Rockaway all year round and knows that it stays colder out there well into June, so she was wearing a hooded parka. The regulars actually went below to get out of the cold. At least we didn’t get splashed, though the deck in front of us got wetted down. A parasailer—a surfer in a wetsuit holding on to a huge kite—raced over the waves toward the Verrazano Bridge. In Jamaica Bay, the American Princess curved gracefully past the sweet houses of Roxbury and entered the harbor. A crowd had gathered to greet the ferry, with more signs, and not thirty seconds after I had bade a warm farewell to my favorite crew member, into my hand was pressed this notice: “Rockaway Ferry Service EXTENDED!”
The ferry, which first sailed in May of 2008, was originally funded for two years. Eric Ulrich, a councilman, was handing out the flyers and taking credit for the reprieve: the ferry service will run until July 1st.
Lew Simon was on a podium with a megaphone, working the crowd. Lew Simon is all over the place in Rockaway: he is a Democratic District Leader, writes a column for the Wave, accosts people at the supermarket, schmoozes the ladies at their annual card party at St. Camillus (T. said she’d given him a hug the day she won a flat-screen TV; he’s good luck). Ever since I’ve been going to Rockaway, there has been controversy about the ferry. The editor of the Wave is sour on the subject. For years, whenever there was talk of a ferry, he’d wager in print that it would never happen, which outraged me, because that kind of behavior, betting against yourself, is exactly what makes things not happen. Even people who wanted a ferry complained, when they got it, that this wasn’t the ferry they wanted. They deride the American Princess as a refitted fishing/party boat, and say the trip takes too long. The riders don’t mind that: it’s a spectacular harbor—why torpedo through it? The schedule doesn’t suit everyone—how could it? T. agreed that taking the ferry home on Friday is a swell way to launch the weekend, but leave in the morning at five-forty-five in order to be an hour early for work? No, thanks. In summer, I leave at seven-forty-five in order to be an hour early for work, but the flip side is how highly motivated I am to get out of work early in order to catch that last ferry home, at five-thirty. And they're doing the best they can with one boat. The only way to offer more crossings would be to add a boat.
Which brings us to the inevitable: the cost. At $6 one way, it’s controversial to everybody except the people who pay it. I think it’s a steal. The operating cost per passenger, I read, is more than three times that, at current ridership. Yet there are also complaints that $6 is too much. The Staten Island Ferry is free.
Is it elitist? It is. Is it impractical? It is and it isn’t. Is it fun? Oh, yeah. Is it beautiful and bracing? God, yes. I will be on it as often as possible for as long as it lasts.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Fish Story
My crazy brother thought I would enjoy riding down the Sandy River, in Oregon, on a raft with a fishing guide, clad in waders and a life jacket, looking not at all like Meryl Streep in "The River Wild." Steelhead trout are in season. Before leaving town, Miles plunked two jars of “egg cure” and a Mason jar on the counter, and said that if I got a “hen” I should prepare the eggs for him, so he could use them as bait. Yeah, right … Didn't he know that I have always been on the side of the fishes?
The guide’s name was Ed Fast. I think of him as Steadfast Ed Fast. Ed Fast endeared himself to me right away by calling to say he was going to be a little late because he was stopping for doughnuts and what kind did I like? (Cinnamon and chocolate.) Maybe fishing wouldn’t be so bad ...
He arrived at six-thirty in the morning with a catamaraft—a pontoon raft—on a trailer. All the other guides had been out on the river for hours, taking their clients to their favorite spots and fishing them out. It is bad etiquette to pull in where other guides have already staked a claim, so we leapfrogged them down the river: a big bald guy named Bob in a beautiful wooden boat, with three fishermen sitting athwart (how often do I get to say “athwart”?), and Dave Maroon, in an aluminum boat. (I would never go out in a boat with a guy named “Maroon.”) Ed knew a lot about the natural history of the area, and told me to get out my brand-new non-waterproof camera to get a shot of the canyon walls as we slid sideways over the rocks. (Agh!) On a beach, he pointed out cougar tracks, and what he thought was the track of a mink, and a single elegant elk print, and took my picture with a waterfall.
He showed me how to cast—Ed casts beautifully, his line making a lazy loop in the air—and told me to try to place the line in the “seam,” so the bait would travel along the bottom, where the fish like to swim. He kept saying “Mend,” which I think means raising your pole to get control of your line, without jerking the bobber, which would make the fish suspicious. And "Open your bail."
At a spot called the Gauge Hole, Ed baited my line with a fake pink worm. The Gauge Hole has unsightly equipment along the bank that registers the depth of the river and that rangers can read from some remote outpost. I stood on a rock and cast a few times, and then felt something take my line and started reeling it in as we both saw, out in the water, a fish leap twirling in the air, like something right off the cover of Field & Stream. “You got a fish!” Ed said, incredulously. He was by my side in an instant, coaching me to give it line, to “pump and play,” never to point the rod directly at the fish (is that why it’s called angling?). I was all for reeling the fish in, though it was very strong. Finally, Ed said, “I’m gonna have to go after him,” and took the pole out of my hands and ran over the rocks along the bank and climbed over the gauge equipment. It seemed like it took forever to land the fish. He explained afterward that you have to be careful or you’ll rip the hook out of the fish’s mouth—the hook was just barely in the fish’s lip; it fell out as soon as he landed it. But if you let the fish fight, it gets exhausted and flops into your hands.
There was much documentation of the fish, after Ed had bled it out in the river and demonstrated how to hold it through the gill, without letting my fingers show through its mouth, and adjusted the flash on my camera so the trophy fish would shine. It had three rows of sharp little teeth in there! Ed estimated that it was thirty-two inches long and about twelve pounds. It was a female. Miles would be pleased. I was, of course, hoping that Ed would prepare the eggs.
I would have been content to just ride down the river, but Steadfast Ed Fast was getting paid to make me fish all day long. He would stand in the water, changing the bait, tying on a spinner or mashing fish eggs on the line, adjusting the amount of lead in a tiny mesh bag. That's another reason I don’t like fishing: it's like sewing, except that you have to thread the needle while balancing on a rock in a rushing stream. We changed spots again, negotiating some more white water. The sun came out, and on a calm, quiet place in the river we munched our sandwiches and drank hot coffee straight from the thermos. A bald eagle flew upstream.
At a spot that Ed said was a favorite of his, with the raft perched on some rocks and the water running over them, he hooked a fish and tried to hand the pole to me. “No, you land it,” I said. “I want to watch.” He was puzzled. As a guide, he was used to letting his clients bring the fish in—that is what people are out there for, that sensation of matching wits with the wily trout in its own element, blah blah blah. This time, Ed really did practically walk that fish ashore. It was a male, what he called a “chromer.”
At the landing, I peeled off my waders. I was surprised that my feet were dry inside of there. Ed addressed the fish. He showed me the scar on the side of the chromer, where a seal had tried to eat it. He slit open the female and uncovered two “skeins” of bright-orange eggs. “Do you want to eat a fish egg?” he asked. I declined. He put the eggs in a baggy and the two fish in a Hefty bag, loaded the raft on the trailer, and we headed home.
Ed stayed and prepared the fish eggs for me—or, rather, for my brother. He put on latex gloves and sprinkled the powder on them and instructed me to turn the jar over regularly until they puffed up. He filleted the chromer, which, though it had been caught by him, apparently belonged to me. Its flesh was red, like salmon. He started to fillet the female, but her flesh was pale, almost gray, and he said it would be no good to eat. So we walked down to the riverbank and he tossed her in, saying she would now be food for other fishes. He really believed that.
He said she was a hatchery fish, after all, and just put in there for us to sport with. But I kept thinking she had put her whole being into making those eggs, and now they would be used against her, used to lure her own kind into being hauled ashore. It made me sad. You should have seen her when she was alive and leaping.
The guide’s name was Ed Fast. I think of him as Steadfast Ed Fast. Ed Fast endeared himself to me right away by calling to say he was going to be a little late because he was stopping for doughnuts and what kind did I like? (Cinnamon and chocolate.) Maybe fishing wouldn’t be so bad ...
He arrived at six-thirty in the morning with a catamaraft—a pontoon raft—on a trailer. All the other guides had been out on the river for hours, taking their clients to their favorite spots and fishing them out. It is bad etiquette to pull in where other guides have already staked a claim, so we leapfrogged them down the river: a big bald guy named Bob in a beautiful wooden boat, with three fishermen sitting athwart (how often do I get to say “athwart”?), and Dave Maroon, in an aluminum boat. (I would never go out in a boat with a guy named “Maroon.”) Ed knew a lot about the natural history of the area, and told me to get out my brand-new non-waterproof camera to get a shot of the canyon walls as we slid sideways over the rocks. (Agh!) On a beach, he pointed out cougar tracks, and what he thought was the track of a mink, and a single elegant elk print, and took my picture with a waterfall.
He showed me how to cast—Ed casts beautifully, his line making a lazy loop in the air—and told me to try to place the line in the “seam,” so the bait would travel along the bottom, where the fish like to swim. He kept saying “Mend,” which I think means raising your pole to get control of your line, without jerking the bobber, which would make the fish suspicious. And "Open your bail."At a spot called the Gauge Hole, Ed baited my line with a fake pink worm. The Gauge Hole has unsightly equipment along the bank that registers the depth of the river and that rangers can read from some remote outpost. I stood on a rock and cast a few times, and then felt something take my line and started reeling it in as we both saw, out in the water, a fish leap twirling in the air, like something right off the cover of Field & Stream. “You got a fish!” Ed said, incredulously. He was by my side in an instant, coaching me to give it line, to “pump and play,” never to point the rod directly at the fish (is that why it’s called angling?). I was all for reeling the fish in, though it was very strong. Finally, Ed said, “I’m gonna have to go after him,” and took the pole out of my hands and ran over the rocks along the bank and climbed over the gauge equipment. It seemed like it took forever to land the fish. He explained afterward that you have to be careful or you’ll rip the hook out of the fish’s mouth—the hook was just barely in the fish’s lip; it fell out as soon as he landed it. But if you let the fish fight, it gets exhausted and flops into your hands.
There was much documentation of the fish, after Ed had bled it out in the river and demonstrated how to hold it through the gill, without letting my fingers show through its mouth, and adjusted the flash on my camera so the trophy fish would shine. It had three rows of sharp little teeth in there! Ed estimated that it was thirty-two inches long and about twelve pounds. It was a female. Miles would be pleased. I was, of course, hoping that Ed would prepare the eggs.
I would have been content to just ride down the river, but Steadfast Ed Fast was getting paid to make me fish all day long. He would stand in the water, changing the bait, tying on a spinner or mashing fish eggs on the line, adjusting the amount of lead in a tiny mesh bag. That's another reason I don’t like fishing: it's like sewing, except that you have to thread the needle while balancing on a rock in a rushing stream. We changed spots again, negotiating some more white water. The sun came out, and on a calm, quiet place in the river we munched our sandwiches and drank hot coffee straight from the thermos. A bald eagle flew upstream.
At a spot that Ed said was a favorite of his, with the raft perched on some rocks and the water running over them, he hooked a fish and tried to hand the pole to me. “No, you land it,” I said. “I want to watch.” He was puzzled. As a guide, he was used to letting his clients bring the fish in—that is what people are out there for, that sensation of matching wits with the wily trout in its own element, blah blah blah. This time, Ed really did practically walk that fish ashore. It was a male, what he called a “chromer.”
At the landing, I peeled off my waders. I was surprised that my feet were dry inside of there. Ed addressed the fish. He showed me the scar on the side of the chromer, where a seal had tried to eat it. He slit open the female and uncovered two “skeins” of bright-orange eggs. “Do you want to eat a fish egg?” he asked. I declined. He put the eggs in a baggy and the two fish in a Hefty bag, loaded the raft on the trailer, and we headed home.
Ed stayed and prepared the fish eggs for me—or, rather, for my brother. He put on latex gloves and sprinkled the powder on them and instructed me to turn the jar over regularly until they puffed up. He filleted the chromer, which, though it had been caught by him, apparently belonged to me. Its flesh was red, like salmon. He started to fillet the female, but her flesh was pale, almost gray, and he said it would be no good to eat. So we walked down to the riverbank and he tossed her in, saying she would now be food for other fishes. He really believed that.
He said she was a hatchery fish, after all, and just put in there for us to sport with. But I kept thinking she had put her whole being into making those eggs, and now they would be used against her, used to lure her own kind into being hauled ashore. It made me sad. You should have seen her when she was alive and leaping.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Three Pools
In the midst of a snow shower, word arrives that alternate side parking will be suspended tomorrow for Ash Wednesday. Never mind that so few places have street cleaning scheduled for Wednesdays. The important thing is that this small consolation has been offered us by the Department of Sanitation: O.K., you and everyone you know are going to be reduced to ashes, but think of it this way: at least you didn’t have to move the car.
In the spirit of self-improvement, I vowed to follow through on one of my New Year’s resolutions and join a gym. The New York Health & Racquet Club opened a branch near me, and I have had my eye on it for the past few months, thinking it might inspire me to swim. I went in last Friday, while the cleaning lady was rearranging my personal effects (with the result that I will never be able to find anything again), and asked about membership. The pool was not yet open, but from the reception area I could see down two flights of stairs to a tantalizing glimpse of swimming-pool blue at the bottom.
A guide appeared and led me down to the pool. It turns out that this glimpse, this swath of blue, is in fact all the pool there is: two narrow lanes in a tastefully decorated cave. One lane will always be open, the guide explained, and the other will be available for lap swimming by reservation; you’re supposed to call twenty-four hours in advance. I expressed the worry that someone with better telephone skills would always get in ahead of me. The guide reassured me that there was another branch with a bigger pool not too far away, but I was not convinced: if that other branch was so convenient, why hadn’t I already joined?
The guide took me to the locker room, which was luxuriously tiled in shades of blue and green. Men were working in a lounge that will feature a fireplace and a waterfall. We went upstairs to the office area, and at first I thought, How nice, I can come up here and check my e-mail—but swiftly realized that the desks and computers are for the health-club staff, of course. The guide told me that I was probably eligible for a corporate membership: my employer would pay something like $500 toward an annual membership, and I’d have to pay only $380 for a year. It was hot in there; I hadn’t even joined and already I was sweating. I left with the e-mail address of the guy who could arrange the corporate discount.
The cleaning lady wouldn't be finished yet, so I headed over to the nearest facility of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. I joined it years ago, but my membership had lapsed. The guy at the desk sized me up immediately: ten dollars a year for age 55 and older. Behind him, in the pool, middle-aged women (of whom I speak as if we had nothing in common) cavorted in the water with pink neoprene noodles. In a corner of the lobby, some skinny people shot pool. Geezers lounged on benches along the walls. Someone delivered a plastic bag the size of a pouffed-up bed pillow full of snack-size packages of junk food.
What the hell, for ten dollars, I signed up. The junk food made me feel at home. They still had my picture on file, and I was wearing the exact same black parka and striped scarf that I’d had on the last time I joined. The only difference was my hair: in the picture it was light-ash-brown (that’s what it said on the bottle), and in person it was more ash than light brown. I asked if anything there had changed (meaning, Is the locker room any less depressing? meaning, Are the showers still those kind that you give you just three minutes before the hot water gets cold and dribbles out?). The answer was: "There are lots of free classes."
The cleaning lady still wouldn’t be done, so I walked over to the river, where there is a residential complex with an esplanade. A man at the entrance said it was closed because of ice. So I climbed the stairs of the building that houses the health club. I passed the entrance to the health club and looked out over the river and then back up at the building. On the second floor, where the pool is, tropical plants sat in the sun. My father always said that before plonking down your money for a major purchase, you should get three prices, so, in the interests of comparative shopping, I pressed the buzzer for the health club and went up. There was no one in the pool, and it looked very inviting: decent size, sunny, surrounded by glass, and with a view of the Chrysler Building. There were forest-green chaise longues arranged around the pool: I could picture myself having a cup of coffee on a chaise, reading in the sun ... after a vigorous swim, of course.
While I was talking to the girl at the desk, a guy came back from the grocery store and handed her a can of Red Bull before going out to the pool with a couple of bags of chips (he was a lifeguard). “This is a health club and you are eating that shit?” I said. The girl giggled. A year’s membership is $495, she told me ($400 of which can be reimbursed through a fitness allowance at work). For a twenty-dollar fee, I can suspend my membership over the summer, when I am in Rockaway and swim in the ocean. With that, the girl with the can of Red Bull overcame my last objection, and I joined. It’s not as convenient as the gym closer to home, but I often end up taking a walk over there by the river after I park the car on Sunday.
“Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon,” Melville wrote in “Moby-Dick.” I have been reading “The Whale,” a new book by Philip Hoare, and of course he quotes Melville a lot. Although initially I had been quite taken with the idea of a brand-new swimming pool in the depths of a high-rise building, I thought now, on my way home to the cleaning lady and my bathroom freshly washed with Clorox, of the descriptions Philip wrote (I hope he won’t mind my calling him Philip instead of Mr. Hoare) of whales that he had seen in captivity when he was a boy, and I realized that that is exactly how I would have felt, plowing the stationary waters of a narrow tank beneath the earth: like a whale in captivity. I am so glad I stopped short of paying for that.
In the spirit of self-improvement, I vowed to follow through on one of my New Year’s resolutions and join a gym. The New York Health & Racquet Club opened a branch near me, and I have had my eye on it for the past few months, thinking it might inspire me to swim. I went in last Friday, while the cleaning lady was rearranging my personal effects (with the result that I will never be able to find anything again), and asked about membership. The pool was not yet open, but from the reception area I could see down two flights of stairs to a tantalizing glimpse of swimming-pool blue at the bottom.
A guide appeared and led me down to the pool. It turns out that this glimpse, this swath of blue, is in fact all the pool there is: two narrow lanes in a tastefully decorated cave. One lane will always be open, the guide explained, and the other will be available for lap swimming by reservation; you’re supposed to call twenty-four hours in advance. I expressed the worry that someone with better telephone skills would always get in ahead of me. The guide reassured me that there was another branch with a bigger pool not too far away, but I was not convinced: if that other branch was so convenient, why hadn’t I already joined?
The guide took me to the locker room, which was luxuriously tiled in shades of blue and green. Men were working in a lounge that will feature a fireplace and a waterfall. We went upstairs to the office area, and at first I thought, How nice, I can come up here and check my e-mail—but swiftly realized that the desks and computers are for the health-club staff, of course. The guide told me that I was probably eligible for a corporate membership: my employer would pay something like $500 toward an annual membership, and I’d have to pay only $380 for a year. It was hot in there; I hadn’t even joined and already I was sweating. I left with the e-mail address of the guy who could arrange the corporate discount.
The cleaning lady wouldn't be finished yet, so I headed over to the nearest facility of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. I joined it years ago, but my membership had lapsed. The guy at the desk sized me up immediately: ten dollars a year for age 55 and older. Behind him, in the pool, middle-aged women (of whom I speak as if we had nothing in common) cavorted in the water with pink neoprene noodles. In a corner of the lobby, some skinny people shot pool. Geezers lounged on benches along the walls. Someone delivered a plastic bag the size of a pouffed-up bed pillow full of snack-size packages of junk food.
What the hell, for ten dollars, I signed up. The junk food made me feel at home. They still had my picture on file, and I was wearing the exact same black parka and striped scarf that I’d had on the last time I joined. The only difference was my hair: in the picture it was light-ash-brown (that’s what it said on the bottle), and in person it was more ash than light brown. I asked if anything there had changed (meaning, Is the locker room any less depressing? meaning, Are the showers still those kind that you give you just three minutes before the hot water gets cold and dribbles out?). The answer was: "There are lots of free classes."
The cleaning lady still wouldn’t be done, so I walked over to the river, where there is a residential complex with an esplanade. A man at the entrance said it was closed because of ice. So I climbed the stairs of the building that houses the health club. I passed the entrance to the health club and looked out over the river and then back up at the building. On the second floor, where the pool is, tropical plants sat in the sun. My father always said that before plonking down your money for a major purchase, you should get three prices, so, in the interests of comparative shopping, I pressed the buzzer for the health club and went up. There was no one in the pool, and it looked very inviting: decent size, sunny, surrounded by glass, and with a view of the Chrysler Building. There were forest-green chaise longues arranged around the pool: I could picture myself having a cup of coffee on a chaise, reading in the sun ... after a vigorous swim, of course.
While I was talking to the girl at the desk, a guy came back from the grocery store and handed her a can of Red Bull before going out to the pool with a couple of bags of chips (he was a lifeguard). “This is a health club and you are eating that shit?” I said. The girl giggled. A year’s membership is $495, she told me ($400 of which can be reimbursed through a fitness allowance at work). For a twenty-dollar fee, I can suspend my membership over the summer, when I am in Rockaway and swim in the ocean. With that, the girl with the can of Red Bull overcame my last objection, and I joined. It’s not as convenient as the gym closer to home, but I often end up taking a walk over there by the river after I park the car on Sunday.
“Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon,” Melville wrote in “Moby-Dick.” I have been reading “The Whale,” a new book by Philip Hoare, and of course he quotes Melville a lot. Although initially I had been quite taken with the idea of a brand-new swimming pool in the depths of a high-rise building, I thought now, on my way home to the cleaning lady and my bathroom freshly washed with Clorox, of the descriptions Philip wrote (I hope he won’t mind my calling him Philip instead of Mr. Hoare) of whales that he had seen in captivity when he was a boy, and I realized that that is exactly how I would have felt, plowing the stationary waters of a narrow tank beneath the earth: like a whale in captivity. I am so glad I stopped short of paying for that.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Three Gigs: I-Joe's Pub
Baby Dee has a new song called “Pie,” which is hilarious and versatile, as is the nature of pie. She sang it last Thursday night at Joe’s Pub, its New York premiere, and it was sweet.
The Joe’s Pub show was the third installment of “We Sing Baby Dee,” organized by Sxip Shirey, in which myriad performers—well, nine, anyway—gave their takes on Dee’s songs. A folksinger named Aimee Curl did “My Love Has Made a Fool of Me,” in a plaintive voice. Little Annie and Paul Wallfisch collaborated on “The Dance of Diminishing Possibilities.” (Annie loves singing about Bobby Slot and Freddie Weiss.) Lila, a women’s a-cappella quartet minus one (its leader, Rima, explained that one of its members, Vlada, couldn’t be there because she’d just had a baby), harmonized on “Small Wonder.” Curtis Eller, on banjo, augmented by a singer named Robin, did a fabulous version of “Calvary,” a song that has taken on a life of its own. Curtis has apparently been singing it to his daughter as a lullabye. Philip Raia got everyone to sing along on “The Song of Self-Acceptance” (known in some quarters as “Pisspot”). Andrew W.K. showed up late and played, appropriately, “(He’s Gonna Kill Me) When I Get Home,” about Dad being mad when Dee was late for dinner. But the star of the show was nine-year-old Frankky Lou Hightower, of Kansas City, Missouri.
When I first heard that a nine-year-old named Frankky would be performing some of Dee’s songs, I assumed that the child was a boy soprano. Many of Dee’s early songs seem to have been written for that kind of high, pure voice, and Dee even told me once that she heard a boy soprano sing in Cleveland, but knew his mother would not see the virtue in having her son work with Dee. Frankky Lou Hightower is a girl, and she has done pageants—but, she made a point of telling me, “only the ones that have talent competitions,” and on that basis alone she always wins. She was discovered in Kansas City by Sxip, when he was touring with the Dresden Dolls, and she discovered Dee’s music when Sxip played some of it for her. Her mother sews the costumes for all the drag queens in Kansas City.
Frankky chose to sing some surprisingly dark songs for a nine-year-old; for instance, “So Bad,” which has the line “Jesus got my mom in there, and beat her up so bad.” She also sang “Little Window,” and told me afterward that she knew the song was about Anne Frank. I had known that—Dee wrote the song in Amsterdam—but when I heard Frankky sing it, for the first time I made the connection with Anne Frank’s glimpse of the sky from her little window and how much hung on the final words: “Hope. Hope. Hope.” And, as for “So Bad,” the song is about childhood fears, and hearing it sung by this slim little girl with the sweet face and long blond hair, wearing a sequined red sheath and displaying utter poise onstage, was hair-raising. She was like a flame. It was as if she were expressing the soul of Dee at nine years old, as the girl no one knew she was.
At the end, Baby Dee herself took the stage, joined by Matthew Robinson on cello and Emmett Kelly on guitar. She played “Pie” and “Lilacs” and “As Morning Holds a Star,” which sounded both familiar and yet like something I’d never heard before.
Sxip, the impresario, brought Frankky Lou back on for an encore: “The Price of a Sparrow,” which has the lines “What does a hooker know about loving? And what does my Daddy know about me?” It is one of Dee’s saddest songs, and who knows what Frankky is thinking when she sings it? But it is good that she sang it in New York, at Joe’s Pub. I don’t know what the judges would make of it in the talent competition of one of those Little Miss Sunshine pageants.
The Joe’s Pub show was the third installment of “We Sing Baby Dee,” organized by Sxip Shirey, in which myriad performers—well, nine, anyway—gave their takes on Dee’s songs. A folksinger named Aimee Curl did “My Love Has Made a Fool of Me,” in a plaintive voice. Little Annie and Paul Wallfisch collaborated on “The Dance of Diminishing Possibilities.” (Annie loves singing about Bobby Slot and Freddie Weiss.) Lila, a women’s a-cappella quartet minus one (its leader, Rima, explained that one of its members, Vlada, couldn’t be there because she’d just had a baby), harmonized on “Small Wonder.” Curtis Eller, on banjo, augmented by a singer named Robin, did a fabulous version of “Calvary,” a song that has taken on a life of its own. Curtis has apparently been singing it to his daughter as a lullabye. Philip Raia got everyone to sing along on “The Song of Self-Acceptance” (known in some quarters as “Pisspot”). Andrew W.K. showed up late and played, appropriately, “(He’s Gonna Kill Me) When I Get Home,” about Dad being mad when Dee was late for dinner. But the star of the show was nine-year-old Frankky Lou Hightower, of Kansas City, Missouri.
When I first heard that a nine-year-old named Frankky would be performing some of Dee’s songs, I assumed that the child was a boy soprano. Many of Dee’s early songs seem to have been written for that kind of high, pure voice, and Dee even told me once that she heard a boy soprano sing in Cleveland, but knew his mother would not see the virtue in having her son work with Dee. Frankky Lou Hightower is a girl, and she has done pageants—but, she made a point of telling me, “only the ones that have talent competitions,” and on that basis alone she always wins. She was discovered in Kansas City by Sxip, when he was touring with the Dresden Dolls, and she discovered Dee’s music when Sxip played some of it for her. Her mother sews the costumes for all the drag queens in Kansas City.
Frankky chose to sing some surprisingly dark songs for a nine-year-old; for instance, “So Bad,” which has the line “Jesus got my mom in there, and beat her up so bad.” She also sang “Little Window,” and told me afterward that she knew the song was about Anne Frank. I had known that—Dee wrote the song in Amsterdam—but when I heard Frankky sing it, for the first time I made the connection with Anne Frank’s glimpse of the sky from her little window and how much hung on the final words: “Hope. Hope. Hope.” And, as for “So Bad,” the song is about childhood fears, and hearing it sung by this slim little girl with the sweet face and long blond hair, wearing a sequined red sheath and displaying utter poise onstage, was hair-raising. She was like a flame. It was as if she were expressing the soul of Dee at nine years old, as the girl no one knew she was.
At the end, Baby Dee herself took the stage, joined by Matthew Robinson on cello and Emmett Kelly on guitar. She played “Pie” and “Lilacs” and “As Morning Holds a Star,” which sounded both familiar and yet like something I’d never heard before.
Sxip, the impresario, brought Frankky Lou back on for an encore: “The Price of a Sparrow,” which has the lines “What does a hooker know about loving? And what does my Daddy know about me?” It is one of Dee’s saddest songs, and who knows what Frankky is thinking when she sings it? But it is good that she sang it in New York, at Joe’s Pub. I don’t know what the judges would make of it in the talent competition of one of those Little Miss Sunshine pageants.
II-The Stone
Friday night’s gig at The Stone was pivotal. The Stone can be found online and on the corner of Avenue C and Second Street, in a brick building that looks abandoned but has its name in discreet letters on the glass door. It is a project of John Zorn’s, featuring artists chosen by other artists. There are no drinks or souvenir T-shirts for sale at the Stone: only a piano and a few rows of folding chairs and a few more folding chairs onstage behind the piano. Also onstage is a big white box that I took for some kind of backstage storage area. When Dee appeared, to warm applause, she looked baffled. “Oh, you thought I was making my entrance,” she said, laughing. “I’m only going to the bathroom.” And she proceeded to open the door of the big white box and go inside. The audience applauded again when she emerged from the bathroom, and a third time when she made her real entrance.
For this performance, Dee was joined by Matthew Robinson on cello, Emmett Kelly on guitar, and Maxim Moston on violin and mandolin. Maxim did the arrangements for the new CD, “A Book of Songs for Anne Marie,” and Dee began with a few of those songs: “Lilacs” and “Set Me as a Seal On Your Heart.” She also did one she had done the night before, “As Morning Holds a Star,” which I felt I’d never heard properly before. It is available only on “Baby Dee Live in Turin,” so I guess I’ve never seen the lyrics printed out. And, as promised, she did two slug songs: “Regifting of the Light” and “Brother Slug and Sister Snail.” I wonder if Dee is preparing for reincarnation as a slug.
Then Dee introduced a special guest, Aimee Curl, the folksinger who had sung “Small Wonder” at Joe’s Pub the night before. At the Stone she played guitar and sang what she said was one of her favorites, “The Robin’s Tiny Throat.” A friend who went with me said later that she had been watching Dee watch Aimee, and that Dee was beaming. Aimee is right: this is a beautiful song, and one that explains a lot about why Dee is out there singing.
Next Dee and Matthew played some of the music that they recorded this winter for a new new album. Dee calls it classical music for cowboys with cowboy-hat hair. (She was disappointed, incidentally, that more of her fans did not turn up with hat hair.) Dee has been inspired by having at her disposal a magnificent Steinway concert grand Model D, which belongs to Andrew W.K. (The piano could not be moved into Andrew’s high-rise apartment without one of those cranes which were needed to build the high-rise in the first place, so he lent it to Dee, who has it in the dining room of her house in Cleveland.) I don’t have any way of talking about this music, except to say that I liked it. It has a distinct structure, and it is humorous. It put me in mind of Beethoven in his lighter moments.
The room was packed: all the chairs were filled and people were sitting in the aisle. Frankky Lou Hightower and her mother were seated in the front row. Dee did her encore before leaving the stage. There is nothing in show business quite so excruciating as that moment when, who knows, maybe the audience has had enough, but the performer has to gauge the length and sincerity of the applause before either returning to the stage or holding out to leave them wanting more. The encore was a rousing version of The Pie Song, of course.
Outside, I spotted Maxim Moston, carrying his mandolin and with his violin case strapped on his back. He is Russian, and has a noble profile. I’m sure I was not the only one in the audience who was eyeballing him, but I know I was the only one who went up to him afterward and tried to thank him for his contributions to Dee’s recordings, but instead blurted out something about the mandolin, of all things. I felt like I was channelling my mother. I understand that Maxim has done arrangements of Dee's work for whole orchestras. All Dee needs is the orchestra.
This show at the Stone is probably representative of what Dee will be playing on the tour: some old songs and some new ones, lots of piano, and various combinations of strings. And plenty of renditions of Pie.
For this performance, Dee was joined by Matthew Robinson on cello, Emmett Kelly on guitar, and Maxim Moston on violin and mandolin. Maxim did the arrangements for the new CD, “A Book of Songs for Anne Marie,” and Dee began with a few of those songs: “Lilacs” and “Set Me as a Seal On Your Heart.” She also did one she had done the night before, “As Morning Holds a Star,” which I felt I’d never heard properly before. It is available only on “Baby Dee Live in Turin,” so I guess I’ve never seen the lyrics printed out. And, as promised, she did two slug songs: “Regifting of the Light” and “Brother Slug and Sister Snail.” I wonder if Dee is preparing for reincarnation as a slug.
Then Dee introduced a special guest, Aimee Curl, the folksinger who had sung “Small Wonder” at Joe’s Pub the night before. At the Stone she played guitar and sang what she said was one of her favorites, “The Robin’s Tiny Throat.” A friend who went with me said later that she had been watching Dee watch Aimee, and that Dee was beaming. Aimee is right: this is a beautiful song, and one that explains a lot about why Dee is out there singing.
Next Dee and Matthew played some of the music that they recorded this winter for a new new album. Dee calls it classical music for cowboys with cowboy-hat hair. (She was disappointed, incidentally, that more of her fans did not turn up with hat hair.) Dee has been inspired by having at her disposal a magnificent Steinway concert grand Model D, which belongs to Andrew W.K. (The piano could not be moved into Andrew’s high-rise apartment without one of those cranes which were needed to build the high-rise in the first place, so he lent it to Dee, who has it in the dining room of her house in Cleveland.) I don’t have any way of talking about this music, except to say that I liked it. It has a distinct structure, and it is humorous. It put me in mind of Beethoven in his lighter moments.
The room was packed: all the chairs were filled and people were sitting in the aisle. Frankky Lou Hightower and her mother were seated in the front row. Dee did her encore before leaving the stage. There is nothing in show business quite so excruciating as that moment when, who knows, maybe the audience has had enough, but the performer has to gauge the length and sincerity of the applause before either returning to the stage or holding out to leave them wanting more. The encore was a rousing version of The Pie Song, of course.
Outside, I spotted Maxim Moston, carrying his mandolin and with his violin case strapped on his back. He is Russian, and has a noble profile. I’m sure I was not the only one in the audience who was eyeballing him, but I know I was the only one who went up to him afterward and tried to thank him for his contributions to Dee’s recordings, but instead blurted out something about the mandolin, of all things. I felt like I was channelling my mother. I understand that Maxim has done arrangements of Dee's work for whole orchestras. All Dee needs is the orchestra.
This show at the Stone is probably representative of what Dee will be playing on the tour: some old songs and some new ones, lots of piano, and various combinations of strings. And plenty of renditions of Pie.
III-The Delancey
Baby Dee played a third gig while she was in town, but first the answer to the all-important question: Where did she park the car?
Rather, where did I park the car, because it was I, of course, who was in charge of parking. [Insert pirouette here.] The importance of this task cannot be underestimated, in part because Dee has an unpaid parking ticket, and if that car so much as attracts a policeman’s attention and the officer runs a check on it, a tow truck would come and impound the car, and Dee would be screwed, because her budget does not include paying off tickets or redeeming a car from the pound, and her whole North American tour depends on getting from Baltimore to Albuquerque via Calgary and Santa Monica in that car, and her income for next winter depends on touring … So you can see how important I am, I mean, parking is.
Anyway, I didn’t have anything better to do last Sunday afternoon, so I decided to move the car to a Tuesday-Friday spot; that way, no one would have to worry about it on Monday morning. The block where we had left it was lined with orange cones, and orange plasticated flyers were taped onto the sign poles: “’Law & Order: Special Victims Unit’ is scheduled to film in your neighborhood.” The crew would start removing cars at dawn on Monday morning. When I told Dee this, she said, “I hate ‘Law & Order.’” Anyway, I drove around for a while and found a spot some distance away, down by the river, good till Tuesday at 11:30 A.M. It was actually kind of fun: not only did I have the gratifying sensation of having escaped a trap laid by NBC TV, in conjunction with the Mayor’s Office of Film, Theater, and Broadcasting and the New York City Police Department, but I rarely get to park a car as tiny as a Volkswagen Beetle. The spot I found was the last one before a fire hydrant at the end of a block, and though I almost rode up over the curb (VW bugs are wide in the hips) and the front fender overbit the yellow-painted curb by just the teeniest bit, it was legal, and it was still there on Monday afternoon when Dee went to get it to take the harp to her third gig, at the Delancey.
The Delancey is a bar with a performance space for a music salon called Small Beast, with acts chosen by Paul Wallfisch, who, among his other accomplishments, accompanies Little Annie Anxiety on piano. There is a long bar, and upholstered benches line the walls of three small rooms. The piano is draped in green silk and has candles on top of it. Annie appears there most Monday nights.
Dee was playing harp with the Cairo Gang, a band led by Emmett Kelly, the guitarist who played with Dee and the cellist Matthew Robinson in the other New York gigs (and will be going on tour with them). The first act was a guy with a guitar who did a song about a “teenage alcoholic” (I misheard it as “teenage operaholic,” which would have been more interesting) not once but twice, first on guitar and then on piano. Paul Wallfisch did a set, in which he sang in French (with a little German thrown in). Then Annie made her entrance, slinky in black with a red sequinned beanie. I have never seen her in this venue before, and she seemed exceptionally loose and wonderful. Dee and Annie did a duet, with Paul at the piano, on “The Dance of Diminishing Possibilities.” Dee is wearing her hair short these days, and has beautiful new teeth. She had on her Dalmatian-print hoodie and a red wool hat that has shrunk to fit a pinhead. Little Annie and Baby Dee traded lines and the microphone back and forth like a hilariously demented version of Steve and Eydie.
There was some canned music while the Cairo Gang tuned up. I can’t imagine how musicians can tune while there is other music playing, but I know Dee has an electronic tuning device for the harp. Emmett’s music was good—I remember a rapt love song, with lyrics a lot more interesting than, say, a song heard twice about a teenage alcoholic. Despite his name, Emmett Kelly does not look anything like a Ringling Brothers/Barnum & Bailey circus clown circa the nineteen-fifties. In fact, he’s a bit of a heartthrob. He looks like a younger, scrawnier version of the famously photogenic David Remnick. During his set, young women sat on the floor in front of the stage gazing up at him.
Then the trio turned around a notch, with Dee moving to the piano. She did a bunch of the songs that had been covered by others at the Joe’s Pub show: “So Bad,” made famous by Frankky Lou Hightower; “When I Get Home,” sung and played by Andrew W.K.; “Teeth Are the Only Bones That Show,” which had been played by Matthew on cello and a young woman named Sarah on vocals and electric guitar, and which, as material, seemed as unlikely for these fresh young musicians as Dee’s “Price of a Sparrow,” with its line about hookers, seemed for nine-year-old Frankky Lou. “Teeth” is a savage song, and Dee tears into it. She also did “A Compass of the Light,” one of the bee songs; a new song with what we all, especially Emmett, hope is just a temporary name (Dee loves incontinence jokes); and finished with the Pie song. When the crowd called for more, she did “Lilacs,” and I realized that no Baby Dee set is complete without “Lilacs.”
Dee was off to Cleveland first thing this morning, and leaves for England tomorrow. Before leaving, she reminded me of the song about the teenage alcoholic.
Rather, where did I park the car, because it was I, of course, who was in charge of parking. [Insert pirouette here.] The importance of this task cannot be underestimated, in part because Dee has an unpaid parking ticket, and if that car so much as attracts a policeman’s attention and the officer runs a check on it, a tow truck would come and impound the car, and Dee would be screwed, because her budget does not include paying off tickets or redeeming a car from the pound, and her whole North American tour depends on getting from Baltimore to Albuquerque via Calgary and Santa Monica in that car, and her income for next winter depends on touring … So you can see how important I am, I mean, parking is.
Anyway, I didn’t have anything better to do last Sunday afternoon, so I decided to move the car to a Tuesday-Friday spot; that way, no one would have to worry about it on Monday morning. The block where we had left it was lined with orange cones, and orange plasticated flyers were taped onto the sign poles: “’Law & Order: Special Victims Unit’ is scheduled to film in your neighborhood.” The crew would start removing cars at dawn on Monday morning. When I told Dee this, she said, “I hate ‘Law & Order.’” Anyway, I drove around for a while and found a spot some distance away, down by the river, good till Tuesday at 11:30 A.M. It was actually kind of fun: not only did I have the gratifying sensation of having escaped a trap laid by NBC TV, in conjunction with the Mayor’s Office of Film, Theater, and Broadcasting and the New York City Police Department, but I rarely get to park a car as tiny as a Volkswagen Beetle. The spot I found was the last one before a fire hydrant at the end of a block, and though I almost rode up over the curb (VW bugs are wide in the hips) and the front fender overbit the yellow-painted curb by just the teeniest bit, it was legal, and it was still there on Monday afternoon when Dee went to get it to take the harp to her third gig, at the Delancey.
The Delancey is a bar with a performance space for a music salon called Small Beast, with acts chosen by Paul Wallfisch, who, among his other accomplishments, accompanies Little Annie Anxiety on piano. There is a long bar, and upholstered benches line the walls of three small rooms. The piano is draped in green silk and has candles on top of it. Annie appears there most Monday nights.
Dee was playing harp with the Cairo Gang, a band led by Emmett Kelly, the guitarist who played with Dee and the cellist Matthew Robinson in the other New York gigs (and will be going on tour with them). The first act was a guy with a guitar who did a song about a “teenage alcoholic” (I misheard it as “teenage operaholic,” which would have been more interesting) not once but twice, first on guitar and then on piano. Paul Wallfisch did a set, in which he sang in French (with a little German thrown in). Then Annie made her entrance, slinky in black with a red sequinned beanie. I have never seen her in this venue before, and she seemed exceptionally loose and wonderful. Dee and Annie did a duet, with Paul at the piano, on “The Dance of Diminishing Possibilities.” Dee is wearing her hair short these days, and has beautiful new teeth. She had on her Dalmatian-print hoodie and a red wool hat that has shrunk to fit a pinhead. Little Annie and Baby Dee traded lines and the microphone back and forth like a hilariously demented version of Steve and Eydie.
There was some canned music while the Cairo Gang tuned up. I can’t imagine how musicians can tune while there is other music playing, but I know Dee has an electronic tuning device for the harp. Emmett’s music was good—I remember a rapt love song, with lyrics a lot more interesting than, say, a song heard twice about a teenage alcoholic. Despite his name, Emmett Kelly does not look anything like a Ringling Brothers/Barnum & Bailey circus clown circa the nineteen-fifties. In fact, he’s a bit of a heartthrob. He looks like a younger, scrawnier version of the famously photogenic David Remnick. During his set, young women sat on the floor in front of the stage gazing up at him.
Then the trio turned around a notch, with Dee moving to the piano. She did a bunch of the songs that had been covered by others at the Joe’s Pub show: “So Bad,” made famous by Frankky Lou Hightower; “When I Get Home,” sung and played by Andrew W.K.; “Teeth Are the Only Bones That Show,” which had been played by Matthew on cello and a young woman named Sarah on vocals and electric guitar, and which, as material, seemed as unlikely for these fresh young musicians as Dee’s “Price of a Sparrow,” with its line about hookers, seemed for nine-year-old Frankky Lou. “Teeth” is a savage song, and Dee tears into it. She also did “A Compass of the Light,” one of the bee songs; a new song with what we all, especially Emmett, hope is just a temporary name (Dee loves incontinence jokes); and finished with the Pie song. When the crowd called for more, she did “Lilacs,” and I realized that no Baby Dee set is complete without “Lilacs.”
Dee was off to Cleveland first thing this morning, and leaves for England tomorrow. Before leaving, she reminded me of the song about the teenage alcoholic.
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