Bye Bye Astroland

I know one man’s nostalgia is another man’s blight but I can’t help feeling a little glum about the recent announcement that Astroland at Coney Island has been sold to a major developer for, well, “development.” When I came to live in New York in 1970 the boardwalk area of Coney Island was pretty rundown. Rundown is putting it mildly; it was, frankly, crappy…a mere shadow of its glorious past, but it did have a certain tacky appeal to a fresh young man from California. It had its flash and a definite dangerous edge, but it was still cool to hit Nathan’s at 4:00 in the morning (it stayed open all night in those days) for a dog, greasy fries and, inevitably, some major agita (we didn’t know from acid reflux in those days).

In the intervening years sections of the area were flattened and a minor league baseball stadium was built and various “improvements” filtered into the area. The only really decent attraction (is minor league baseball a decent attraction?) was the nearby installation of the New York Aquarium which was, and is, worth a once-a-year visit, maybe twice if requested by a houseguest. These visits always included a stroll through Astroland and, maybe, a stop at Nathan’s for a hit of hotdog nostalgia. When I was there this summer (yes, after visiting the aquarium) I now realize the subtle odor I registered was a whiff of a death knell because the whole place is still tacky, held together by spit and old chewing gum and is, forever and a day, not pretty. Well, it’s old and nostalgia cannot repair layers of cracked asphalt and grime.

It is fairly amazing the place has survived over the last 25 years because it sure is prime real estate. Developers have been licking their chops for a couple of decades; and now it has come to pass. Astroland will close in the fall of 2007 and the Wonder Wheel, the ethereal lattice work of the Parachute Jump and the Astrotower will cease to exist. The landmarked Cyclone, that famous old rickety, scary roller coaster will be saved for a while because it is built on city-owned land but I can’t imagine residents of a luxury condominium putting up with that screamer for very long.

Yes, it’s confirmed, luxury condos will rise along that fabulous stretch of beach; the views will be spectacular. And Nathan’s will have to move over for Starbucks; it’s inevitable.

Opting Out

When I was away from home in September for ten days I was greeted on my return by 143 e-mails that had accumulated in my on-line in-box…and this was only on my main-correspondence screen name. At least 120 of them were spam, of course, but when taking stock of the general mayhem (delete, delete, delete) I realized that a lot of them were my own fault. That is, I somehow got onto mailing lists I hadn’t intended to and only inadvertently allowed by sheer neglect on my part. I had either bought stuff on-line without reading the fine print or somehow thought it would be cool to be receive the proffered information. Big mistake.

This week I’ve been attempting to do something about it by methodically “unsubscribing” to these mailing lists. This is sometimes not easy but I’m going to persevere in this project no matter how long it takes.

It’s pretty amazing what you have to do sometimes to opt out. The worst thing is having to first actually log on to the e-mail so that you can then search the site to find the area, usually way down at the end (in tiny print), to actually start the process of unsubscribing. Once you do find it and click on it, the deed should be done, right? Dream on, Mcdumdum; it’s not that easy. There are some sites where that happens but mostly you have to prove who you are and sometimes it takes as much as ten business days for it to happen. And be prepared to be inundated in those ten days by the very sites you’ve unsubscribed to; I guess they are reserving the right to take ten more shots at you. Sometimes they send you an e-mail asking you to confirm that you really want, or meant, to unsubscribe. Sometimes you get sent to a site that’s closed or a page that’s not available. Sometimes you can only dump part of it. Try to unsubscribe to Amazon, for instance…they have, like, five different areas on which they have you as a potential customer and you have to do them one at a time as they contact you. What is really weird is that you know you are only writing to a machine by using your own machine and that all of the regrets and sorrows at your departure are expressed by machines.

I wouldn’t have minded the deluge of spam so much but, like so much advertising and marketing, it pushes the limits of one's patience. Disney shopping was probably the worst offender…at least once a day (sometimes more) I would have e-mail solicitations from them. Giving someone a mickey takes on a whole new meaning but with the same effect; a soporific response. So out with the old and not in with the new and I’ll try to pay more attention to begin with when I futz around on-line. That might save a lot of delete delete deletes in the future.

Dog Laughs; Regrets It

Who the hell do I think I am anyway; giving my opinion/reviews about theater and movies? Do I think I actually influence anybody to see or not to see something? I guess I secretly do although I really, really hope people don’t take me too seriously and lay out big bucks on my say so. My newly found humility is founded on a hitherto admirable blog I’ve been particularly drawn to for a while. This would be Joe.My.God and, up until now, I’ve found his opinions and exploits entertaining, sometimes thought-provoking and a window into a life that’s interesting and varied, although nothing I would (or could) aspire to at this stage in my life. A bud told me that he knows this Joe guy and that he’s an “A-List Bear,” whatever the hell that means.

Anyway, what got to me just today is that Joe saw Evil Dead: The Musical and loved it! I was fairly appalled and was fairly appalled that I was fairly appalled. I thought the thing sucked and who does this guy think he is anyway, giving his opinion/reviews about theater? Of course I’m wrong. Maybe that’s what hurts. No, I’m not wrong about the show; it truly does suck, what I’m wrong about is thinking Joe shouldn’t hang-ten with theater reviews when he obviously has zero background to do so. The man has only seen one Sondheim musical in his life, for goodness sake, and that was only a couple of weeks ago out in the boonies somewhere. Somehow I think he liked Evil Dead just because he doesn’t know jack shit about theater and was thrilled and delighted to learn just how great the live stuff can be. Well, welcome to Broadway, Joe, another loud voice can’t hurt.

Through some sort of mismanagement of my time I saw two Broadway shows last week. One I liked, The Little Dog Laughed (by Douglas Carter Beane), and one I sort-of liked, Paul Rudnick’s Regrets Only. They are somewhat similar in that they are just as clever as all get out, are gay themed and are zinger-loaded. And they both have leading ladies who will probably be in competition come Tony time, Julie White in the former and Christine Baranski in the latter. I think Julie has the edge on the strength of sheer glibness even though Baranski’s comic timing, as expected, is right up there. I could be wrong about both of them, though, since roles in modern comedies rarely fare well against the heavy hitting dramas, both new and old. One thing I do regret is that I didn’t get my thoughts down on paper before the shows opened so I could really be honest with myself about them. Now I find myself wanting to respond to the reviews rather than the shows themselves. Reviewing a review is really mindless and counterproductive (see my take on Joe’s Evil Dead above) so, other than these few sentences, I’m opting out. Please accept my apologies--bartender, an apple manhattan please, hold the granny smith.

Justice is Still Blind

I just came off a full week of jury duty. I hated it. Not that I’m against having to do jury duty, I just hate what it does to me. If you’ve been called to serve you know it’s mostly about waiting. But I don’t mind waiting. I bring various types of reading matter, and people-watching is always interesting. I don’t mind the process of being chosen for a jury even though the questioning can sometimes be pretty invasive. I’m a good juror and have served six or seven times over my career as a white adult male with a show-me attitude. Whether you agree with the jury system or not it’s the system we have and I guess it creaks along successfully on the principles to which it adheres. Oh, one thing you probably suspected, security to gain access to a courthouse is now akin to what you get at airports these days, which can get pretty damned annoying when you have to deal with long lines and grumpy people, all of whom feel they should get special treatment (including me after I got impaneled as a juror).

But here’s what I hate about jury duty. It shatters my insular existence and exposes me to the underbelly of society. I don’t know any criminals (at least I don’t think I do) but jury duty forces you to realize that scum doesn’t always stay on the bottom of the pool. The stuff you see on Law & Order doesn’t do it justice, either in the Law part or the Order part. I envy how neatly things get wrapped up on television, even when the plot line parallels recent headlines.

You only need to know one horrible fact of the case I was on. The defendant had 16 bullet holes in his body; all of which were exposed to our shocked gaze. I was almost as horrified by the visuals we were subjected to as by the fact the district attorney did not prove her case and we had to let the perp go because the evidence was so sketchy. All 12 jurors had major "reasonable doubt" and we reached our unanimous not-guilty verdict in just under three hours. I know in my gut the guy was guilty but we couldn’t legally decide that based on that part of my ample, but queasy, midsection. Vital information was kept from us; previous history was not revealed; we were basically in the dark about a lot of what actually happened. Did the courts actually think we would somehow glean the truth through something bestowed on cooperative jurors by Gandalf the Magician or some other miraculous source? We had very little to go on and I just wish I could somehow have conjured up my own sword of insight and justice to help us along. But no fiery vision of truth appeared.

What was doubly awful is that by finding the defendant not-guilty it implied that we believed there was some sort of police conspiracy and/or cover-up. This was definitely not intended. The police officers testified clearly and professionally and I didn’t have one doubt about their veracity. There was just no actual proof of anything; it was all hearsay and conjecture.

So that’s two reasons for hating jury duty. 1) Brushing up against the underbelly of our society and 2) being helpless to do anything about it. Oh hell, I guess justice was served but without the outcome hoped for. At least now I have another six years to repair the rip in my insular cocoon and I will not have to face anything more complicated than having to witness bitchy old ladies trying to cheat the cashier at Key Food with expired coupons.

Pies are ME

This time of year I am always reminded just how much I like pumpkin pie and I’m always pestering various friends and family to make it for me. The last time my sis visited she bought all the ingredients but never got around to making the damn pie (credit where credit is due: she did honor me with a luscious apple pie). So there they were, all those fresh ingredients sittin’ in my cupboard; rarin’ to go. “Can’t be all that hard,” thinks I, and plunged ahead. Easy, right?First, you follow the recipe on the can of pumpkin. Then you take your sister’s suggestion that you double the spice amounts, that is, the ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg and also add a teaspoon (is that a dollop?) of rum. She makes her crust from scratch, which is way beyond consideration so I, heeding friendly advice, bought readymade Pillsbury pie crusts. It turns out, of course, that it’s all more work and more expensive than one counts on. My first try came out okay and good enough, I thought, to volunteer to make a couple of them for a recent potluck. However, since we all have our own taste(s), I figured it was okay to jigger the recipe a little bit so I cut the spice overdose in half and used whole evaporated milk instead of the 2% stuff my sis had left behind. Two pies this time; and (I think) two successes. At least the recipients of my largesse claimed it to be so. Does anybody ever really tell the truth on these occasions? Do I? Hmm…maybe I shouldn’t go there. I guess the proof of the pie is in the alacrity of its disappearance. So all the signs were positive, although I didn’t check behind the couch or in the plants for ditched desserts. If pressed, I might even try again using, of course; my own personal family recipe. Thank you Libby’s; thank you Pillsbury; thank you Bicardi.

I'm An Old Cowhand...

I should write about my posse. It’s not my posse really, it’s just a group of guys I call my posse (the name has caught on) because we occasionally have brunch at a restaurant in the West Village called Cowgirl Hall of Fame. This started about five years ago and posse members ebb and flow as lives and circumstance change with relocations, new liaisons and employment interference. We are a very loose group of about 15 or 16 men, some partnered, some looking to be partnered, some on the verge of becoming partnered (or unpartnered) and some, well, snug in their singleness. Our brunches started to segue into a day at the beach here, a potluck dinner there and, in various formations, sometimes companionable theater and movie attendance. Some of them don’t do theater (can you imagine?) and some don’t read books or garden or bowl or hit the bars. Some are so career-whipped that the brunches are the highlight of their social life. We all have two things in common. Gender preference and political beliefs, one obviously informing the other.

A more motley crew you cannot imagine, being a huge range of ages and physical attributes and tastes. And, of course, we all have our individual prejudices and cynicisms, with different levels of seriousness and senses of humor. Actually the sense of humor is a prerequisite for being in the posse. Otherwise you might as well hand in your resignation early because your ass will be heaped with ridicule, sometimes not all that clever. But to guffaw at you is to love you. Some pretension is okay but only to a small degree. We might give a newbie a break but not for very long. We are, however, basically a loving and supportive group (honest!) but, as I said, we always carry a grain of salt and fools are not suffered gladly. Well, some are if they are exceptionally attractive but, as I said, not for long.

We don’t travel together or date each other and we all have a circle of friends outside the posse but, still, it has become important to us; or to me at least. The one time we tried to do something major as a group was an enthusiastic convergence for a long weekend in New Orleans. What happened? You guessed it; hurricane Katrina’s blow to the solar plexus of that city coincided with our planned week of debauchery. Obviously some higher being decided we should stick to brunches.

I love my posse. It’s a good thing. Like comfortable old shoes.

Jack Skellington, the Pumpkin King

I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and listed my all time favorite movies; maybe I should get to that soon. The list would definitely include “Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas.” I think it came out in about 1993 and, even then, I thought it was way ahead of its time and never really got the accolades it deserved. I liked it enough to fork over $20 for the video tape (the price is still on the package) and I've watched it quite a few times since then. Now it has been re-released in digital 3-D and I had to hit the multiplex to check up on it. It’s still wonderful. It’s still artful and funny and weird and quirky and bizarre and, frankly, just as achingly beautiful as I remembered it. Forget the cardboard, the 3-D glasses they give you now are ugly-cool black plastic with large lenses and the total effect they convey is well, again, beautiful. Popcorn, Goobers and The Nightmare Before Christmas: a perfect twi-nighter at the local plex, and the six or seven other people in the audience thought so too. Talk about weird.

Tosspot Temptation

I don’t drink much; a tosspot I’m not (although I’m very partial to that word tosspot). But I like a cocktail before dinner when out and about. Recently I was successfully leveraged by a cocktail menu at a local speakeasy to try an “apple Manhattan.” I loved it and had two of them and dinner was great (whatever the hell it was). When I got home I hit Google for the recipe and this is from Dale DeGroff’s The Craft of the Cocktail: 2 ounces of Maker’s Mark bourbon; 1 ounce of Berentzen’s apple liqueur; a thin slice of a Granny Smith apple, for garnish. Stir the two ingredients in a mixing glass with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with the apple slice. Very simple, but Mr. DeGroff is very specific about his ingredients, that is, “Don’t try this without the Berentzen’s.” Mmm, baby, yum city.

Merman to Ebersole...

Grey Gardens opened on Broadway last night to okay reviews. That’s about the extent of their separate opinions; just okay. Clive Barnes in the NY Post thought the music stunk. Ben Brantley of the Times said the first act pretty much stinks. Joe Dziemianowicz of the News thought the music was “glorious” (take THAT Clive Barnes) but had some caveats about the construction of the prologue (“doesn’t really succeed”).

What they all (and other critics) seem to agree upon is that Christine Ebersole is wonderful. I disagree. I think she is okay but that’s about the extent of my admiration. What exasperates me, personally, is that Ebersole (an excellent actress) has fallen into the trap of being a “diva” and letting it show in her performance. She steps out of character with personal mannerisms and cutesy shtick to get cheap laughs and to draw in the audience to the charms of Christine Ebersole, but not the character she is portraying. I think it’s a missed opportunity, even though the majority of the audience buys into it. Audiences love to be taken into an actor’s confidence. I suppose it makes them feel like part of the show or something. I attended the off-Broadway version of Grey Gardens several months ago with three friends, one of whom leaped to his feet in ecstasy at the curtain calls. I missed something he got, I guess, but that’s nothing new. We’ve all experienced the weirdness of going to something with somebody who loved/hated something that you hated/loved.

Anyway, it has been ever thus with me and divas, starting with Ethel Merman in the original cast of Gypsy. Even way back then her out-of-character showboating went against my personal grain and I was a mere child. No I’m not giving a date; do your own friggin’ research. Admittedly, Merman came from a different era of musical theater performance (and can, therefore, be forgiven her personal trespass) but, thankfully, she was supposedly the last of her breed. However, for some reason, this sort outlandish diva behavior is still acceptable in this day an age of character-driven acting even though it is not tolerated on any other level or gender besides the leading-lady role (Nathan Lane excepted perhaps). Against all odds Ben Brantley of The Times (usually exceptionally astute about theatrical values) swoons for it, including in his Grey Gardens review. What’s up with that?

It’s kind of a joke in my general posse of friends that I’m the only one they know who has seen all four Broadway productions of Gypsy. Merman, Angela Landsbury, Tyne Daly and Bernadette Peters. All but Merman embodied Mama Rose beautifully, putting their own imprint on the role but still staying true to the character. They all won Tony’s. Merman didn’t win a Tony because she was playing Merman. What kind of acting is that?

I think probably Elaine Stritch, in the original cast of Company (yes, also several decades ago), brought home my own personal bias. Company was, and is, the ultimate “ensemble” musical. To me she stood out like a sore thumb as one big selfish Lady Who Lunched. My friends were blown away but I kept quiet; not being quite the outspoken country boy I am today.

Just recently, in the highly acclaimed revival of Sweeney Todd, I thought Patti Lapone messed up this wonderful piece of theater, with her self-serving cutesiness. She seems to have forgotten what she learned at Julliard which is to stay in character, silly, it’s way better that way for both you and the role. She probably thought she had a Tony sewed up. Sorry, chump, it’s the role that has a Tony possibility, not you, and you didn’t rise to the occasion.

Anyway, although the role of “Little Edie” has a possible Tony on its resume, Ms. Ebersole should try to avoid the diva route…but I guess it’s too late for that.