It Is a Powerful Thing. It Just Is.

This morning the sun was shining on me and New York City. I had an job interview and I woke up happy! I got up and got dressed in clothes that fit nicely and I looked good and felt good. Imagine. I took the B to 42nd Street and walked through Bryant Park with the sun shining and Jill Sobule on my headphones. I felt taller and my stride was longer. I felt better looking than I really am and people noticed. I know they did. There were people all around me, loads of daffodils everywhere and Grand Central Station, the main library and the Chrysler Building all coming at me as if I were strutting through a magical pop-up book.

A piano could have fallen on me today and it would have been okay. Today I would have died happy.

Bottle it up and I'll take all ya got.

The Secret Place

The Secret Place

Last night M.E. took me to her Secret Place. This dame had talked about it for a while. I was flattered to be asked, but I don't trust broads ya see. What was up with this joint we were going to? (Actually I thought "Finally! What the hell took so long?!" ) With this, I followed those pins down the familiar streets of my last six months. But all got hazy and confusing when we climbed the steps. The neon was everywhere and then all went dark. I didn't know my left from my right. Had I been slipped a mickey or was my heal broken again? I entered.

The Door

This is one secret girl. Even her name is secret! M.E. (If you think traditional Catholic school girl name from the 50's you have nailed it, but I like her initials. She should be a mystery writer ala "Murder at the Secret Place" by M. E. Kuhlaseisen)

The Dame

As I tried to adjust my eyes to the lighting I thought back to when I went to Hawaii for the first time, about 40 years after the war. I thought it would be overrun with fast food joints and fancy flop houses. It was, but it was still possible to find paradise there amidst all that modern madness. This is the same for Manhattan. It is a crazy, loud, coming at you kinda place with not a lot of let up. I have found in my time here that there are pockets, moments where peace is found.

M.E.'s secret place was one. After closing the secret door behind me half expecting a big guy name Deutsch to clobber me on the head, I took it all in. It felt like going back in time to a private club from the 30's. We had the corner table with the perfect view to catch Kate or Bogie walking in for refresher. We chatted. We ate. She took me in with one eye and circled the room with the other. Secret-like. We had a good blether for a few hours. I felt okay. I felt at home in this swanky, sleepy club. We got up to leave. I got our coats from the coat check girl and slipped her a deuce. We left. M.E. disappeared into a cab like ice into lava and I walked into the night.

This is how I remember it. And I ain't tellin' any of yous or your henchmen where the Secret Place is so don't even try and get it out of me or you'll get a knuckle sandwich, ya hear!?

*************

Went to Whole Food afterwards and had my own mini "Overheard in New York" moment: Woman with cast on foot to guy in check out line: "I broke it doing Lion King."

Pssst. Over Here. I Got Yer Ho, Ho!

Sugar. Today's topic is SUGAR. Not the term of endearment, or the bubbling brown musical, not the Sugars of New York, but the grainy, lovely, sparkly white substance. If you have ever seen the final scenes of the Al Pacino version of "Scarface" where he is comically surrounded by mounds of cocaine, that would be me in a bakery setting with refined sugar.

I am all about the arugula and the tofu by day, but by night I want Ben and I want Jerry with a Madeleine or two on the side. I figure that I can handle it since I walk. Here is my actual statement to the press: "I walk therefore I can have two cupcakes and a pint of Dulce de Leche any time I please. I am not like other mortals." Makes sense to me.

But lately I have been climbing the walls with the stuff. It is April and then it will be May and June and July and at this rate then Augustus Gloop. No way. I hereby declare to my 3. 5 readers...

Here goes: I am going to stay away from it for a while and see what happens. Not the most emphatic of statements, but it is all I can muster.

I got some protein and some L-Glutomine and some Chromium. This is my defense.

Why am I sharing this here? I have no idea.

Spring is Sprunging

I poked my head out in Central Park today. Much like Punxsutawney Phil, I felt obliged to check out the situation. Plus I needed to get out of the flat.

Glorious out there!

The daffodils are in bloom. The boats are lined up ready to be used by lovers and other sordid types. I mean, "assorted types."

Though it is still cool out one can feel the drumbeat of roller blades and see the advancing smoke signals of pickenick blankets being laid out.

Gotham's Batcave?

OH TO BE A PART OF LIFE. Instead of apart from it. That is why people read books on park benches instead of at home. That is why museums offer free days. This city bursts with possibility and hope. I have to say. It just does.

I am thrilled beyond measure to be here. I embrace every blade of grace and want to roll in it all save for the poop. But there is burn out as well. I am just discovering that. I have burnt myself to the core lately and now I have to retreat only to venture into this glorious park to renew.

It looks to be a glorious Spring.

Benny Lava

I had a business meeting today. It was in a swank office. I looked good. He looked good. All the Emmys with the backdrop of the New York City skyline looked good. I got out. My heel fell off my shoe. I hobbled to a cobbler. Two nice Russian guys fixed it and polished my shoes for a tenner. It was all fine.

I take a wee break and give you this Indian music video complete with "English translation." Pretty funny.

I Was the Last Customer at the Cheyenne Diner

I feel so unentitled. I feel so goofy and embarrassed and random. I was the last customer EVER at the 68 year old Cheyenne Diner on 9th Ave. at 33rd Street. The Cheyenne is one of the last free standing authentic diners left in New York City and fell victim to a more lucrative (natch) real estate development that will go up on its gravesight.

I cannot go on about how many happy memories I used to have here. How I saw Jerry Lewis in the next booth, how the egg creams were my fave. Nothing. I never heard of the place until Sean told me today it was closing after he heard it on NPR this morning. I didn't even HEAR about it on my own steam.

So there was I thinking I was going to meet Sean there at 2pm and the owner's wife starts shutting the door of this 24 Hour diner for the first time. She told me that was it. They were closing. They were closed. No more. What?! But I was just... I am here waiting for.. I told her how I was waiting for a friend and I came here to have a meal and blah, blah, blah. I could even here the drone myself. I didn't even sound that sincere to me. I think I broke this poor gal even though I didn't mean to. She let me in, as if it were a Speak Easy and shut and locked the door behind me. That was it. When the waitress took my order she said "You are the last customer of the Cheyenne Diner." It almost sounds like an alias.

I was a part of a history that I had no connection to. Oh well. I am sure my story will change in a few years.

"Oh, I used to go there all the time. The Greek couple were so nice. And their daughter. I watched her grow up! I remember how many times I went there when I needed a burger and a chat. I haven't felt the same since the old girl left." That sort of thing. Watch this space.

It was sad seeing the staff crying and taking down old B & W photos of all the stars who ate there. This really was it. And I was there. I as the last... ME. IT IS ALL ABOUT ME AND MY CONNECTION TO THIS PIECE OF HISTORY. Would it be inappropriate to cry with them and ask for a hug? Would it be inappropriate to hand the owner's wife a Kleenex and then ask for free t-shirt?

Orchestral Maneuvres Near the Park

Ladies and Gentleman I report to you high atop the Dress Circle from Seat GG4 in magnificent Carnegie Hall. To be where I am today, you don't have to just practice, you have to be able to climb many, many flights of stairs.

My pal George bequeathed these fab tickets to me that he got in a silent auction raising money very quietly for some really worthy cause. And I reaped the benefits. Ah, the story always ends well here in Gotham when one is in the ARTS.

I took my pal Sean who reminded me that he shares the same birthday with my other pal Sean, my brother. We went to see the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and the ASO Chorus perform Sibelius (had his piece been last I would have written "Whatta finnish!" Damn. ), a new piece by an American younger than I, ahem, and a piece by the long dead and much older, Ravel. The orchestra was superb as was the chorus. Ricola has cough drop stations all over this place, I kid you not. One poor woman went into a coughing fit and had to be taken out. The Ricola could not scratch the itch that was bothering her I suppose, poor thing. There was one cell phone ring and a poorly-timed change drop, both so clear thanks to the accoustastics of the place.

After consuming a "post really fab night at Carnegie Hall hot fudge sundae," Sean and I strolled up Broadway where we had an amazing, amazing Angela Lansbury sighting. The star of stage and "Murder She Wrote" was walking ever so smartly and unattended downstream. She is a legend if you think of the 4 Tonys, the mint she made as a businesswoman, starring and Oscar nominated in "Gaslight" with Boyer and Bergman and knocking it out of the park in "The Manchurian Candidate." Wow, and here she is 83 years old and out at 11pm looking amazing. And fit as a fiddle.

******

Earlier that day I spent some time with my pal Tom Kulaga who is a big marketing guy with the paper of record, The New York... The New York Something. The picture cut off the rest. We had a great visit and he is funny and smart and deserves to be at the New York Something doing the great, great things that he does.