Flaming Pablum

Suicide in SoHo: Redux

I posted about Suicide not too long back, but a gentleman on the Facebook No Wave page named Dan H. just posted the ad below and that sparked my curiosity.

Dating back to 1970 (how’s THAT for proto?), Suicide were already calling themselves Punk. Apparently, they played a gig at an art gallery named OK Harris on West Broadway.

The book “The Downtown Pop Underground” had this to say about it:

One of Suicide’s earliest shows was in 1970 at OK Harris, one of the first galleries to open in SoHo. It was owned by Ivan Karp, an art dealer who played an early role in promoting Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Robert Rauschenberg. “I told him Suicide should play at his gallery,” Vega said, “and to our surprise he said yes, and they printed up postcards and everything saying Punk Music by Suicide. It was a pretty intense show, but we got invited back, even though we freaked everyone out.” The OK Harris show flyer contained the first use of the word “punk” by a band, one of the many ways in which Suicide was truly cutting edge. “I remember seeing Alan Vega around the scene very early on,” said Chris Stein. “Suicide was so groundbreaking, it’s hard to convey how far ahead they were in relation to what was going on at the time.” Debbie Harry added, “As a performer, Alan was sometimes a baffling struggle of danger, drama, pathos, and comedy. He held nothing back from us, and the interaction with audience hecklers was fundamental.” Not only was their music radically different from the New York Dolls, so was their look. “We were street guys, we took what we could get, sometimes from the garbage,” Vega said. “I remember Marty [Rev] went through the trash and other thrift store or Salvation Army type stuff, mainly out of necessity. We didn’t have any money, so what became the punk look was born out of necessity. I cut holes in socks so that my fingers went through and I stretched the socks up to my elbows and had a cutoff pink jacket. That was really something, man! Basically, I just wore what I could afford. I’m not sure really what the fuck I was thinking.” From Chapter 27 of "The Downtown Pop Underground." 

OK Harris was there well into the new millennium, only closing in 2014. Today, the space that had been OK Harris is now a Japanese high-end bakery called Harbs. 

Around the same era, Suicide also played at a venue quite nearby called Blow Your Nose over on Greene Street, which I talked about here. They also evidently played OK Harris again, two years later.

Today, it's very hard to imagine this strip of West Broadway -- just south of Houston Street -- to have played host to anything so radical or even interesting, but these were obviously very different times. 

Here's another taste ... of Suicide. 

Downtown in The Silent Seventies

Here is another couple of these strange artefacts from YouTube, featuring archival street scenes of a since-vanished New York City.

The first one was captured at an indeterminate point in the 1970’s, and shot primarily in downtown Manhattan. While it’s simple to make out easily-indentified locations like Astor Place, Tompkins Square Park and St. Marks Place, the whole piece feels entirely removed from the incarnations of those places here in 2023. Even the faces of those passing by the camera look somewhat strange. Where are these individuals today? 

The whole effect is almost eerie. Here’s the blurb that goes with it:

n the 1970s, New York City underwent profound social and cultural transformations. It was a haven for artists, musicians, and creatives amid economic challenges. Neighborhoods like Greenwich Village and SoHo buzzed with artistic and cultural movements, while Studio 54 epitomized the exuberant nightlife. Yet, the city grappled with rising crime and urban decay, reflecting a complex social reality. Immigration contributed to a mosaic of ethnic communities, enriching the city with unique cultural and culinary experiences. The decade witnessed racial tensions and political changes, but the resilience and creativity of New Yorkers continued to shape the city's identity, leaving a lasting mark on its history.

The second clip is also silent, but shot on Super-8 film on, evidently, a Monday in the late summer of 1978. This filmmaker is a gent named Bud Tristano, who has a thing or two to say about it, specifically its depiction of Ray’s Pizza…

A word about "The Famous Rays" pizza place, on the corner of 6th Avenue and 11th Street. This was not the first place to use the name "Ray", and definitely not the last. So many pizzerias sprang up all over the city - using the name "Ray" in various forms - that it became a joke. But this one was different, and not associated with any other. It was the classic New York Pizza, in the Italian-American sense, when almost any pizza joint in the NY/NJ area was amazing. (Think "old world" meets "new world".) It retained this quality up through the 80s, and even into the early 90s. Yes you can find a good quality pizza now, but it takes some searching. And the better ones are more gourmet oriented. This was a f'n PIZZA, in the meat-and-potatoes sense.

Enjoy

Pizza Protocol

This shot was taken, over the weekend, from the inside of Ben’s Pizza on West 3rd & MacDougal Streets. I'm not suggesting that the pizza at this iteration of Ben's (there's another one in SoHo on the corner of Spring and Thompson Streets) is particularly exemplary, but they've been in operation since the early `80s and more or less hold their own in terms of consistency.

You’ll notice that nowhere on Ben's stately bill of fare do the dubious terms “cheese slice” or “cheese pizza” appear. They offer PLAIN slices and REGULAR pies. There’s no need to qualify these items with the descriptor “cheese” because, as we all know, without cheese, it ceases to be a pizza.

That is all.

Bye Bye, Miyabi?

Of all the vanished spots around Manhattan I’ve devoted myriad posts to, Bleecker Bob’s is probably in the top three, right behind CBGB and the old Cedar Tavern on University Place. This is somewhat ironic in that, while the shop in question was indeed a widely beloved landmark for music geeks of all stripes, the shopping experience at Bleecker Bob’s was frequently somewhat fraught, largely thanks to the titular proprietor’s infamously bad temper. The late Bob Plotnik, who left us in 2018 after complications from an earlier stroke, accrued a storied reputation for screaming at customers and staff alike, establishing an atmosphere of hair-triggered derision that made even browsing in the store often unrestful … or amusing, depending on your sensibility.

Regardless, as first invoked in this ancient post, when I first discovered the place in the early `80s, it became a regular spot for me for decades, even if that meant weathering a storm of spittle-flecked invective from dear old Bob. The sheer volume of vinyl I procured at the West Third Street iteration of Bob’s shop (for a while, he operated a smaller place on nearby MacDougal Street, just off West 8th) was pretty staggering.

In any case, I’ve unspooled countless yarns about Bleecker Bob’s over the years, and a simple Googling ought to bring up more of them than you’d probably care to read. Most of these were penned to document the slow, painful demise of the shop and the rumors of what business was going to replace it on that strip of West Third Street. First reports asserted it would become a — wait for it — Starbucks, but those turned out to be false. Then it was supposedly to be a frozen yogurt place, who even hung a “coming soon” sign in its window. That venture, too, failed to materialize, and it started to seem like the space would become just another dormant storefront.

Eventually, about a year and change after Bleecker Bob’s cleared out, the space became occupied by a Japanese restaurant called Miyabi. In 2015, a friend and I decided to go dine there, resulting in a post I titled “Bento Boxing at Bleecker Bob’s.” As I recall, while the meal was perfectly fine, it was in no way especially distinctive, although my projections may have been tainted by my associations with the address’ former tenant.

Much as with the aforementioned CBGB, while there was fleeting chatter about a new iteration of Bleecker Bob’s opening up somewhere, it unsurprisingly never happened. As I’m prone to laboriously point out, the demand for brick-&-mortar record stores here in the new millennium isn’t exactly robust, least of all for a comparatively niche concern like Bleecker Bob’s. While they indeed hung a Madonna poster in the window during their latter eras, not many people went to Bleecker Bob’s looking for chart-based pop bullshit. You went there for obscure proto-punk vinyl, rarified out-of-print editions, hardcore 7”s, hard-to-find imports, bootlegs and a wide array of badges, patches, t-shirts and posters designed to frighten, provoke and/or witheringly insult the mainstream, … which was precisely how we liked it.

That said, and again, much like CBGB, in its latter years, the shop started to gradually degrade. The stock was no longer quite so well looked after, there wasn’t a lot of turnover and the staff seemed less and less enthused about the prospects of their employment. I remember stopping in on the final day with every intention of buying something to show my support, and finding really nothing I was interested in.

That’s all ancient history, now. Bleecker Bob’s, the shop, closed up in 2013 and Bleecker Bob, the man, passed away in 2018. That was that.

Today, meanwhile, I stopped in for a slice in neighboring Ben’s Pizza on the corner of West Third and MacDougal. It’s not that the slices at Ben’s are anything to write home about (they remain pretty perfunctory, as pizza goes), but they've been holding court on that corner since before I can remember. As I was departing, I glanced up and noticed that Miyabi’s gate was down and that all its signage — both on a hanging sign and above it’s window — had all been spray-painted over.

I found no mention of its closure online, but could Miyabi also have left the building?

On The Last Day: The 2023 Summer Survey

I wasn’t originally going to do another one of these, because … honestly … why would anyone care? But, then again, that same argument could be applied to pretty much every entry I post here, so, fuck it…here goes.

Defining Moment of Summer 2023
At the risk of drudging it all back up, I’d suggest the defining element of my summer involved my stupid, broken foot and having to wear that goddamn boot (see above) for four weeks. The worst of it is that here on the precipice of Autumn, it still doesn’t feel much better. I’m going back to see my quacky podiatrist in two weeks to discuss other courses of action, but it may be high time to find another doctor. Watch this space, if you care.

Best Purchase of Summer 2023
Back in June, we were invited to my nephew’s wedding, which was to be held in late August in Northern California. It was a “black-tie optional” event, so I used that as an excuse to go buy myself a proper black suit, hoping it would help me feel like more of a functioning adult. In it, I kid myself that I look like a reservoir dog, when the truth of the matter is probably closer to a middle-aged head waiter.

Best Meal of Summer 2023
Never mind just the summer, the best meal of my entire life took place in late June at a tiny eatery in Rome called Collene Emiliane. My main course was a dish simply called "Roast-Beef con purea,” which is basically just roast beef with mashed potatoes. I realize how banal that sounds, but it genuinely was the most lovingly prepared, succulent and immeasurably tasty meal I’ve ever consumed.

Best Concert of Summer 2023
Oliver and I saw some great shows, in the late Spring and earlier Summer, notably Depeche Mode back in April and then the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn in June. Both of those were great fun, but I’d have to say the best evening of live music I experienced this summer was only a few weeks back, seeing Calexico perform the entirety of their 2003 album, Feast of Wire at (le) Poisson Rouge over on Bleecker Street. They’re an amazing band, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Book You Read During Summer 2023
I read some fun stuff this summer, including “Heady Daze,” the second installment in the sprawling autobiographical series by Wayne Hussey of The Mission. I also enjoyed "World Travel," a collection of essays from the late Anthony Bourdain, “I Die Every Time I Hear the Sound” by Mike Doughty, “Nothin’ But a Good Time” by Tom Beaujour & Richard Bienstock,” as well as “Sweet Dreams: The Story of the New Romantics” by Dylan Jones. But, far and away, the best book I paged through this summer was “This Must Be the Place: Music, Community and Vanished Spaces in New York City” by Jesse Rifkin. I honestly cannot recommend it highly enough. Rifkin’s attention to chronological detail, musical minutia and geographical accuracy across multiple genres and local music scenes - from bongo-bangin’ folkies through Brooklynite hipster kids and the myriad musical tribes between them — is genuinely astonishing, and handled with a reverence that is inherently readable and illuminating. Even if you’re not familiar with the particulars in question, it’s an endlessly engaging journey. A MUST-READ book, full stop.

Best Movie of Summer 2023
I saw neither “Barbie” nor “Oppenheimer,” and feel not a jot of regret. I can’t actually think of a film I went to (as in, in a movie theatre) this summer, but I did quite enjoy “Squaring the Circle,” the new documentary about the album-cover design team of Hipgnosis. I also quite enjoyed “Living” with Bill Nighy, which was lovely.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2023
For father’s day, my son gave me a fetching Love & Rockets t-shirt (his latest favorite band).

Biggest Loss of Summer 2023
On a personal level, I actually went to three funerals, this summer, which seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Mercifully, no one in my immediate circle passed away, but these were extended family members (the siblings, fathers and godparents of in-laws, etc.), and I attended to show my support for those loved ones who suffered those losses. Beyond that, I have to say that the losses of both Pee Wee Herman and Sinead O’Connor were both painfully palpable.

Song That Sums Up the Summer of Summer 2023
I don’t know if there’s truly a single song that wraps it all up, for me, but if pressed, I’d say my favorite album of Summer 2023 would be Negative Stars by local noise-rock trio, Skull Practitioners. Their vocals need a bit of work, but they mine a compelling terrain that is reminiscent of several so-called “pigfuck” bands while also somehow calling to mind the noodley prog nuttsness of early King Crimson. On a song-level, though, being that our fleeting time out in Quogue, this summer, was largely scored by the strikingly limited playlist of Sirius XM’s “Yacht Rock Radio,” I’d probably have to cite “Diamond Girl” by Seals & Crofts as the tune that might continue to remind me of this summer. I also listened to the title track of Robyn Hitchcock's Shufflemania quite a bit. 

Happiest Memory of Summer 2023
While we bicker inanely like every other family, the fact that my wife and I had the pleasure of spending so much time with both of our kids, this summer, brought me much joy. We only packed our daughter back off to Scotland this past Friday. Summer is thus officially done and dusted, as far as I’m concerned.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2023
Learning of the sudden and awful fate of Jesse Malin after suffering a spinal stroke really took the wind out of my sails. During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses. At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys. May he swiftly recover from this latest setback.

Scariest Moment of Summer 2023
Apart from some testy moments when looking at my dwindling bank account, I’m relieved to say that Summer 2023 didn’t come with a great deal of sudden scares.

Word That Best Describes of Summer 2023
Over.

Injury, Oatmeal, Salad & Resentment: A Summer 2023 Overview

Hey again, all. I apologize for the relative slow-down, once again, but here at the high-end of the summer downslope, life’s been a bit busy. I’m sure your own personal circumstances are no different.

By way of a quick update, though, at the risk of boring you right off the blog, I finished my fourth week in the boot and went back to wearing standard footwear. In exceptionally short order, however, my resumption of regular activity revealed that the foot in question didn’t actually feel that much better. I mean, sure, not walking directly on it for four weeks had alleviated some of the discomfort, but I’ve since still been grappling with soreness, stiffness and numbness. I’m still doing the bone-stimulation treatments (for whatever they’re worth), but I cannot say the problem has been meaningfullly rectified. Dr. Quip (you remember him) says to check back in with him in a month, wherein we’ll investigate whether I need physical therapy. Oh joy.

Elsewhere, I was breezily informed by my primary care physician that, in the wake of some long-delayed lab tests, evidently both my cholesterol and triglyceride numbers were higher than they should be. He then proceeded to give me a laundry list of comestibles and imbibables to curtail from my diet, like dairy, egg yolks, cheese, fatty meats, sweets, pasta, breads, rice, potatos and – WAIT FOR IT – alcohol. In typical form, I suggested adding oxygen, music and sex to the list to really seal the deal in making my life as joyless as possible. He laughed. I didn’t.

So, y’know, it’s been oatmeal, salad and resentment for me, in the past couple of weeks.

Summer’s end is already visible, and I still have one lobster bake, one funeral, one wedding and one daughter to bundle back off to college in Scotland before it’s all said and done. This all said, I do have a few new items on the burner that I hope to bring to life here soon, so watch this space.

Continue having a nice summer. Mind how you go.

Back From The Boot

Hey there, all… Apologies for the relative slowdown, but upon my return from Italy this past Saturday, I’ve really hit the ground running. Well, may be not so much running as urgently limping. See, while I’m incredibly grateful to work where I do, the work itself does not wait for me when I’m away. This was compounded by the relatively sudden departure of a colleague of mine just prior to my vacation. As such, I came back from Italy with twice as many demands on my plate, and I’ve been doing my best to catch-up and make it all work. I’m sure you can understand.

In terms of the trip, what can I say? It was spectacular. Truly, one has not properly eaten food until one has experienced the culinary richness of Italy. They know what they’re doing. Just as one fleeting example, at a friend’s recommendation, we stopped by a restaurant in Rome called Colline Emiliane and it was without question the greatest meal I’ve ever had in my 55 years. I’m not kidding. Every other meal was amazing, as well. Even if you’re getting the most clichéd dish – arguably the Carbonara – it’ll genuinly blow a new part in your hair.

Beyond that, Rome is a tirelessly remarkable city, from the warmth of its people to the breathtaking art and architecture around virtually corner to the fascinating wellspring of its rich, magnificent history. Similarly, the Umbrian countryside is absolutely stunning, as are its myriad towns like Orvietto, Assisi, Spoletto, Spelo and Todi, each with their own, individual aspects to recommend them. The whole trip was amazing.

It wasn’t all delicious gelato, though. As I mentioned just prior to leaving, to my continuing astonishment, I have been walking around on broken bones in my left foot for some indeterminate amount of time, and the increasing discomfort brought on by same was already reaching a new level before I’d even departed. Rome and Umbria, meanwhile, are basically all uneven ground. I basically spent ten days subjecting my dumb, lame foot to uneven stone stairs, cobblestone streets, maddening inclines or combinations of all three (see picture above). That aspect was honestly torture, but what was I gonna do? Not walk around? Fuck that! I just did my best to bite the bullet, keep my complaining (relatively) at bay and get through it, which I did.

Upon my arrival home, I checked back in with cheeky Dr. Quip (not his real name, as immortalized here). I relayed my ambulatory exploits, and he rewarded me with a “prouder” (i.e. more pronounced) pad to be tucked into my left sneaker whilst I await the arrival of the my “short air cam walker fracture boot” which I’ll presumably be sporting later this very week. I’m sure I’ll have a litany of anecdotal grievances to relay from a few days of lurching around in that shit, so look forward to that.

Beyond the heartbreaking news about Jesse Malin, I was saddened to learn of the deaths of local hero Philipe Marcade of the Senders (who I’ve discussed here before), guitarist John Waddington of The Pop Group (and so soon after the demise of his bandmate Mark Stewart) and Teresa Taylor of the Butthole Surfers, who finally passed away from her illness this past weekend.

Back at you soon. 

Help Jesse Malin

During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was New York City punk legend Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. For those who may not recognize the name, Jesse was formerly a member of proto-hardcore trio Heart Attack, later a founder of D Generation and a prolific solo artist. He's also a tireless advocate for the heart and soul of New York City's rock n' roll past, establishing endeavors like GreendoorNYC, Coney Island High, The Black & White Bar, Niagara's, Club Berlin, Heaven Can Wait,  and 96 Tears, among others. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses.

At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys.

Just recently, Jesse suffered a rare spinal stroke and, as a result, is paralyzed from the waist down. He vows to walk and dance again. Don’t bet against him. That said, given his livelihood as a touring musician, Jesse is facing some tough financial obstacles as he endeavors to move forward. Help him out, if you can.

The evening Jesse was stricken, he was purportedly out at a favorite East Village Italian restaurant — John’s of 12th Street, maybe — with some friends, celebrating the life and memory of his fallen friend, D Gen bandmate and fellow NYC Punk alumnus Howie Pyro. After Jesse collapsed, following some strange pains in his lower back, the story goes that his great friend, Jimmy G of Murphy’s Law carried Jesse to Mt. Sinai hospital on Second Avenue.

Below is Jesse and Jimmy from only two years back with their tribute to Todd Youth (also a knowing nod to “Waiting on a Friend” by the Rolling Stones).

The photo up top, meanwhile was taken by photographer Josh Cheuse of Jesse within the intimate confines of Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street, which is no longer there.

Godspeed, Jesse. May you once again stride amongst us with the quickness. 

Whither Thine Cabload of Idiots?

In about 1990, I was writing for a freebie local paper called NY Perspectives (long gone) and was tasked with writing up blurbs for one of their “BEST OF UPTOWN” issues. As such, I typed one up for my favorite local bar, at the time, that being Ryan’s Daughter on East 85th just off First Ave.

Despite it being an overwritten word salad that unwittingly besmirched the street in question, the blurb struck the right chord with Ryan’s Daughter. They were quite pleased and slapped it in a frame that hung in the window for many years. I moved out of Yorkville in about 1996 and probably haven’t set foot in Ryan’s Daughter since then. But, I was there last night with the Desperately Seeking the `80s duo , and spied my ancient blurb now hanging on an interior wall.

It’s still the best bar in the neighborhood.

The Coffee Shop/Diner Dichotomy

The following post is actually an “open letter,” initially composed in response to the latest episode of the Desperately Seeking the `80s podcast, which I’ve discussed here several times before, most notably here. I started writing it and then it got to a length wherein I figured it would make a nice post on its own, so here we are. You’re welcome.

Incidentally, the lovely ladies of the`80s have graciously invited me to actually appear on their podcast. We’re recording that very soon, I believe, so watch this space for that. Hopefully I won’t come off sounding like a rambling, abject idiot, but I promise nothing.

So, without further ado, in response to Jessica’s portion of this latest episode (Episode #60), herewith my response….

M’kay… first of all, I totally recognize the elusive difference Jessica was driving at between the classic coffee shop and the diner, the latter being a sort of less salubrious affair, given its accent on burgers & fries over more delicate fare and the ability to order alcohol, an important distinction, in my latter years of high school and into college.

That discussion immediately conjured up places where I used to be taken as a child. There were at least two or three proper “coffee shops,” as I remember, on Madison Avenue, foremost among them being the one beautifully captured in the photograph above (I have no idea who took it or when, but I'd originally poached it for this old post), which was on the southwest corner of 84th Street, right next to the long-vanished Trans-Lux movie house (the only movie theatre on Madison Avenue, I want to say). For whatever reason, I remember coming to this place with my Dad, who always ordered “cinnamon toast” … which, should that need illustration, was just that: buttered white toast with cinnamon on top. I don’t remember us ever having anything else, but who needed anything else? Inside, it was a lunch place, but it wasn’t tawdry or beaten up, unlike more conventional diners, which were open later. I want to say there was another more haute coffee shop about a block up between 85th and 86th (and this is going way, way back) called The Puffing Billy (named, presumably, after a train), but I can find no evidence of that online.

In terms of all things DINER, meanwhile, beyond what I blathered about in this recent epic-length post, me and my own little gaggle of morons had our specific favorites, those being as follows: The Mansion on East 86th & York Avenue (this was my home corner from about 1984 until 1996), Gracie’s Corner on the – wait for it – corner of East 86th & First Avenue (r.i.p.), The Viand Restaurant on East 86th Street & Second Avenue and then, a little further afield, The New Amity on Madison and east 84th (r.i.p.) and one on Lexington between 77th and 78th that, in more recent years, was called the Lenox Hill Grill, but went by another name back in the 80s. There was also one on Madison Avenue and, like, East 63rd we occasionally went to which was called The New Wave Diner (or Restaurant) – an establishment we appreciated solely for its name.

The Mansion is still there today, but had something of an interior-décor reboot, some years back, that decimated everything I held dear about the place. It used to be comparatively dark inside. You could sit at the counter and enjoy your burger in a sort of atmospheric gloom, as opposed to the gleaming white walls that now frame one’s dining experience. I remember they had stills from “Casablanca” above the counter area, for whatever reason.

When my mother and my step-father split, my sister was already away at college, so Mom and I moved to East 86th Street between York & East End, just up the road a piece from where my grandparents had lived at Henderson House before decamping to Florida. It was the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, so I was already fairly autonomous, and my mom was jump-starting a career as a real estate agent for the Corcoran Group, so I was frequently left to my own devices, which meant lots and lots and lots of visits to the Mansion for any number of meals. It was also a meeting place, a hangout spot and a safe haven, of a sort. For a hot second (and I do mean hot), I actually dated a young lady who worked behind the counter in the early `90s, but it was destined to crash and crumble like a slice of over-toasted cinnamon toast. More about that another time.

One of the cool things about living on East 86th Street, at the time, was the aforementioned abundance of diners and coffee shops. I seem to remember Gracie’s Corner on First Avenue being if not a 24-hr. venture, at least being a very late-night operation, and frequently repairing to its comfy confines for late-night fries with gravy (an homage to “Diner”? Who remembers?) and other inevitably drunken shenanigans (frequently after many an ill-advised hour spent in nearby public houses like Ryan’s Daughter and The (original) Gaf (formerly Pedro’s). I have a somewhat bleary-but-still-cringey memory of my college pal Edgar (not his real name … who, after spending weeks living on my couch, finally rented his own place nearby on East 84th off Second Avenue) basically abandoning a girl he’d been out on a date with (leaving her in my care, so to speak). She wasn’t so much crestfallen as confused. I walked her home, though – something Edgar invariably should have done. But, I digress..

The Viand (and we pronounced it with an inexplicable French accent, ala “vee-OND,” although who knows if this is correct?) was another staple. I remember very many meals at the Viand, either with my college friend Shafe (then-fresh from rural Florida) or my childhood comrade Rob D. Rob was famous for his last-minute veer-offs from convention when ordering, making roundly ill-advised detours into adventurous culinary territory ala “actually….scratch that, I’ll have the Cauliflower Au Gratin!” and other dishes one should ABSOLUTELY NEVER order at a diner.

My late friend Danny (initially immortalized as Rocky, on this post) and I used to frequent that Lenox Hill spot (right next to Lenox Hill hospital, a storied institution Danny was once ensconced in for a broken nose after a fateful run-in with the 84th Street Bombers in front of Mimi’s Pizza on Lexington and 84th). It lacked the homey comfort of the Mansion or the late-night debauchery-friendly vibe of Gracie’s Corner, but it was his local. The New Amity on Madison was a big favorite for some classmates of mine, but trying to have a meal there during the school day was always a nervy affair, as our free periods were only forty minutes long, so you were invariably going to be asking feverishly for a check before you’d finished your burger (or whatever).

Today, once again, the Mansion is still there, and recently made a cameo in “Only Murders in The Building” (although not cited by its actual name). The original Gracie’s Corner is gone, as is most of the block it occupied, but I think its building is still standing. The concern actually moved up the block and what had been The Viand is now called Gracie’s Corner, if I’m not mistaken.

I’m pretty sure the Lenox Hill Grill on Lexington at 77th is gone. The New Amity closed for good last summer. I think what had been the New Wave is still there, but called something else, by this point.

In terms of the cast of characters, my date-abandoning pal Edgar decamped back to his Midwestern hometown in the mid 2000’s. I fell more or less out of touch with Florida Shafe some years back after he got a bit more churchy, so to speak. My great comrade Rob D. got married to my friend J, had a child, moved to City Island, then moved to New London, CT. , got divorced and became an acclaimed writer and an esteemed man of letters, penning the preeminent academic tome on Eugene O’Neil and currently working on another sprawling book about a different celebrated writer. He still orders food ill-advisedly. My cinnamon toast-touting Dad passed away in 2011 and my great friend Danny died in 2018 in his adopted state of Colorado following a few cruel years paralyzed from a tragic bicycle accident.

The girl I fleetingly dated from The Mansion vanished into thin air circa 1993.