The Gals on the Moon;No Politics Spoken Here
The Gals on the Moon; No Politics Spoken Here
The Circle Line is the only New York City tourist attraction I look forward to doing at least once a year. The Empire State Bldg.? Went to the top when I was 10 and never again. Glitzy and dopey Broadway shows? No, no Nanette. And when Mrs. M and I finally lunched at the Carnegie Deli, we were so put off by the yakkity-yak staff, and the shtick that a jaw-breaking, and exorbitantly priced, corned beef sandwich signifies quality, that we've never been back. But I can't think of a single New Yorker, when pressed, who won't admit to still getting a thrill at seeing the city's skyline, whether by car, boat or plane.
The Circle Line's concession stand is a wreck?a replica of those at Yankee Stadium?and Dan, in particular, was flabbergasted at the rudeness of the men and women behind the counter. He was polite enough not to also mention their sheer stupidity. I shrugged and told him it was a fact of life. Frankly, I'd take this particular inconvenience, 10 times over, rather than live in the never-never land of California. So after I fetched a tray of hotdogs, Cokes and ice cream bars for our group, I wandered up to the front of the boat to get the best possible look at the Statue of Liberty.
The sight of that stern lady has always mesmerized me. Perhaps it was my imagination, or more likely that I need stronger eyeglass lenses, but I could've sworn I saw two round Bush-Cheney stickers stuck near her torch. It would make sense: While New Populist Gore, his nose brown from too many backdoor sessions with Dick Gephardt, David Bonior, Jesse Jackson and about 100 special-interest groups, has no desire for ongoing immigration, Bush, to his credit, remembers that the country was founded and made powerful by refugees from all over the world. When former California Gov. Pete Wilson loudly backed a hateful anti-immigrant proposition in the angry '94 elections, Bush was one of a handful of GOP aspirants who vocally disagreed. That's just one of the reasons to vote for the occasionally tongue-twisted Texan.
Oh, my. My relatives from San Luis Obispo have vastly different political views from my own, so, in the interest of family harmony, I held my tongue for nearly a week. I feel empowered, as Gore or his narcissistic boss might say, to get back on track in speaking the truth. Keep hope alive, swing voters!
Mrs. M, the boys and I love staying in hotels, even in New York, so for a few days we lodged at the Millennium, an underrated downtown establishment that has clear views of the Twin Towers, prompt room service and a wonderful health club and pool. Xela and Kira were wowed looking out at Brooklyn from our 52nd-floor suite, not to mention by the crow's-eye view of the Woolworth Bldg., Junior's favorite edifice in the entire city.
I must report that one of the bedrooms was haunted. On Tuesday morning, a hair dryer turned on at full blast at 1:38 and didn't stop until its engine burned out. Three hours later, a security guard opened the door, understandably spooking my wife and MUGGER III. Still, the Millennium remains a favorite. A year and a half ago, when the renovations on our loft were ridiculously behind schedule, my family was forced to stay in a hotel for six weeks. To this day, both boys believe that they've lived in three discrete residences: a sixth-floor Hudson St. apartment, the Millennium and our current penthouse at the epicenter of Tribeca.
While I was at work that Monday, the crew went shopping in the area and Xela, who just celebrated her 13th birthday, stocked up on an eclectic selection of books from the nearby Borders, as did Mrs. M. Junior purchased the new Baha Men CD, with the hit single "Who Let the Dogs Out?" that'll be featured in the next Rugrats movie, due for a Thanksgiving release. I don't care for much of the Nickelodeon/MTV crap that he listens to?look, I suppose his Backstreet Boys are my Herman's Hermits?but the B.M. are at least palatable. A little too much thanking the Lord for my taste, but their Caribbean bark & bite leaves the atrocious Aaron Carter (who inexplicably covers the Strangeloves' "I Want Candy") in the fucking dust.
I haven't much new to say about Coney Island, the enduring Brooklyn icon, but Dan, Xela and Kira all dropped their jaws when we arrived there on Tuesday morning, just before the rides and arcades opened up. They've been to Disneyland, of course, but comparing that fascistic theme park to Coney is like matching up a generic fern bar and Milano's. When it comes to authenticity there's just no challenge. The hand-painted signs alone at Coney are worth the trip for any curious visitor: "Hot Corn On the Cob in Rich Creamery Butter," is my favorite, but all the squiggly come-ons for gyros, shucked clams, Italian sausages, soft ice cream cones, fried shrimp, cotton candy and cold beer brighten the landscape. Not to mention the placard hawking "Umbrella and Chair Rentals."
Walking on the boardwalk, seeing the Atlantic pound waves up close to the remarkably large number of sunbathers, with the Wonder Wheel, Astroland Park and maze of carousels and bumper car rides in the background, can melt the nastiest of New Yorkers. Maybe even those idiotic PETA losers who've bought billboards satirizing Rudy Giuliani's prostate cancer. And they think women who wear fur are assholes?
After playing in the sand, digging up some lobster claws and snagging live jellyfish, the kids were ready for some arcade madness and they weren't disappointed. I thought MUGGER III would split a gut when he won the jackpot on a brilliantly lit twirly game, jumping up and down and yelling to my wife, the amusement park champ, "Mommy, I won the jackpot too!" As the tickets spun out of the machine?later redeemed for cheesy China-made prizes, puzzles, fake handcuffs and the like?my six-year-old was a vision of this upcoming October, when Nomar Garciaparra, Carl Everett and Pedro Martinez will celebrate the Bosox's first World Series championship since 1918. Damn that Curse of the Bambino!
We were all collecting tickets and tokens by the score at a variety of games, so fast that my madras shorts pockets were bulging with the chits. Now, I also had to make periodic visits to the change-lady to trade in $20 bills for rolls of quarters, but that was beside the point. A lot of wampum was dropped, but I haven't seen so much childish glee, even from grownups, probably since I was a teenager, smoking reefer with friends and watching I Love Lucy reruns on the tube.
The rides were a different story. My boys were not allowed on most of them, failing to meet the 48-inch height requirement. Kira and MUGGER III went on a kiddie roller coaster, but it went too fast for my youngest, so we toddled on to another arcade. Junior, who takes his nightly Golden Half Hour of The Simpsons far too seriously, made a beeline for the shooting range, but didn't have much luck in hitting a target. Fact is, neither did Xela and I. The haunted house was closed, so the kids settled on lunch.
When it comes to Coney, I'm a Nathan's purist, but I suppose that's old-school thinking. With the exception of Mrs. M and Xela, who quickly purchased so-so knishes, everyone else waited on line for about half an hour at one of the scuzziest McDonald's I've ever seen. This food outlet was by far the most crowded on the boardwalk, a horrible indictment of the culinary tastes of Americans, my own kids included. And the arrogant clerks behind the counter were beyond objectionable: making U.S. post office workers seem like Microsoft eager beavers, they trudged over to the soda machine, filled paper packets with fries almost one by one, and did their best to screw up the total cost of the awful fare ordered.
As the cousins ate at a filthy McDonald's playground, I sipped a Coke and spoke to Dan about his gourmet Mexican restaurant, located about 40 minutes outside San Luis Obispo. A charred lamb soft taco slathered with fresh cilantro-laden salsa would've hit the spot right then.
It seems inconceivable now that Coney Island was once a resort for the affluent, made accessible to the masses only when the subway out there was completed in 1920. It's a dirty, dilapidated playground now, and I'd be surprised if it lasted another 25 years, but as an historical marker, Coney ranks with Wrigley Field and Fenway Park. My grandparents took the kids from their Irish enclave in the Bronx to Coney in the 20s; my mom and dad double-dated with Uncle Joe and Aunt Winnie there in the late 30s; the Smith family horsed around in the same arcades in the 50s and 60s; and, in fact, Mrs. M and I, years ago, had one of our first dates at Coney in the dead of winter. Nathan's was the only stand open, but we walked along the beach and had a grand time.
By the end of the week, we were all pretty tuckered out from the tornado of activity. One night, while the cousins stayed at the hotel and watched Simpsons videos, Mrs. M, Dan and I dined at Ecco, the classic Chambers St. Italian restaurant with the tin ceiling, the best marinated anchovies in town and amiable waiters who patiently explain each of the 15 or so specials of the day. My wife had taken Xela for a day of trendy shopping in Soho?sampling the smorgasbord of modern Americana that can't be found in her hometown?while MUGGER III and Kira went bowling at Chelsea Piers, both coming home with buckets of prizes from the frenzied game room.
Meanwhile, Junior and I did the shopping for his brother's sixth birthday, which meant a trip to the odious Toys R Us to fill a shopping cart with Digimon action figures, stuffed animals, a mini-pinball game and a very cool box of 100 plastic insects that MUGGER III likes to hides in spots where he thinks they might scare his mother. We also picked up some G.I. Joe paraphernalia and 1960s replica Donald Duck comics at the nearby Forbidden Planet, a far more civilized store in which to browse and empty your wallet. Mrs. M drew the honor of wrapping all the presents, which were torn open at 6 a.m. on Aug. 25.
Junior and I also chaperoned the girls to their first-ever baseball game, a noon contest at Yankee Stadium where the Bombers, unfortunately, racked up an 8-5 lead over the Texas Rangers after just four innings. Xela and Kira didn't know the first thing about the sport but were eager to learn, so we gave them a quick primer on foul poles, called strikes, double plays, balks and stolen bases. I also reminisced, as a fan is wont to do with youngsters, about the days when you could actually talk to your neighbors between innings, without all the white noise of scoreboard trivia questions, bad rock songs and mascots shooting t-shirts into the crowd.
The Yanks' pitcher that day, Andy Pettitte, who's 16-6, is damn lucky to have some muscle in his team's lineup; with an ERA of 4.14, he's not exactly the second coming of Bob Gibson. And here's another squawk from an old-timer: the game lasted more than three and a half hours, just another indication of why spectators get frustrated. Even my oldest son, who's at that miraculous age when everything about baseball fascinates him, was bored by the sixth inning. Though we were seated in "prime foul-ball territory," as he puts it, with all the "time-outs" and the lethargic pace of the pitchers, Junior's buoyant booing of Derek Jeter and David Justice, lusty at the beginning of the game, was reduced to a whisper by 2 p.m. A masterful pop song shouldn't exceed three minutes; a ballgame that goes on and on is the equivalent of a Ginger Baker drum solo.
August 28