Architectural Digest bedrooms aren't as classy as the players' locker room. Stainless steel rods just to hang their socks. Individual wooden closets. And let it be known my behind sat in Derek Jeter's space even before his.
Their can is blue granite. Four urinals, five commodes, enough shower space for 16 naked Yankees with their bats and balls.
Alongside's a hydrotherapy blue- and white-tiled area with whirlpools and a Swimex thing wherein the current moves but you don't and it's as if you've swum 15 laps. Plus a trainers room for massages, rubdowns, X-rays, specialists, first aid and God knows. Plus a doctor's office. Signs signifying each room are in Yankee pinstripes. Plus, to duck the dreaded press, a hidden super-private dressing room with giant wall mirror and 12 luxury closets. Plus a wall-to-wall mirrored gym (no equipment in it yet) so elegant it looks like a dance studio. Thoughts of Hideki Matsui at a ballet barre ran through my head.
The players' 30,000 square feet just for themselves includes a dining suite. Two rooms. One with the handmade Yankee logo rug has couches for lounging, sipping, noshing and TVing. The other, with chafing dishes plus wherewithal to prep individual menus, is a catering hall. I mean, talk of catering!
Now, for the fans. Honoring The Bronx's Grand Concourse grandeur, a giant, wide, 31,000-square-foot Great Hall. Said Valerie Peltier, managing director of the project and daughter of developer Tishman-Speyer's Jerry Speyer: "It's where you'll meet and greet, buy your programs and peanuts and goodies." Wheelchair accessible, there are 1,300 doors, 10 ticket kiosks, 16 elevators, 30 stairways, escalators, ramps, concession stands, 1,100 flat high-def TVs everywhere, including in the ladies' gorgeous johns. I tell you the truth - it was a real pleasure to go.
Regulars and tourists raise mugs of ale to toast a century of good food and grog and no women at McSorley's Old Ale House, a landmark bar in the Lower East Side section of Manhattan, New York, Feb. 17, 1954. Although the present owner is a woman, she cannot cross the threshold because of the "no women" rule. (AP Photo/John Rooney)
Mr. Mitchell had discovered McSorley's Old Ale House shortly after he joined The New Yorker. The saloon opened in 1854 and, as the oldest continuously run institution of its kind in New York, immediately endeared itself to Mr. Mitchell. He loathed most forms of progress and technology and so did the succession of people who drank in McSorley's.
"It is equipped with electricity," he wrote of it, "but the bar is stubbornly illuminated with a pair of gas lamps, which flicker fitfully and throw shadows on the low, cobwebby ceiling each time someone opens the street door. There is no cash register. Coins are dropped in soup bowls -- one for nickels, one for dimes, one for quarters, and one for halves -- and bills are kept in a rosewood cashbox."
And what of the service?
"It is a drowsy place; the bartenders never make a needless move, the customers nurse their mugs of ale, and the three clocks on the walls have not been in agreement for many years. "
Who went to such a place?
"The backbone of the clientele is a rapidly thinning group of crusty old men, predominantly Irish, who have been drinking there since they were youths and now have a proprietary feeling about the place. Some of them have tiny pensions, and are alone in the world; they sleep in Bowery hotels and spend practically all their waking hours in McSorley's."
As season two of Bravo's guilty pleasure launches [tonight], housewife Jill Zarin warns, "You're gonna see some [expensive] toys come out, unfortunately. We filmed the show before the recession happened."
The recession that has put millions of New Yorkers out of work threatens to make New York's real housewives appear even more self-indulgent and childishly pampered than last season. Back then, they were merely cougars of conspicuous consumption, spending perversely amusing bundles on themselves. This season, when housewife Alex McCord and husband (some say honorary housewife) Simon van Kampen drop $8,000 on clothing at a Hamptons boutique, their extravagance will likely strike viewers as prodigal in the extreme.
Van Kampen, manager of Murray Hill's Hotel Chandler, hopes the economy doesn't turn off viewers to the cast's wasteful spending habits. "This is escapist television for a lot of people," he says. "I don't think there'll be much negative reaction. Honestly, I think there is less conspicuous consumption in season two."
Mr. Oliver is a poet, playwright, performance artist and actor. But above all, he is a Personality, with a capital P, a type celebrated in England as an Eccentric and in middle America as a Character. It’s not easy being a Personality in the East Village, where the willfully weird abound (or did once, anyway) and where Mr. Oliver has lived since the late 1970s. It requires an exaggerated consistency of character and style, which should seep from every pore.
In “East 10th Street,” which runs through Feb. 28 in a judiciously austere production directed by Randy Sharp, Mr. Oliver uses this sensibility to evoke his years as a tenant in an S.R.O. boarding house on Tompkins Square Park, into which he moved, fresh from Paris, in 1977, when he was 21, paying $16 a week for rent.
“East 10th Street,” which was staged in November, has developed a cult following. It’s easy to see why. Mr. Oliver depicts and embodies a bohemian, low-rent New York that scarcely exists anymore. It’s hard to imagine anyone like him, with a similar set of stories, coming out of the gentrified East Village of the early 21st century.
