​In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

​-- Bob Dylan, "Every Grain of Sand"

By Caitlin Hawke

West End Avenue is deafeningly silent early this morning as the curfew has curtailed most car traffic south of 96th Street. It's a street I recognize less and less yet one that I've come to know deeply. I find myself studying it. Each bird chirping. Each passerby. Each delivery truck. Each siren. Each neighbor at his or her window in my sightlines. All targets of my gaze in a way I have never gazed before.

Looking out my window in sleepy Bloomingdale all day today I perceived a strange vibrato. Tension thick in the air. Anticipation. Trepidation. And the gaze from apartment to street of all these neighbors still cooped up is one of watchful, worried eyes. The First Wave scarcely receded, the Second Wave is roiling and swiftly rolling in.

But I am not talking about the virus. Like a Rube Goldbergian contraption, infection has become the vector of infection. Instead of picking up with some semblance of normalcy coming off the first wave of coronavirus, we are now again waist deep in. Begat by the first wave but not precisely in its own image, the Second Wave of which I speak looks and feels very much like a growing revolution, where people the city over -- the country and the world over -- have been swept up as it crests. 

Chalked on sidewalks, hung from windows, held up in protest posters each day at 1pm in Straus Park, called out by peaceful congregants making their noontime way down Broadway, the revolution beckons: manifest in support of justice for all, manifest in opposition to police brutality, manifest in acknowledgment of the grotesque and disproportionate toll Covid-19 has had on people of color.

The solidarity of the Second Wave equals that of the first, but its fury surpasses it. Both share uncharted waters, unpredictable consequences, unimaginable cost, unfathomable pain.

Experts tell us that there will be another wave of viral infections. But they didn't tell us that our social isolation would finally make us immune to complacency and catapult us into the work we must now do. 

I'm still too jaded to believe that in corona there could be salvation. But at a minimum there is transformation. And we are most definitely not coming out of this the same.  Prepare ye.

Above photos courtesy of Sharon Waskow

Daily protest near Straus Park near W. 106th Street, where neighbors gather at 1 p.m.

By Caitlin Hawke

Bob Dylan has been in a long-term relationship with Greenwich Village, but he's been spotted in the throes of a torrid affair with the Upper West Side.

Even non-fans know the story of how he hunted down Woody Guthrie and then settled into the basket-house scene of Greenwich Village in early 1961. From his first apartment at 161 West 4th Street to his Stanford White townhouse uptown near City College on “Striver’s Row” Dylan is, at heart, a New Yorker.

I, like 20,000 others, will never forget the November 19, 2001, concert at Madison Square Garden when he played “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” to a packed house of aching souls, still in shock after 9/11. As he got to the last couplet — “I’m going back to New York City/I do believe I’ve had enough” — the hometown crowd erupted in a cry of solidarity and civic pride. I recall that he spoke between songs that evening — a rare occurrence in the second half of his career. He didn’t say much, but in acknowledgement of the tragedy he said simply that no one had to tell him how he felt about New York. Again a cheer brought down the house.

I could go on about all the Dylan landmarks and connections of this town — how he picked up violinist Scarlet Rivera on an East Village corner and convinced her to record with him on the seminal album “Desire.” Or that half-mile taxi ride with Lenny Bruce. How the fabulous folkloric “Rolling Thunder Revue” tour of 1975-76 was cooked up at a back table at the Other End with Bobby Neuwirth. As landmarks go, the one with the tightest connection to my heart is the legendary Supper Club, where on November 16, 1993, Dylan played an acoustic show that fans have traded bootlegs of with abandon for the last quarter century.

​But thanks to his two-week stay at the Beacon Theatre from November 23 to December 6, Bob Dylan was shaking the sugar down in our very own Sugar Town for ten sweetest of shows on positively 74th Street.

Read on here at the West Side Rag where I wrote an appreciation and here for a review of the first concert of the run. 

It's all over now, baby blue, but buck up, because in 50 short weeks, he'll be back.

Til then, I am pressing on.

By Caitlin Hawke

You know it. You live it. We navigate the tumbleweeds of Broadway storefrontage every day.  And it is far from just our neck of the woods.

I've written about the blight many times in a blog series called Empty Storefronts and the Changing Streetscape:

Part 1: We Got the Supply. Where's the Demand?
Part 2: In Joon, Our Fall
Part 3: Lincoln Plaza Cinemas: Fare Thee Well My Honey
Part 4: Three Restaurants Go Down in One Month
Part 5: A Glorious UWS 800-Person Wave Turns Back the Tide
Part 6, which I hope to post soon, will feature Jen Rubin's story of her family's store Radio Clinic or RCI.

So who is going to Save Our Stores?  Literally, SOS! I mean: who among us is going to the first town hall meeting planned by the new group UWS Save Our Stores?  

Their event "Vacant Storefronts and Visions for Neighborhood Revitalization," will be held Thursday, December 5, 6:30-8:30pm, at the NY Society for Ethical Culture, 2 West 64th Street. The event is free to the public. Doors open at 6pm, and the meeting will begin promptly at 6:30 p.m.  Venue is wheelchair accessible.

We keep experiencing it. Many keep talking about it. Others keep writing about it. But what are we DOING about it?  Surely no one agrees that vast swaths of our avenues should remain void of storefront life?  What's the next big idea? Where will it all go from here? What are the forces at play? 

There are so many questions....  Perhaps we need to craft the answers all as one.

SOS and See You There!  RSVP at UWSSOS.org.

By Caitlin Hawke


Well, folks, it's July 4. Version 2.019.  Today has me thinking about Independence Days Gone By. An America that preceded this America. One of nostalgic childhood memories of fireflies in the backyard and 'Our Bicentennial' fireworks on the great DC Mall -- and the colossal city-wide traffic jam that ensued. Three quarters of a million folks showed up for the fireworks and the Boston Pops under Fiedler's baton (lagniappe embedded below -- click on the post title to see the video and see if it doesn't stir you when the audience rises one by one to their feet to the rousing trills and flourishes of piccolos and flutes). Here, there was the incredible spectacle of the tall ships in New York Harbor dubbed by Abe Beame "the most magnificent and glorious display of maritime splendor of th[e] century." Barkers dressed as colonial town criers and and hawkers on stilts with outsized Uncle Sam top hats milled around the foot of the Trade Center towers promoting the birthday events. Americans were spurred on to engage with this national event. Two hundred years young with Vietnam and Tricky Dick in our rearview mirror, we were scarred, socially shaken, but looking ahead; the country was dusting itself off and ready for the party, proud of the democracy that we were rebuilding in a new image of cleaner politicians, of inclusion, and of opportunity. Standing in front of Independence Hall that fourth, President Ford (in an address that I urge you to watch for how is resonates two score later--also embedded below) heralded "the two great documents that continue to supply the moral and intellectual power for the American adventure in self government."

Ford made the most of the birthday celebrations in '76, a hotly contested campaign year. A bizarre if not utterly opportunistic example early on in the year of how his administration maximized the occasion was how he handled the appearance of one sole case of swine flu at Fort Dix in New Jersey. For health authorities at the CDC, the case set off a group-think panic that the 1918 flu was back. At the time, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld were padding around the west wing as Ford's trusty advisors. With Ronnie Reagan nipping at Ford's heels in the GOP primaries coupled with a young, idealistic peanut farmer on the rise on the left, the White House signed on to the notion that a vaccination campaign was immediately in order to combat the specter of flu that could fell Americans left, right and center. Heaven forfend on our birthday Americans dropping like flies. From a draft memo I once dug up in the Atlanta branch of our national archives, the Ford Administration's health officials argued in favor of a rapid intervention: "undertaking the [Swine Flu vaccination] program in this manner provides a practical, contemporary example of government, industry, and private citizens cooperating to serve a common cause, an ideal way to celebrate the nation’s 200th birthday."  (Emphasis mine).

Just think about that especially in light of the measles recently! Vaccinating citizens to celebrate the bicentennial.  Hard to make this up!

But the strategy behind the strategy was one -- likely concocted by Cheney -- akin to a Rose Garden offensive: keep Ford's name in the newspapers all year long with this great vaccination campaign and the birthday appearances, and he'd sail through as a strong, protective, patriotic leader of our nation, and twinkletoe his way in to a November '76 victory (not his normal mode of bipedality!). For the flu campaign, he even coaxed arch enemies and heroes Jonas Salk and Albert Sabin, of polio vaccine fame, to a détente and enlisted their help in advocating for the flu shot program and branding it for the nation. (That's a whole long story in and of itself).  Out of nowhere, cases of so-called Legionnaire's disease showed up in Philly in July 1976 -- the place and date chosen by the American Legion to coincide with the 200th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Cases of the illness that struck convention goers were immediately mistaken for Swine flu as the symptoms are similar, and with this scare, health authorities were eventually able to connive and jackhammer away the legal roadblocks to Ford's national flu vaccination campaign.

Of course this whole strategy failed spectacularly for reasons I will write about another time, the primary one being there was in fact no pandemic at all. The fiasco came to be known as "The Swine Flu Affair."

Ford lost. Carter won. Reagan was but four years stalled.

All this -- and so much more -- came galloping back to me with the fabulous archival footage in Martin Scorsese's new Netflix film "Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story" -- a mixed-up, crazy quilted, unreliably-narrated, utter joy of a romp back to 1975 and 1976.

If you do yourself and loved ones a single good deed to celebrate our nation's birthday this week, fire up Netflix and watch this gorgeous, lush "documentary."

You see, Bob Dylan, too, had a vision for our nation's 200th.  He, too, had been watching our leaders with cold eyes during Vietnam and Watergate. He, too, had yearned to see a better nation reboot. And reappearing after a multi-year, self-imposed fame detox, he'd conjured a traveling road show with his friends. An ideal way to celebrate our nation's 200th birthday!  

This post was triggered by the visual seen on Broadway above.  It is a shot in front of Lincoln Center earlier this month when the Scorsese film premiered. The Rolling Thunder Revue tour, mysteriously mythic for fans, was equally mythic for those musicians and artists who rode shotgun with the bard for its first leg up and down the northeast corridor, dipping into Canada. The Rolling Thunder caravan first put down stakes in Plymouth Rock for goodness's sakes. From there, a quick stop in Lowell, Massachusetts, paid homage to Jack Kerouac, natch. By day, Dylan and Allen Ginsberg made a pilgrimage to the grave to sit and wonder a while. By night, the roving gypsies became a possessed musical ensemble, jamming for four hours a show.

Vignettes -- some true, some conjured -- abound in the Scorsese film. Sam Shepard lured in Joni Mitchell who then wrote "Coyote" in reply. Virtuoso and tour-sound-defining violinist Scarlet Rivera had a sword fetish, or did she? Joan Baez donned a fedora and painted her face white in a commedia dell'arte tradition and was mistaken for Dylan by the roadies. The tremendous talent, Roger McGuinn of Byrds fame, took the stage with Bob in the most intense and eye-talking duet you'll ever see. And that first leg of the tour all culminated just on the eve of the bicentennial year at Madison Square Garden for the epic "Hurricane" concert with Muhammad Ali present to bless the cause of justice for the 'Hurricane'. Through their eponymous song, Jacques Levy and Bob Dylan brought the plight of falsely-accused boxing champ Rubin "Hurricane" Carter to the attention of the country. The song itself is a film -- an economically-written poem set to music whose narrative flickers through your mind with all the real-life characters and racists in full flesh.

I know that fireworks and picnics and bbqs and even the occasional military parade are the more traditional nods to national holidays. But by the time you've read this, it will already be the 5th. So treat yourself to streaming this film, and walk back in time with me to our bicentennial to think about all that has come since.

The best possible way to end this is in the words spoken by Allen Ginsberg at the end of the film musing on the raucous, joyful road trip and its ragtag ensemble:

"Take from us some example. Try to get yourself together, clean up your act, find your community. Pick up on some kind of redemption of your own consciousness, become more mindful of your own friends, your own work, your own proper meditation, your own proper art, your own beauty. Go out and make it for your own eternity."

In four sentences, Ginsberg redeemed himself forever for me. And how timeless these words are.

Readers, this is your community at a time we truly need one. The Block Association is a perfect example of what the Beat poet spoke. I know this was a long, winding way to get here. And don't misunderstand: it's still a great idea to get your vaccinations. But these were the thoughts jangling in my mind on the morning of July the fourth in the year two thousand and nineteen.

​Happy 243rd to U.S. all. And here's to a more perfect 'union' built together.

I couldn't find the clip with Ginsberg, but above is a whistle-wetter for the film of Dylan singing "One More Cup of Coffee." For those reading this in an email subscription, click here for the video above, here for the Fiedler video below and here for the Ford address at bottom with a great look at the tall ships of OpSail 1976.
​

By Caitlin Hawke

The extraordinary Bloomingdaler Florence Clinton Sutro (1865-1906) came to my attention thanks to reader Wilbur J.

He also shared the interior shots below of her home, with husband Theodore, at 320 W. 102nd Street. Designed by Alonso B. Kight, the Renaissance Revival townhouse at 320 W. 102nd Street, was first occupied by the Sutros. The interiors were meticulously photographed sometime soon thereafter and below, thanks to Wilbur, you will find the rosetta stone to Bloomingdale living 125 years ago. Daybed and desk huddle near the grand fireplace. Heavy velvet drapery stands at the ready to buffer the winter entering through the main door. High molded and vaulted ceilings top off burnished wood trimming everywhere. And an impressive cast iron stove gives rise to imagining the meals that must have come out of the kitchen (below).

The Sutros were on the NYC circuit of elites. And Florence was in many a vanguard. Cultural, social, intellectual.

Depicted above at the time of obtaining her law degree, she was better known as a painter and musician. Her musical talent manifested at a young age; she took a $1000 prize at 13, besting 950 other young musicians with her interpretation of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. She went on to study at the Grand Conservatory of New York where she was the first woman to graduate with a doctorate in music, all the while displaying her paintings at the National Academy of Design. Urged on by her financier-lawyer husband to take up his field, she graduated in 1891 as valedictorian from her law program at the University of the City of New York. In 1895, she published her book Women in Music and Law -- for which I am now hunting a printed version, but view the Hathi Trust digitized version here. Quite the niche she targeted. But hers was a quest to raise the profile of women in the arts and probably the law, too.

Together, the Sutros were champions of women's suffrage. In an April 1894 suffrage meeting, to warm applause, Theodore said: "That women do not have the privilege of the ballot seems to me contrary to all ideas of justice in this free country. It is only in accordance with principles of logic - and I might say grammar - that the word 'male' should be stricken from the Constitution."

It is highly likely that Harriot Stanton Blatch and Florence moved in the same circle living just six blocks apart.

I have not yet scratched the surface of the lives of these erstwhile neighbors. Theodore's two brothers Otto and Adolph have intriguing trajectories. Adolph was the first Jewish mayor of San Francisco and responsible for the Sutro baths, the ruins of which are out by the Cliff House near Land's End, San Francisco.

Florence is best remembered as the founder of the National Federation of Women's Music Clubs where her mission was to undo the discrimination against female musicians who were "not able to excel...due to existing prejudice." 

One can easily imagine these parlor and study rooms below filled with guests and tunes and intellectual discussions of all in this world that is just and beautiful and artful and female.

Something like a slice of Bloomsbury in Bloomingdale. 


h/t to Wilbur J. for flagging the Sutros!

​If anyone has any photos of the West 103rd Street head house of the subway station in the median from any period, please share them: blog@w102-103blockassn.org. Wilbur and I are interested in all details about it and in particular good images of it over the years it existed.

By Caitlin Hawke

Along the lines of my "Throwback Thursday, Bloomingdale Edition" and "From the Vault" posts, I continue to traffic in nostalgia for the neighborhood, both old-old and new-old ephemera. In a neighbor's files when questing for something else, I came across this 22-year-old NYT article from March 1997 that I, too, had clipped at the time. My thinking was: if I ever sell, this will prove to prospective buyers what a great neighborhood this is.

Ha!  Here we sit two decades later in this charming district -- now basically subsumed under the generic Upper West Side moniker -- wistfully remembering the days both when we were a little out of the way and when the median rent for a one-bedroom was $1800, and a one-bedroom co-op in 300 Riverside Drive went for $245K, a bag of shells to folks in the market today.

By and large, the piece holds up. I think you will enjoy it. If the print in the images is too small, you can read it in the NYT archives here.

And another thing about this piece, I like that the Times had it right with the surtitle: "If You're Thinking of Living in Bloomingdale."

Oh, dear. But first the headline screams "A Family Enclave That Some Call SoCo" -- for South of Columbia.  

Whaaa? Gimmearoyalbreak!

​I had a friend back in the 90s.  A bit sassy.  But smart.  She lived in this neighborhood when it was unchic by many realtors' standards to do so.  Frankly, I thought, let them think that! My neighbors and I could live with that illusion.  Preciously, I thought at the time, that friend called this area "Peru" since it was south of "Columbia." Fortunately that didn't stick. Nor has SoCo. On the other hand, I find myself wondering if there is a south of Columbia? It seems the university's reach may know no bound. 

So to all the would-be branders: Here's the thing. When you have a great name, don't mess.  It's Bloomingdale.  It's been Bloomingdale.  And Bloomingdale it will be.

You just don't change something that's been around since 1688.

And if you don't believe me, believe Gil Tauber.

By Caitlin Hawke

Neighbors, as many of you already well know, there's been a true blue spectacle of a miracle come true. 

Our beloved West Side Rag got in there first to cover a familiar sad song and then, heroically, to amplify the message of a couple New Yorkers who'd thrown up their sashes, mad as Hades, screaming "I'm not going to take it anymore."

It all started just a few short days ago when WSRag writer Carol Tannenhauser and publisher Avi Salzman put out into the ether a melancholic story the likes of which we've read time and time before. Death by a thousand cuts of Mom & Pops gone down. This time it was Westsider Books, longtime purveyor of used books at Broadway and 81st Street, putting out the last call and walking over to the light switch to call it a day.

What ensued was just plain amazing to watch in real time. Bobby Panza, inspired by a line in Carol's article, fired up a crowdfunder page on GoFundMe. Local philanthropist Sally Martell fueled the endeavor with a jump-starting $10K donation; the Rag got in there with its great coverage (major hat tip to Avi for being the pillar of UWS communications), and then other press outlets and booklover fora amplified the message thanks to Bobby.  In what seems like a blink over $50K was raised from 818 (and counting) donors from near and far at an average donation of 64 bucks.

That's right. You heard me. A line in the sand was drawn. A few angels lofted up on their wings. And a veritable flood of good-willed neighbors and bibliofolks stopped 'taking it' and started a grassroots blaze of love for...wait for it...used books. Books! Old New York. Simple, old-time, hardworking merchants. Honest trade. City texture. Cultural color. Apparently, we, together, hold these truths to be self evident.

That 50K enables the store's owners to live another day, to bridge to the future, and to remain. For now.

Old Bloomingdaler Christopher Ming Ryan got in there like he did for Joon Fish Market (covered in Part 2 of this series) and captured it on film with Evan Fairbanks in yet another beautiful mini-documentary. (If you are an email subscriber of this blog, to see it you have to go to the blog post title above and read this post online). 

Readers, that is what I call an excellent day in the neighborhood. But we're not off the hook. Lights go out up and down Broadway every month. And if we are not putting our boots on the ground and crossing their thresholds to support them, we have no right to be perturbed.

Put down your tablets and laptops and go drop some cash at our hardware stores, cobblers, delis (if you can find them), small restaurants and specialty stores. Tell them you love them with your business. Tell our city officials that commercial storefront vacancies are intolerable and antithetical to thriving cities.

And then bask in the glory of this miracle come true. The miracle is you.


With thanks to Bobby, Sally, Avi, Carol, Chris, Evan and to the owners of the 818 feet that were put firmly down punctuating the collective cry: "no more!" My heart is full of love for you all. And to the owners and staff of Westsider Books, long may you ride.

Above I am embedding the film that Chris and Evan made. More of Chris's labors of love may be viewed here: https://www.facebook.com/DisappearingNYC.

And I leave you with the "Lagniappe du jour" courtesy of Barry M.

By Caitlin Hawke

This is the second in what you might think of as a diptych of posts. My last Throwback post digging into the story of the Beastie Boys' genesis in the Grimm Building led me down a long rabbit hole of fascination for the structure. If you didn't see that one, click here to read the nitty gritty Beastie story.

For part two now, here in images from 1867 to present is a documentation of that remarkably unchanged site, the NW corner of 100th Street and Broadway.

​It's rare that a building is so well documented over the years, so the gallery was great fun to pull together.

Recall in my prior post that this site does not enjoy landmarked status thanks to the gimme carveouts all along Broadway -- see the map on the prior post to understand what this means.

I don't know. Maybe I am just too in love with the past. But it defies any sort of reason or logic that our preservationists wouldn't protect this special building. Before the wonky land use and real estate savvy folks start to get impatient with me, I do get that it has been altered over the years, and that the Metro owners put a lot into it to bring it back from decrepitude.  But so many readers have a huge place in their Bloomingdale hearts for this one, it just seems like a no-brainer that we, as a community, might go the extra mile for this nigh on 150 year-old structure.

​Enjoy the picture show below.  

To navigate this photo gallery, click on the arrows or press the play button.
Note: If you are reading this in an email subscription, you may have to click on the
blog post title to view the gallery, or click here.

By Caitlin Hawke

Last week, I left you with one version of a 2018 recap (if you missed it, you will find it here). Now, I want to look forward.

My father has a very particular, clean-and-dry 1950s style sense of humor. Throughout my childhood, he would ghostwrite wry insider predictions for the year to come for the New Year’s newsletter of a Congressman who shall remain nameless. Before he submitted them to be published under the Congressman's name, we would gather with my mother and siblings in the kitchen as my father read his cheeky premonitions aloud, cracking his own self up as we all laughed through the list. It’s a tradition that I miss.

So, in that spirit and with great admiration for my dad's humor, here now are my top ten predictions for Bloomingdale in 2019.

10. The long-mired construction of the W. 103rd Street brownstone will miraculously be expedited and completed in 2019, and in 2022 will be purchased by Senator-elect Ocasio-Cortez for use as her NYS HQ.

9. That Bloomingdaler Samantha Bee will take on the story of the Ginkgo of West End, giving it full Full Frontal treatment and sentencing the perp to a lifetime soundtrack of the soft-thudding sounds of ripe ginkgo berries falling on pavement and to a year's worth of meals that taste the way ginkgos smell.

8. That Henry Rinehart, formerly of Henry’s, will return to the restaurant business by transforming the old Abbey Pub into a swank new speak-easy and the password for entry will be “Bennie the Bum.”

7. That an important, show-stopping sculpture will be erected in the Broadway median at 106th Street opposite Straus Park — a long lost work that the American Venus, Audrey Munson, posed for in her old age, giving lie to the adage that youth is beauty, and turning that crossroads into the Mecca for Munson mavens the world over.

6. That instead of the hotly-lit plasmas delivering ads to us as a captive audience on the subway platform during our interminable waits, the MTA will instead feature gorgeous old pictures of the neighborhood celebrating the history of Bloomingdale curated by our own Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group.

5. That the granddaughter/son of the erst-while and missed owner, Jessie Salha, of Cafe Amiana, also known as Au Petit Beurre, will return in glory to the neighborhood and transform the now ridiculously-long-vacant HSBC space into a glorious plant-filled, warmly carpeted, electronic-device-free cafe with backgammon and chess sets for patrons young and old. It will become the new town square and a gold mine for the young entrepreneur, and greedy landlords throughout the catchment will rue their decision to leave storefronts empty when the way forward to everyone's good fortune was just sitting here all along.

4. That the DOT, in all its wisdom, will realize that their inability to cope with systemic flooding at curb cuts during winter melt is actually an asset; and with little extra effort (and less salt) they will turn these unjumpable puddles into full-fledged skating rinks simply by diverting the flow across the entire street. It is my further prediction that the great West End Avenue rinks will be subject of a takeover action by the Trump Organization in a vicious branding dispute which will last until global warming renders the legal action moot.

3. That soon a new app will make street parking profitable, not for the city but for the car owner, by allowing drivers to contract with the hit Falun Gong spectacle “Shen Yun” to place magnetized ads on your car doors, hoods and roofs, turning your alternate-side of the street jig into a lucrative new-economy gig causing you to leave your day job and no longer need a car.

2. That the Metro theater will finally come alive again as Bloomingdale’s — yes, the department store — finally opens an uptown branch in Bloomingdale, a long overdue hat tip to our naming rights and clearing up all confusion that we came first.

1. And my number one prediction for Bloomingdale in 2019 is that New Plaza Cinema, the start-up nonprofit group that grew from the ashes of Lincoln Plaza Cinema, will take up residency in the crazy old Turkuaz space, deeding back to the neighborhood its moving-loving future.

Happy New Year, neighbors. And may some of these actually come true.

By Caitlin Hawke

Well, neighbors, we’re coming quickly to the end of 2018. And I don’t know about you, but it sure flew by for me. I remember last year’s polar vortex like it was yesterday. 

Taking stock, I can measure the year in the number of blog posts I've gotten up, despite that I have such a backlog of potential posts. It puts me in a perpetual state of disappointment that I don’t have more time. Still, I looked at the log and see a grand total of 85 posts in 2018. That’s the most in one year since I started maintaining the site in April 2014. But the guilt persists, and I will try to roll out some of the treasures sitting in my desktop folder ominously marked "Blog To Do."

As I often write, our neighborhood is a very inspiring muse. Like Bob L. or John K. and so many others of you who love to “noodle” in different neighborhoods, I always enjoy a good city walk — looking for a bit of old New York. Or at least authentic New York. It’s getting harder to find, but it’s there in pockets. And those walks, no matter where, always remind me how much I love my home turf: bookended by two great parks, sleepier than the now mall-like UWS, relatively low-lying in terms of the architecture, and so luminous. Bloomingdale has it all.

Add to that the great history, and that’s what makes it so satisfying to chronicle.

Bloomingdale also has a tradition of community -- from the "Old Community" supplanted by Park West Village whose spirit truly lives on (and gave rise to the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group), to the community fostered by this Block Association with half a dozen events and four newsletters each year, to the communities that our neighboring block association and the one Bloomingdale Aging in Place has built over the last 10 years. That's just four quick examples, and there are many micro-communities in between, too.

When I reflect on what at times seems to be the electronic and political dystopia taking hold, I have to say all this community-building that has come naturally in Bloomingdale gives me quite a bit of hope going forward -- especially if new neighbors will join in, roll up sleeves and take up the tradition.

As part of my ongoing love letter to our piece of the Manhattan pie, I wanted to offer back up some of the slices from the year gone by — posts that have received great traffic from readers together with the ones I most enjoyed writing. It's far from an exhaustive list of the 2018 posts. But it's perhaps the cream.

Have a look at the links below and then perhaps you’ll write with your favorites to blog@w102-103blockassn.org or in the comments section of this post.

In any case, I appreciate that you read along throughout the year, and I send best wishes for an excellent 2019.  If you know nearby neighbors who would enjoy the blog, send them this link where they can subscribe.

And now to the Year in Blog Favorites....


​
To read each post, click on the corresponding image at left or the hyperlinked text. If you are reading this post in an email subscription, it may be easier to view directly on the website.

​• Bob on Broadway: Dylan's Powerful Residency at the Beacon
Then if you want, gild the lily with a post to honor his 77th birthday here.
Yes, a bit of a stretch for the Bloomingdale catchment, but I'm counting on you to humor me. It took all I had to refrain from writing about The Public's Girl from the North Country and its superb cast including the luscious drummer in red, the boxer, and Mare Winningham -- three actors who stole the show. Look for Girl on Broadway soon.

​• Beautiful Block of Riverside Drive: Seven Beauties in Our Midst
Author Dan Wakin digs into the history of 330-337 Riverside Drive.
Pictured at left: Bennie the Bum with the sawed-off leg, not pictured!

​• Women's Suffrage & Bloomingdaler Harriot Stanton Blatch
Elizabeth Cady Stanton's remarkable daughter Harriot (a babe in arms at left) lived right here. Read more about the fight in NYC to get women the vote, including the effort to get Columbia's men to the polls.

​• Nightmare on 102nd Street
Always a blog favorite, the annual Block Association Halloween Party "Ghouls' Gallery", replete with a visitation from King George the Wee. The party is just one offering of the Block Association; for other B.A. event coverage in 2018, see this link.

​• Estelle Parsons: Triple Threat of a Neighbor
What do I love about Miss Parsons? Everything!
Her intensity and her energy are her superpowers that allow her to thieve every scene she's in. Catch her in this Bloomingdale walkabout. Probably the year's most-viewed blog post!  The lady has a legion of fans.

​​• Manfred Kirchheimer's Time Encapsulated
​What do I love about filmmaker Manny Kirchheimer? Also everything!
​A Bloomingdaler for five and a half decades, he's chronicled the city in his contemplative documentaries along with the odd fiction such as the film "Short Circuit" at left, shot entirely in our neighborhood.

​​• Throwback Thursday Spotlights 1920 Victrola Store
​Throwback Thursday: Bloomingdale Edition is the section of the blog where I feature historical pictures and tidbits. A trove of these await publication, time permitting in 2019. Emanuel Blout's Victrola store, circa 1920, was my favorite this year. Have a TBT favorite? Let me know in the comments.
You can view all TBT: BE posts here.

​​• Throwback Thursday: The Divine Tight Line & Philippe Petit
​This TBT: BE post comes in a close second place.
​Discover the neighborhood feat of the great tightrope walker Petit, high on Amsterdam Avenue. And divine as ever.

​
​​• JFK Impersonator Vaughn Meader on the UWS
​JFK would have turned 101 in 2018 and in his honor this post unearths the wonderful two albums that comedian Vaughn Meader turned out before the stars fell down and the curtain closed on Camelot.

​​​• Catching Up with Hedy Campbell
​Four years and 330 posts ago, Hedy asked me to write for the blog. The idea was to pick up where the creators had left off and fill in the gaps between quarterly Block Association newsletter issues. Without breaking a sweat, Hedy has turned out the publication since 1987 -- a massive feat if ever there was one. The blog is child's play by comparison. I end the highlights of 2018 with Hedy because she is a neighborhood jewel whose efforts have helped build and sustain a community feeling now for over 30 years. It's a team effort to be sure, so this hat tip goes to all folks who value this organization.

And now is your chance to help sustain it!
​
Join us by becoming a member here.


Catch you in 2019 for more Throwbacks,
more Hyper Local Eats, more Bloomingdale,
and, yes, probably more Bob Dylan.
​Thanks for reading.

By Caitlin Hawke

On this blog, I've written a lot about enterprise on Broadway, so much so that there's a whole category at the right where I tag just those posts. (To dive in, you can see, in particular, Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 of the series I call "Empty Storefronts and the Changing Streetscape.)

Generally speaking, the series has chronicled the uptick in long-empty retail spaces, the loss of Mom & Pops, and the darkening of movie houses. Now I turn to the shuttering in October of three dine-in restaurants in such quick succession that if leaves me wondering if a new trend is afoot.

Either way, gone are Mezzogiorno, Il Gatto Nero and Henry's; all of these folded up shop in October.

Notoriously hard to sustain, eateries represent a key piece of the retail ecosystem. But they are as sensitive to rent and labor increases as any other commerce.  However, unlike the old Broadway shopper's pivot to patronizing etailers, New Yorkers still dine in their neighborhoods.

Take for example, the closure on October 14 of Mezzogiorno (2791 Broadway) which was in the old Indian Cafe space north of W. 107th Street. After a very lengthy, costly renovation, this gentrifier of an Italian spot opened in 2015 just as its owners were preparing to close the chic, decades-old SoHo location. A surprise to all, I think, they looked to Bloomingdale to resettle. I concluded at the time that the rent savings made the uptown operation viable. And yet three years later, it has closed. Perhaps Bloomingdalers didn't care for the higher price point or the flush old regulars didn't find their way uptown. The clock struck mezzanotte at Mezzogiorno, and their 31-year run is now over.

Then, Il Gatto Nero, just a block south at W. 106th Street (2758 Broadway), also closed suddenly in early October "unable to carry on in this economy." It had only been open a handful of months, having replaced the well-received but overpriced-for-what-it-was Macchina. That machine is now a ghost having died young, too. 

Yelp reviews praised each of these places (though there was the legendary takedown or two). And they attracted nods of approval from the Michelin guide, for what that's worth. They just didn't keep us pouring through their doors.

Of the three, the one loss that stings was Henry’s. News came only a week or two before the October 21 closure, when owner Henry Rinehart announced in an email his plans to move on from his Frank-Lloyd-Wrightian restaurant that stood at W. 105th Street for 19 years and bore his name. Henry's replaced Birdland for those of you who recall back to the space's jazzier days. Rinehart’s reason was "a change in personal and professional priorities." The business has now passed to Henry’s partner chef Scott Snyder and his Boulevard Seafood Company, soon to be reviewed in these pages.  You may be relieved to learn that the famous kale salad will die another day since Chef Snyder didn't nudge it off the menu.

Under Rinehart, Henry's was, to many, a Cheers -- the sitcom bar made famous by an ensemble of wry barflies yearning for a 'third place' to take a break from their worries. Hopping bar scene. Sports mecca. Brunch spot. Outdoor cafe. Neighborhood sing-in club. An ample Thanksgiving table away from the hearth or for the weary home cook. A place where if they didn't know your name, at least they acknowledged you as a regular. Henry’s had it all and was a big player in the community. And if that isn't enough, Henry himself was an advocate for healthier school lunches.

I don't doubt that many felt Henry's had its gentrifying side when it first took root. It was always a bit above other local haunts in terms of cost. I noticed that prices crept upward recently. Perhaps to fend off what became an inevitable battle to reap profit out of such expansive square footage. Alas, Henry's is no more.

To paraphrase James Carville, I wonder if what I am observing isn’t along the lines of the temple-thumping exclamation: “It's the rent, stupid!” — similar to the problem with the Mom & Pop die off. But the answer may be more complex. Restaurants might be competing with the availability of high-end prepared foods that come from Whole Foods or West Side Market, or with the quality specialty ingredients home cooks can now find at Trader Joe’s and H Mart, among other groceries.

As I say above, restaurants don’t yet seem to be victims of etailers like Amazon, but is something other than rent pressure weighing on the old-style dine-in spots? Is it that the market only bears up to a certain menu price point around here? Or is it just a matter of time before more Serafinas move in, more large restaurants go vacant, or just more turnover occurs?

Fortunately, city council members regularly take up the topic of commercial rents, mindful of all the vacancies. Unfortunately, the needle never moves much. It seems early to say, but we might be seeing a little progress with new legislation sponsored and small business committee hearings held by Ydanis Rodriguez. Councilmember Helen Rosenthal is also a proponent.

Called the “Small Business Jobs Survival Act,” the bill aims to define conditions and requirements for commercial lease renewal negotiations, requirements for lease renewal terms, arbitration-triggering conditions, limits on security deposits, and prohibitions on landlord retaliation.

I’ve been writing about the changing streetscape a lot because some days I feel like we’re in the 11th hour, the 59th minute of what I view as a retail crisis on Broadway. And while restaurants may not be as endangered as Mom & Pop retailers, I truly hope we don't wait until the last minute to solve the economics of Broadway. We can see with our own eyes that the law of supply and demand has been subverted. But it can be fixed.  But sadly not in time to sing for our supper at Henry’s.

By Caitlin Hawke

Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors. Let it be said that the week was good to us on Broadway. For starters, after a good soaking rain, we got repaved up in Bloomingdale (thank you DOT -- not a moment too soon). And a wee mile south of here, Bob Dylan gave us a little shelter from the storm.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you might roll your eyes that I am squeezing Dylan in again. But I can't help it. The idea that the nonplussed Nobelist would take up a seven-night residency in my neighborhood gave me two full months of delicious anticipation. Over the weeks, I sprinkled in a couple of trips to The Public to see Conor McPherson's play "Girl from the North Country" to stave off the yearning. It satisfied and distracted me enough to get me to Thanksgiving and then just one week remained 'til I walked down our main drag to the Beacon to take in Dylan's fifth of seven Upper West Side shows.

Before I tell you about the concert -- and like Donald Fagen, Ringo Starr, and the irredeemable jerk who ruined the most beautiful ballad of the show last night before he was ejected by Beacon muscle, perhaps you also made your way to the Beacon and will tell me in the comments how you experienced this round -- I need to say a little something about this Homer from Hibbing, notorious for thin wild mercury ways. 

One: he never, ever, ever gives you what you think you are going to get or even what (you think) you want. Let me give you an analogy that comes from a past experience. Say you were cooking with Bob. And you both decided that you would get home early, lay out all the ingredients and then when he got home you would cook together. And say you had in mind using what was familiar and on hand. So, you saw reason to make an omelet and set out eggs, which you pre-beat, some onions, tomatoes, perhaps some cheese. When he comes home, you think to you yourself, the two of you will jump into action, utterly in sync, and whip that omelet up. Man gets home. Sees the path you are leading him down. Feels a tad fenced in. And before you know it, he's added bonito flakes, shredded seaweed and toasted sesame seeds to your eggs and is serving it up katsu-style over rice. Your head spins.

I am not sure if you follow my digression. But Bob will not be defined. Nor will he go where you want or expect. Best to come to your seat and see what the Master whips up. And just be thankful he's still cookin'.

Two: his Nobel was for literature, but it could just as easily have been for the art of imitation. He is the ne plus ultra of mimicry. His muse comes in many forms, and one is to incarnate others. Think Johnny Cash and country Bob's Nashville Skyline Voice. Think of his blues. His gospel. His Rolling Stones-like Rock and Roll. Think of his recent crooning and complete embodiment of Sinatra. When Bob goes on an impersonating jag, he goes deep and he goes long.

So, on Thursday night, I was open to the unexpected. Last year this time, he was Bing-Bob, Sinatra-Bob. But my friends, after five full LPs of ol' Blue Eyes covers, the crooner fever seems to have broken.

Instead we got a concept show of Bob deconstructing Bob.  Bob on Bob, if you will.

Beacon-Bob has delivered this whole week long a resounding reply to Bruce Springsteen's Broadway gig. Where Bruce was stripped down, solo, Bob was still kitted out with the best band in the business. But make no mistake: this show was to Springsteen's like a response to a call. 

He crafted it to be fully immersive. From the curtain that rose (see what I mean about Bruce on Bway?) telling us we were in a show, to the uniform-clad boys in the band in that bath of warm incandescent lighting, to the sumptuous set with his gleaming Oscar for "Wonder Boys" and an unexplained classical bust of a woman on prominent display, to the shiny baby grand that he would Jerry-Lee-Lewis into submission: Dylan's point this week -- and presumably on this leg of the Never Ending Tour -- was to create an ambiance and a full-on 'concept spectacle.' And once the physical part of the stage was set, he and his boys turned to the metaphysics of this concept piece: the playing, and the smithing of the old into the new.

Throughout the concert, I kept imagining how each new rendition of so many deeply familiar songs had come to their novel melodies and arrangements.  Was it Bob solo in his studio reworking them? Did he consult a producer? Did the band work it all out together?  My best guess it the former. What's true is that he always does this change up, switching in new melodies and making old songs hard to recognize until the chorus betrays the novelty. Akin to the way a jazz musician riffs and keeps it interesting, Bob's method can hardly be faulted; he's been out on the road for 50 years. Clearly, performing scratches an itch for him. But strictly on his terms. And he refuses to let his art bore or grind him down.

When Paul Simon retired from touring recently, he said he'd been out there so long he felt like he was a cover band for his own music, phoning in "You Can Call Me Al" and deriving no pleasure from being a performance monkey, feeling the audience's demand to deliver each song precisely as recorded to no longer be a bearable endeavor.

At the Beacon this week, on our boulevard, Dylan delivered transformative versions of his songs, not stripped down like Bruce Springsteen's. But tightly conceived to pack in the ambiance he wanted to stagecraft: spiked with American 1950s music, Jerry Lee Lewis was definitely in the house. Tinged with some rocking Warren Zevon. There was even a trace of Daniel Lanois, though Dylan would fight that thought.

To understand, you have to listen for yourself. I am putting a link to a rough recording of Tuesday night's show at the bottom of this post (if you are receiving this in an email, you'll need to click on the title of the post at top to go to the blog page and stream it from there). But if you feel it's a slog to go through the whole concert or if you are not a Dylanista but are a bit curious, perhaps skipping to these three selections will make it easier on you, and yes, I get that this is an acquired taste, the rough audience recording and the gruff singing. So if it's not for you, it's not for you.

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right 1:09:35
Gotta Serve Somebody 1:32:09
Blowin' In The Wind 1:42:44

Keep in mind that listening to the guerilla concert recording won't come close to the full experience Dylan conceived for this residency.

So, better yet try to get in! You have exactly ONE more chance in this limited UWS engagement because on Saturday night after the last gig, he pushes on for Philly where he's the inaugural act for "The Met Philadelphia" -- Oscar Hammerstein's eponymous grandfather's 110-year-old opera house.

In our nation's first capital, I can't think of a better fanfare to herald the Met's new life than a performance by our national treasure declaring his independence. As indeed he does every time he goes on stage.

That's Dylan. "Always on the outside of whatever side there was. When they asked him why it had to be that way, 'Well,' he answered, 'just because.'"

The full concert recording above will not appear if you are receiving this in an email; click on the title of the post to see the video on the blog or go to youtube.

By Caitlin Hawke

It's late on a Thursday so you'll have this throwback on Friday. But do come travel with me in time to just about two months after Black Tuesday, 1929. The new year 1930 has been rung in, it's good and cold, the Great Depression has begun. But unemployment won't peak for three more years in the city. 

And the great bellowing lung of our neighborhood, Straus Park, pays it all no heed. For here is a town square where folks of all ages come to inhale the fresh, crisp air and to entertain one another. An era before TV, the golden age of radio shines by night, but by day by golly the folks are out.

Fortunate in many ways, but in one we are not: we lack a town square. We lack that knowledge that you can fall out on a daily basis into the local pocket park and meet all your neighbors. It's why I love the yard sales that the Block Associations put on.  It's why BAiP's community-building mission is so needed.

We have forgotten how to commune in our own backyard.

The video below is extraordinary for its quality, its crystal clear sound, and the uncanny you-are-there feeling. See Straus Park -- less green, ok -- but more vibrant than you've ever seen it before. See all modes of 1930s transportation, including a rollerskater and a period pram. Get a good gander at Broadway looking north from its intersection at West End Avenue. And get a peep of the back of "Memory" -- far from the star of this movie.

It's perfection. A talkie of a time capsule. And it's yours if you click on the image above since if you are reading this in an email subscription the video won't play.

​Enjoy!

h/t to the West Side Rag comments section for bringing this beaut to the surface.

The "One from the Vault" feature plumbs the archives of back issues of block association newsletters for new neighbors and lovers of our community and its history.  To read others pieces from the vault, click on the category at right.


By Caitlin Hawke

First, I want to note the kindness of Chris Brady who gave me permission to illustrate this post with his technicolor photos of the Movie Place (TMP), the way it was. I found them at Chris's photo feed here a while back, and they stopped me cold, for the love of a place I remember so well. I've been saving them for you.

Incredibly, gone for 12 years already, the Movie Place hasn't come close to being replaced around here in its role as a neighborhood hub drawing from north, south, east and west. Never mind its mom-and-pop-edness.

The last owner of TMP was Gary Dennis, who is equally known for his efforts to get Humphrey Bogart his due by the dubbing of W. 103rd Street for him, replete with a ceremonial appearance of Bacall. Yes, right here in Bloomingdale.

I wrote a piece about that here last year. 

Now I love Bogie and Bacall as much and perhaps more than most. But it takes a force of nature like Gary to move city elements -- NYCHA et al -- get the naming done. So I want you to remember that when you are walking the block between West End Avenue and Broadway on 103rd staring at a "This is Us" rerun on your smartphone. Look Up! For the love of the silver screen, look up. Look up from your big sleep and appreciate that you trace Humphrey DeForest Bogart's footsteps as he left his home at 245 W. 103rd St. and padded over to the Trinity School. He lived there from about December 25, 1899 until he enlisted in the navy in 1918.

But I digress.

I still see Gary around from time to time. At a Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group meeting last year, he gave a great presentation on the neighborhood as portrayed in films. Many chase scenes later, he had the audience eating out of his hands.

He used to keep a wonky blog on lost cinema houses. And I think he still gives tours.  Bloomingdale born, Gary grew up loving movies. Ironic then that when it was a novelty, everyone said his was the voice that used to animate the old "Moviefone" reservation line. And that amused me. You remember the Moviephone? It's the line you dialed that responded in a quasi-human voice: "Hello, and welcome to Moviefone! Using your touchtone keypad, please enter the first three letters of the movie title now."

If you don't know the voice I am talking about, here's a fun clip. It's not, spoiler alert, Gary Dennis. But he sure coulda been a contender.

TMP lasted in situ for 22 years, and it is now gone for 12. Together, that's more than the full lifespan of the Betamax.

Yes, 12 years ago, our mecca of movies closed, and it was noteworthy enough for the New York Times to weigh in. If you never had the pleasure of pushing through the door into the high-ceilinged space bustling with first dates, lonely hearts, groups of buddies and old couples riffling through bins of movie titles, you haven't lived.

Sorry, but it was a thing.

People came from many neighborhoods away to partake. To feast in the selection.  And to go home with armfuls of movies. To come back three days later and do it all again.

It wasn't just the selection. It was the connoisseurship. The guys and a couple of gals behind the counter each had a specific taste. You could ask anyone anything and with just a few hints at what you liked, out poured 5 or 10 suggestions of other films to watch. An algorithm in flesh and blood. It's called a brain and memory, actually. And it worked.

Yet it wasn't just the connoisseurship, it was also the place.  Patina would be a nice way of describing the layers of this loft-like store. Grime would be a bridge too far. Let's call it wabi-sabi.

If the Movie Place were a rock star, it would have been Keith Richards.

Yes, technology has transformed our world since then.  And yes many don't even feel the need for a screen bigger than an iPad to enjoy a film, old or new. And yes, I'll even cede that streaming a movie is more convenient.  But algorithms will never replace synaptic encyclopedias like the brain that is Gary Dennis's or that of the employees, some of whom, thankfully, still live in the neighborhood with their dogs or their now-grown kids. And for what the human touch is still worth, you can't get that kind of prickle online. Or snark. Or voice. Or, truth be told, that warmth.

Starbucks will never replace the town-square feeling that was the Movie Place on a Friday night.  And Tindr will never be as electric with possibility as browsing the Nouvelle Vague section over a handsome guy's shoulder.

Seek no more the ghost of the Movie Place, let loose to wander since 2006. For it is here. And this one from the vault of Block Association newsletters is a David Reich original. Scroll all the way down to read it.

Enjoy!

By Caitlin Hawke

Thanks to the considerable efforts of a load of brave people of the female persuasion like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, her daughter and Bloomingdaler Harriot Stanton Blatch, Susan B. Anthony, and Gertrude Foster Brown, it was 101 years ago tomorrow that New York State accorded women the right to vote, helping to pave the way three years later for the 19th Amendment. And by New York State, I really mean New York City, because if you look at the county by county breakdown (scroll all the way down), our urban forebears padded the 80,000 vote margin of victory.

The day that women's suffrage was on the ballot, 12,000 women stood on corners throughout the city encouraging people of the male persuasion, aka the then voters, to grant women the vote.

They were angry women. Docile women. Black women. Chinese women. Uppity and arrogant women. Handsome and plain women. "Women who knew their place." Working women. Moms and daughters. Religious women. Temperate women. Righteous women. Organized women. Women who loved men. Women who loved women. Women who persisted.

And lo! That day nearly half a million men voted with -- and really for -- them all.

The NYC Women Suffrage Party was looking for twice that turnout in support. They advertised in Columbia's Spectator the day before shooting for a million-man team. But I can't fault them for dreaming big.

In and among all of this rich history of suffering for suffrage, there's a gem: the overlooked story of Elizabeth Cady Stanton's daughter, Harriot Stanton Blatch, is one my readers will relish. Harriot, according to Douglas Feiden writing in Our Town New York for last year's centennial, was an inveterate upper west sider who  lived at 250 Riverside Drive, right here at W. 97th Street.

Harriot had the distinction of living through most of the battle for women's suffrage, beginning as a babe in the arms of her mother, the battle's field marshal. Harriot grew to be a force to be reckoned with in Manhattan as the battle waged on to its glorious end on November 6, 1917.

Says Feiden: "Among [Blatch's] triumphs: In 1907, she founded the Equality League of Self-Supporting Women, which trained working-class women to campaign for suffrage and was “open to any woman who earns her own living, from a cook to a mining engineer. Then in 1910, she organized the city’s first blockbuster suffrage parade, a march down Fifth Avenue climaxing in a giant rally in Union Square. Blatch and thousands of like-minded activists transformed virtually every nook and cranny of Manhattan — its streets, salons, townhouses, tenements, clubhouses, concert halls, vaudeville houses, boarding houses, hotels, parks, pools, auditoriums, alleyways and office buildings — into a living, breathing operational base for the suffrage movement."

New York was far from the first state to let women into the voting club. But that's a digression. What's important is that the ultimate change came through the grassroots of the states. And that it took a long, long time. Ohio voted women's suffrage down on that same day. But New York's upvote cranked the motor hard.

Vagaries of our 'states rights' vs. 'federal rights' dynamic are evident throughout our legal system, from managing voting, to our banking system, to the electoral college to name only a few. These will likely persist, thanks to our country's reverence for its founding documents. And anyone who rides the subway knows the vagaries of state-controlled city budgets despite larger urban tax bases and headcounts.

What the story of 1917 tells us is that our populousness in the Big Apple matters. It matters to the state. And it matters to the federation. Our votes do count. History bears that out.

Today, I am grateful to those excellent women, like the ones above, who got out there 100+ years ago in each neighborhood of NYC. The women who patiently organized for decades. The people who made up the Women's Suffrage Party. And to the half million male voters of New York State on November 6, 1917 who just plain did the right thing.

Tomorrow, five score and a year later, the country will be looking to New Yorkers again.

Find  your poll. Tip your (big, black, feathered) hat to the Stantons, mère et fille.  Grab your umbrella. And hit the street, thinking about what corners all across the city looked like 101 years ago: 10, 15, 30 women deep. Recall for a moment those men who voted to enfranchise at long last their wives, sisters, mothers, grandmothers, aunts and lovers in the great state of New York.

And make your way to cast your vote as if someone else's suffrage depends on you.
​

By Caitlin Hawke

Kids weren't the only tribe out in force on Wednesday evening in Bloomingdale. Photogs Ozzie Alfonso, Celia Knight (at right in candy corn scarf, I swear!), Maria Vitagliano and David Ochoa were lying in wait to capture the wee sugar-fueled neighbors.

While one or two King Georges were spotted, there were no Hillary Rodham Clintons in the ratpack, but someone needs to say "It takes a village"!  'Cause it does.

Just look at that table of goodies below. Yowza.

This was of course thanks to your Block Association vols who made it all come true.

Hat tip to child-at-heart and toothfairy accomplice Jane Hopkins (depicted above in the boa and orange witch hat), who has been the field marshal for nigh on forever -- all right, not quite that long, but you get the picture. To her team of big kids who dole out the dough. To the good folks at St. Luke's who always pitch in. To the donors who made contributions of candy, time, and dollars. And to the families who came, saw and conquered the treats and the streets.

If you are sitting on the sidelines, thankful that we have a community-building association in our midst, consider pitching in and helping the Block Association. We're looking for why-oh-ewe!  To volunteer, email us at info@w102-103blockassn.org. To become a member, click here.

And now to our gallery: "Nightmare on 102nd Street!"  If you know someone in these pictures, send them this link and tell them to subscribe to the blog: https://www.w102-103blockassn.org/blog/nightmare-on-102nd-street.

By Caitlin Hawke

October 31 -- this Wednesday -- is fast approaching. If you are not planning on coming out after sundown to lurk with the best of us on W. 102nd Street and West End Avenue, you are gonna be missing the best night of the year in Boo-mingdale.

Details in the poster below.

Here's a shoutout to the Schuyler sisters who, via their dad, have a special connection to our neighborhood and make for a spooky jack-o-lantern. (Hat tip to young Honora Overby who posted her creation on Twitter).  Good enough to send squash sculptor Saxton Freymann out of his gourd with pride.

Stay tuned to this channel for the post-parade photo gallery like this one from a past year. If you plan to have your camera that night, send your best pix to blog@w102-103blockassn.org. I'll post shots of costumed munchins big and small.

By Caitlin Hawke


Manfred Kirchheimer has lived in our neighborhood for 54 years and his days of glory seem just to be getting going. Manny is an 87-year-old independent filmmaker. His documentaries are direct, personal, and driven by an aesthetic sense that can find narrative, meditative beauty, and social commentary in the claw of a huge excavator or a klatch of coffee-drinking friends.

Manny is a documentarian who received a Guggenheim at the age of 85, and a year later, in 2017, was honored by MoMA with its first retrospective of his films. The series unfurled over nine days with two screenings of each of his films and a world premiere of his film “My Coffee with Jewish Friends.”  The MoMA reviews were great.

The retrospective was the brainchild of Jacob Perlin, a sort of guardian angel of cinema. Jake is the artistic and programming director down at the Metrograph, now in its second year.

A little digression here about the Metrograph, which if you don’t yet know it, is worth the trek to 7 Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side. Yes, you have to be able to tolerate its chi-chi side with a hipster restaurant-bar, not to mention the concessions stand which you just have to see and judge for yourself.

These revenue drivers, I suppose, are part of the business model to keep it afloat in today’s real estate market. But at its heart, the Metrograph is about cinephilia, screening archive-quality 35 mm films as well as new releases on state-of-the-art digital equipment. Quirky seating was made from reclaimed pine harvested from the now-demolished Domino Sugar factory. It’s a minimalist, gallery-type setting but that doesn’t stop the two-screen movie house from conjuring up the littlest film houses in Paris’s Latin Quarter, where you slip in and fall back in time.

The Metrograph has screened several of Manny’s films. “Tall,” Manny’s documentary about the American skyscraper and architect Louis Sullivan, ran there for five weeks and kept reeling them in.

The Metrograph-MoMA-Manny bridge is Jake Perlin. Jake became a celebrator of Manny’s work a while back and Manny now refers to him as his “agent.” The Jake-Manny story began when a cult classic of Manny’s film, “Stations of the Elevated,” went out of print from 1995 to 2014. It is known as the classic graffiti documentary.  Now a precious time capsule, it was shot over three weeks in 1977, released in 1980, and is somewhat surrealistic according to Manny. It forms a diptych with “SprayMasters,” which is about four graffiti artists in their 50s. Separated from “Stations” by 28 years, “SprayMasters” (2008) combines footage left over from the former with recent interviews of the artists.

VHS copies of “Stations” have circulated for years fueling its cult status, most recently on platforms like YouTube. Like all underground cult classics, it needed to ride again, but one major hurdle blocked it: the prohibitive cost of music rights. The score included Charlie Mingus and Aretha Franklin. To rerelease it meant to cough up $30K. That’s budget enough for two or three films, the way Manny works. So Jake rose to the challenge, got the rights, and “Stations” is back in circulation.

Perlin eventually found his way to Manny’s Broadway and W. 101st Street living room to see the documentaries on real film –- projected as they were meant to be. He quickly pulled in Josh Siegel,  MoMA's film department curator and, together at Manny’s home, they screened film after film. The idea for the retrospective was hatched and the rest, as they say, is history.

I caught up with Manny a few months ago and interviewed him. How was it to have this late career recognition? “It’s absolutely wonderful to have this moment,” he told me, “and it wouldn’t have happened at 40 years old. You have to live a long time!”

Manny retired from the School of Visual Arts in 2017 after teaching there for 42 years. He has taught for much of his career at places like CCNY, Columbia, NY Institute of Technology, and Philadelphia College of Art. But his movie-making days are far from done. “Dream of a City,” a tone poem about construction and other city phenomena, will be released soon.  He is currently editing his new film, “Middle Class Money, Honey,” based on conversations with friends and acquaintances –- from millennials to octogenarians –- about earning, spending, and their relationship to money as they live in NYC.

Manny emigrated to the U.S. at the age of five. Early on, he lived in upper Manhattan, including Marble Hill and Washington Heights. After a short decade in Rego Park, he moved to the UWS in 1964 where he raised his two sons with his wife Gloria, a partner in crime when it comes to the documentary-making family trade. For example, following Manny's documentary film "We Were So Beloved," which dealt with the history of the Jewish community in which he was raised, Gloria edited and annotated the interviews and these became the book "We Were So Beloved: Autobiography of a German Jewish Community" co-authored by the couple.

Before coming to our neck of the woods, the Kirchheimers had been looking for a new place for two years. At the time, Manny was filming “Claw” on the Upper West Side. It was Gloria who found the new apartment. Manny recalled that their original rent for seven rooms was $233, including electric. Suffice it to say, they snapped it up.

I asked him how he keeps his enterprise nimble and manageable. The secret, he says, is that he stays close to home. Because financing takes years, he keeps sets and travel to a minimum. He has a devoted crew, some of whom are his former students, and shoots only on digital these days. He can film for about $5,000 before getting to the sound mixing; that costs another $3,000. He edits the films himself -- generally a one to two-year process.

He filmed “Short Circuit” -- a rare fiction in his catalogue and dating to 1973 -- in and from his W. 101st Street apartment, much of it straight out his window. From there, his camera filmed westward straight down 101st Street to the undeveloped Jersey side of the Hudson, and south down Broadway with a good look at several old-time storefronts. Like the shot at the top of this post, the images of the neighborhood are excellent. And the documentary-style footage is remarkable for both how integrated Broadway is and the degree to which people on the street engaged with one another -- something that has been completely displaced by cellphone usage. The story is also one about complexities of race relations and socioeconomics. The following description comes from the Union Docs website where the film was shown in 2014:

"In his apartment on the corner of 101st Street and Broadway, a documentary filmmaker begins to question his interactions to the white family and black workers he shares his daily existence with. Staring out his window he begins to drift and fantasize a parallel life, which turns into a complex sound and image montage of street photography depicting a long­ since vanquished Upper West Side. Full of doubt, a lifelong city resident looks at his liberalism and doesn’t like what he sees. Constructed reality and documentary fiction, an unclassifiable masterpiece of ideas and technique that by all rights should be considered a landmark, had it not been virtually impossible to see."

One of his most well-known films, “Canners,” (2017) was largely shot on the Upper West Side. It’s about the industry begat by the 5-cent deposit on soda cans and water bottles. It’s social commentary and anthropology and art, rolled into one.

I asked Manny about the retrenchment of west side cinema, dwindling into oblivion before our eyes. He fondly remembered the 1986 screening of “We Were So Beloved” at the Metro, right around the corner from his place. And he recalled Dan and Toby Talbot, their New Yorker theater having been torn down, moving to the Metro for some years. The Talbots of course went on to build the Upper West Side's taste for foreign and independent film at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. There, this past fall, one of the last films Dan chose –- not knowing it would be Lincoln Plaza Cinema’s swansong -- was Manny’s “My Coffee with Jewish Friends,” which ran until the very last day of LPC, opening shortly after Dan passed away.

I asked him to reflect on his body of work. Like children, how could Manny point to his favorite of his films? He hedged by telling me that by financial measure, the most successful so far have been “We Were So Beloved” with “Stations” incredibly only in second place. I suspect that might change with more time.

But, he softened and replied, “Claw” was his favorite. Asked why, he explained “I think I sank my heart into it and then it came out so nicely. It’s a good film.”

You can have a look at a series of Manny's film trailers here. And keep your eye open for the next chance to see these in an art house.

Right under our noses lives Manny Kirchheimer, a filmmaker who is part of the city’s history, recording it, making it, while instructing aspiring filmmakers as to the ways of observing, commenting and documenting.

Until there’s a new house or Lincoln Center picks up on Mannymania, I guess I’ll have to say “See you at the Metrograph!”

I am embedding above a very short film on Manny made by one of his SVA students, Bianca Conti. If you are reading this in your email subscription, click on the blog post title to view this directly on the blog.

By Caitlin Hawke

My guess is you'd have to have been born by 1960 or earlier to hear the name Vaughn Meader and begin to chuckle.  An old-time Bloomingdaler, Manhattan Mark, turned me on to this comedian and JFK impersonator whose 1962 album "The First Family" captured everyone's attention and won the Grammy for best album of the year.

It is hilarious. Good, clean, spoofing fun is made of JFK, Jackie, Bobby, Teddy, the kids and members of the kitchen cabinet.  Kids listened with their parents.  Adults popped it on the turntable after dinner parties. It flew out of stores as the fastest selling album ever with 1.2 million records sold in the first fortnight.

It was such a sensation that Kennedy quipped at one function that Vaughn Meader wasn't able to make it so he had come instead.

If you listen to the full first album at the bottom of this post (email subscribers, click on the post's title to listen to it on the website), you'll see Meader's spot on mimicry of Kennedy's accent and cadence and even the JFK wit.  It's so innocent and so clean by today's standards you'll be charmed.  And it plays as a very interesting counterpoint to contemporary comedians' take on the current POTUS.

To get to the UWS connection, the second volume, which Meader released in 1963, includes an adorable on-site interview with 2nd, 3rd and 4th graders at the Alexander Robertson School at 95th Street and Central Park West.  The first video below is teed up to take you right to the kids (you can rewind to listen to the whole record).  Make sure to listen to the first album when you have time -- the second video below.

The timing of the Volume 2 release was not felicitous, arriving in stores just a few months before Dallas. Meader's soaring popularity and lighthearted appeal had no place in the darkness and aftermath of JFK's assassination. The second album was withdrawn from stores. Meader's career never recovered, and he said that he himself also died on November 22nd.

That part of his career did go away, but Meader lived on through the tumult of the Sixties and had a few more turns to his career. He died in October 2004.

May 29th is the 101st anniversary of JFK's birth, and this is my nod to the legend that lives on.  And to a comedian whose timing was both excellent and terribly bad.

Above is an excerpt from Volume 2 featuring Vaughn Meader's visit to an elementary school on Central Park West and 95th Street circa 1962/3.  (To stream this in your browser if you are reading this via email, click here).

Above is the entire recording of "The First Family" -- Vaughn Meader's knockout comedy album of 1962.  (To stream this in your browser if you are reading this via email, click here).

By Caitlin Hawke

Note: For readers who prefer me to keep it hyper-local here on the Block Association blog, please indulge me today. It's a New York story, with traces of the Upper West Side. But it's a special occasion.


Losing Philip Roth is a body blow. I haven't processed his death yet, but I mention it because of the joy his writing has given me. Sentences that go on at the length of mini-novellas. Laugh-out-loud humor impregnating even the darkest of novels. Stories so imaginative, prophetic, true.

The magnetism of his narrative voice and sheer force of his imagination was singular.

And yet, as he'd announced and then enacted the halt of his writing career, I'd grown used to the idea that he was done producing and had chosen the Upper West Side as his home away from his Connecticut home. Over the last couple of years, there were many sightings of Roth near the American Museum of Natural History (he lived at 130 West 79th Street). And at 85, I thought hopefully, he still had a long time here with us. That comforted me.

When the Nobel brouhaha erupted recently, suspending the literature award this year, I thought: 'Philip hang in there old chap, 2019 is yours.' 

Alas, no.

Sort of like a Bizarro universe version of the Lance Armstrong Tour de France "victories" which now all have asterisks and blanks where his name once appeared, I propose that we ink in Roth for the 2018 Nobel-that-cannot-be and be done with it. Like swearing in Merrick Garland at the next possible chance. Because it's the right thing to do.

I know this is a very roundabout way of getting to Bob Dylan. And some readers may spontaneously link the two by way of the Nobel. Many felt Roth should have gotten it the year Bob Dylan did, figuring the prize committee would not name back to back US laureates. Some were outright scandalized that Dylan got it at all.

Not me. But it smarts that Roth's chances are now done.

Philip Roth and Bob Dylan are filed in the very same drawer of my brain right beside each other. Send me to a desert island and that's who I am taking. Just me and my American boys.

Their work provides a roadmap for our society. Rosetta stones decoding what it was to be American-born in the 30s and 40s. Creative consciences for when we'd veered off course. Commenters on hypocrisies peddled by politicians. And unabashed patriots whose Americanism defines them.

They are also wordsmiths unlike any others, Kilauea-like in productivity.

And so onto Bob who turns 77 today. I felt in the mood to celebrate him rightly.

I'm not asking you to like his voice. But it deserves a second listen. I'm not asking you to understand why he's not surrendered his personal life to the relentless tabloid consumer. But it merits respect and contemplation in an Instagram world, where Kardashians rule. I'm not asking you to sweep aside his 1960s self in favor of his post-Time Out of Mind full-bodied smoothness. But you could consider it. Nor would I insist you revisit the wrongly-reviled Gospel era. His born-again phase has already been born again with critics exalting it. If you live long enough, you see everything. And "Trouble No More" has been at long last deemed worth the trouble.

Bob Dylan contains multitudes, but he couldn't be what he is without his epic rise during his New York years.

Marguerite Yourcenar wrote that "the true birthplace is that wherein for the first time one looks intelligently upon oneself."  What makes Bob one of us is that his true birthplace is New York City.

This I know.

At his post-9-11 concert at Madison Square Garden, we -- all 19,000 of us -- were broken, shellshocked sleepwalkers. No matter which song Dylan chose the night of November 19, 2001, he found a way to comment on what the city had just been through, how we felt about NYC, how senseless the attack was, how we mourned the victims. His lyrics are that encompassing. But the songwriter also chose his setlist carefully. "Waiting for the Light to Shine," "Lonesome Day Blues," "Searching for a Soldier's Grave," and finally "Things Have Changed." There were lines like the following pouring out of those songs, resonating against the 9-11 backdrop:

"Folk lose their possessions, the folks are leaving town." "I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'." "If the bible is right, the world will explode." "Some things are too hot to touch, the human mind can only stand so much." "There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke."

With Ground Zero still smoldering and the spate of anthrax attacks fresh on everyone's mind, things were quite raw. And that night at the Garden, it was his references to our hometown and Dylan's own demeanor that were tenderest. With Larry Campbell and Charlie Sexton alongside him and the rest of one great Dylan touring band, he launched into "Tom Thumb's Blues" with its "I'm going back to New York City, I do believe I've had enough" earning a collective roar. And then nearing the end of his performance, in acknowledgment of the roomful of pain, Dylan pronounced: 'No one needs to tell me how I feel about New York City.'

This provoked a catharsis because Dylan had just made it very personal, a rare glimpse of the flesh and bones behind the song and dance man. There are other wonderful memories of that night, but I'll keep it about New York for now. And New York Town's 77 year-old son.

In his honor on this day, I give you below Bob Dylan in a New York state of mind.

(Email subscribers: you'll have to click on the blog post title to see the videos on our site).

"Hard Times in New York Town," 1962

"Talkin' New York," live at Town Hall, 1963

"Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues," 1965-66

"It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," 1965 - One interpretation says this was Dylan slamming the door on the city's folk and protest singer scene. That of course could be disputed. I'm including it because it's hard to top.

"Visions of Johanna," 1966 - a slowed down live version from a Sheffield concert. The song references the D train.

I include these last two not for New York reference, per se, though the one immediately above is Bob's star-studded 30th Anniversary Concert at Madison Square Garden.  I'm posting these two renditions of "My Back Pages" as a birthday mantra: "Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now...."

Happy Birthday from New York Town.

By Caitlin Hawke

This is really a Throwback Thursday post, but I am putting it up a bit early because it is pegged to an event today, Wednesday, May 23, that I wanted you to know about. But first the facts.

Yes, in the photo above, that is famed tightrope walker and master of mystery Philippe Petit walking a line to St. John the Divine on September 29, 1982, to fete the construction of a new tower. If you look closely at the grainy newspaper image below from the Columbia Spectator, you  can just about make out a trowel on his belt that he was symbolically delivering across Amsterdam Avenue -- 150 feet in the air -- to the cathedral and its Bishop. A flourish to inaugurate construction of the south tower of the cathedral's west elevation.

So, the photo above depicts an authorized -- orchestrated! -- walk to the cathedral. You don't have to imagine it because there's film of it (if you are receiving this message by email, make sure to click on the blog post title to view the video on our website). And indeed the trowel is looped on his belt as he makes his way across an unbelievably taught rope in his deacon purple stockings, pausing once to kneel on the wire and once to do a stork pose, then bowing deeply over the edge of St. John's roofline to the applauding crowd. One incredulous spectator shakes her arms over her head saying "Oh boy am I glad that's over!"

Great, yes. But let's just say it was not Petit's first walk at SJTD. That was in 1980, and he went stealth that time as was his wont.

Many a New Yorker knows Petit was a guerilla walker extraordinaire. In 1974, his clandestine operation and magnificent stroll between the two unfinished World Trade Center towers on a 131-foot cable suspended 1,300 feet above the construction site by his merry cabal was first one for the law enforcers; and then one for the history books; and finally one for the spiritual coda of those two towers whose fate we all remember too, too well. I've included two snaps at the bottom of that walk, one where he has an ear-to-ear smile, presumably elated or high on height. And the other of him lying down on the rope. He also danced on the wire that day in '74. Giddy, lollygagging about, and perhaps toying with the powers that be who had no way to get to him. That walk was an act of hubris, insanity, and majesty rolled into one.

In short, so great was Petit that his 1980 tightrope walk, which was inside St. John the Divine, led officials there to name him as one of the first Cathedral Artists-in-Residence. Better to have him with you than against you, you might suppose they reasoned. But actually, the Dean of the cathedral was all for the interior walk. He just couldn't get his board to sign off on it, presumably for liability reasons. Petit, characteristically undeterred, went ahead with the 1980 nave walk. The cops cuffed him on his way down from the wire that day for trespassing; but the Dean, James Parks Morton, intervened and thinking quickly informed the police that Petit couldn't be trespassing because he was, um, an artist in residence, right, that's the ticket.

To this day, the funambulist retains his resident artist title. And he's walked a wire many a time since including once after the terrible fire that broke out in the gift shop to help heal and herald a new beginning.

In a 1999 New Yorker piece by Calvin Tomkins, Petit was quoted as saying:

“When you think about it, wire walking is very close to what religion is. ‘Religion’ is from the Latin religare, which means to link something, people or places. And to know, before you take your first step on a wire, that you are going to do the last one—this is a kind of faith.”

Dean Morton told Tomkins that Petit was "one of the most religious people [I know]....Sometimes very unusual people turn out to be the most religious....I think of this as God’s joke.”

I do believe he believes. Just not in terrestrial authorities.

I love that he has this connection to our neighborhood. Since 9-11, Petit to me is an anthropomorphic poem. He's our living link to the towers he owned for a mid-seventies day. Religare.

In Bloomingdale, we live in the shadow of SJTD, the largest Gothic cathedral in the world, or if you prefer, one of the five largest church buildings in the world. You'll agree that its secrets -- like the Petit tales -- and its history are poorly known.

One place to rectify that is with the romp of a Bowery Boys podcast episode devoted to the cathedral -- I'm embedding the audio below. (If you are receiving this by email, please click on the title of the blog post to view the video on our website.) And if you can go to SJTD tonight, May 23, for $125 you can celebrate with the Bowery Boys the 125th anniversary of the ground breaking.

Probably tickets are sold out for the birthday bash. But tell me you weren't tempted!

Replete with peacocks, Greek revival remnants of the Leake and Watts Orphan Asylum of 1843, and the little rope-walking giant, the cathedral is a neighborhood gem, a work in progress, ours to cherish, and ours to divine.

The link above is to the Bowery Boys podcast #262: Secrets of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. You may not love their style, but stick with it for lots of great historical information.

By Caitlin Hawke

A little more than three years ago, I wrote about a beautiful neighbor on this blog: Kumiko Imamura. A woman who worked as hard as anyone I've known, and always had a warm hello or good-bye and a smile.

Really, her smile started in her eyes - the smize - and then made its way across her whole face, like sun up at Sun-Chan. 

The quintessence of a hostess, she and her husband Tokishige own Sun-Chan, and Kumiko's way is to welcome you in, tuck you into her apron, make sure you have a hot cup of green tea, and take care of you while you were "hers" -- in her care at her hearth. 

If you've been to Sun-Chan, you know her hearth was, in fact, an inferno.  So this genuine hospitality was all in spite of standing long hours in the yakitori's scorching heat with constant motion around her coming from her loyal staff in a very tight space.

I wrote about her robata here and it's all still true, except it's not:

It's not true any more because tonight, I learned that we've lost this beautiful woman.

In Japanese, depending on how it's written, her name means beauty, forever, child.... To paraphrase James Joyce: She was Kumiko by name and kumiko by nature. And her loss is immense.

She weathered a terrible bout last year with the restaurant losing its gas, and she rebounded from the anguish of the saga with her arms spread wide to welcome her customers back. It's too cruel a twist that she's now gone.

In mourning, the staff and her husband Tokishige have closed the restaurant this week to bid her farewell. I understand there may be a service at the New York Buddhist Church in roughly six or seven days. If you would like details should I learn them, please leave a comment below and I'll be in touch.

I hope Tokishige and Rie and all the Sun-Chan extended restaurant family know that Kumiko is a neighbor who will be missed dearly and that Sun-Chan's community mourns alongside them all.

I won't soon forget this Queen of Queens.

With warmest thoughts of Kumiko and deep sympathies to her loved ones.

By Caitlin Hawke

Did you get yours? The Spring 2018 Block Association newsletter is hot off the press. If you want to jump the gun, you’ll find a copy here.

I’ve lived in the catchment going on half of forever. And still that evening when I put my key to the hole and push open my door to discover the crisp quarterly lying in wait, I drop everything to read it on the spot. Old faithful.

If you are a Block Association member, have you ever wondered how this sweet read wends its way to you? It took me a long time to learn that Ken Henwood was the delivery man for my building, and he’s virtually my next-door neighbor. So, let’s ballpark it at 80 times that Ken has crouched in front of my apartment and glided the quarterly under my door. I am aghast that I’ve never actually thanked him for doing this!  (Ken, thank you!)

If you live in the catchment, you, too, probably have a courier ferrying “old faithful” to your door or building entryway. And you, too, probably dig in as soon as you get it.

We’re coming up on the newsletter’s 47th birthday. The first issue — entitled “Neighborhood News” — rolled off a typewriter on May 20, 1971, thanks to original editor and publisher Richard De Thuin who, sadly, passed away recently. You can read that whole issue right here.

More or less, the newsletter has been chugging along ever since. So here now is a chance to consider the 102-103 Streets Block Association Newsletter and what happens behind the scenes to get it to your door.

The best place to begin is with Hedy Campbell. You may know her name from the many roles she’s had within the Block Association since moving here in 1984. Shortly after arriving, she went to a Block Association board meeting and has stuck around ever since. Over the three and a half decades, she’s organized Halloween parades, solstice caroling nights, Spring planting days, and more.

About eight years ago, the West End Historic Preservation’s effort to landmark the avenue inspired her to think about the people who live in those buildings and the stories they could tell. This led to the launch of the Block Association’s Residents of Long Standing Hall of Fame with 27 inductees and counting — a great feat that we owe to Hedy’s ingenuity and her appreciation for neighborhood and neighbors.

She’s also inadvertently responsible for this blog. Hedy gingerly approached me to manage and update the website when the prior webmaster stepped down. My first response was that I couldn’t imagine taking on more work given my time commitment to BAiP. But how could I say no to her (anyone else ever had that reaction?). That was four years and nearly 300 posts ago!

The hat Hedy’s worn longest is newsletter editor. She took over the duties at the beginning of 1987, succeeding a long line of editors: Richard De Thuin, Mary Louise Taylor, Evelyn Brodwin, Marilyn Ehlers, Connie Fredericks, Ginger Lief and Kathy Giannou. Between 1987 and now, Hedy has had a couple of breaks when Jock Davenport and David Reich each did stints as editor. (My apologies to any past editors I’ve neglected to mention!).

I caught up with Hedy to ask about her 20+ years at the helm. What follows is our recent Q&A.

In the coming weeks, to honor the longevity of our newsletter I’ll be featuring all kinds of pieces “from the vault."  Many of these archival pieces are thanks to Ginger Lief and Ken Henwood who've preserved the back catalog. I'm very grateful to both of them, and to Ginger in particular -- the human "wayback machine." 

So, stick around since there's lots more memory lane to come! And if you are a fan of the newsletter, tell Hedy and her team in the comments below.


Q&A with Hedy Campbell, newsletter editor

Caitlin:  To orient us, what roles have you held within the Block Association over the years?
Hedy: My board positions have been co-chair; chair; treasurer; recording secretary; newsletter editor and co-editor. I ran the Halloween parade for many years. And I’ve run caroling for many years. (Anthony Bellov used to run it but some years ago maxed out. He was happy to continue as the musical brains of the operation as long as somebody else did the organizational stuff.) And for more years than not, I’ve been in charge of yard sale refreshments.

Caitlin: Can you tell me a little about your history with the newsletter?  I know it started in 1971 but tell me about when you entered the picture.
Hedy:  For some years starting in 1987 it was just me and my typewriter and our goal was a monthly distribution, which was a goal I couldn’t consistently meet. I don’t remember when we decided to go quarterly, which actually made brilliant sense because we’ve always asked for dues quarterly. Alan Leverenz was the first designer I worked with. Jock Davenport took over from me as editor for some years. David Reich took it over from him, then I became co-editor with David, then I became editor again.

Caitlin: And here we are. Do you know how much people appreciate the fruits of your labor?
Hedy: Not really. We get occasional comments from readers, mainly written on the flaps of contribution envelopes.

Caitlin: Well believe me, we do. So, how does each issue actually magically appear under my door every three months?
Hedy: The issue gets submitted digitally to Best Copy — the Mom & Pop (or more precisely Pop & Son) copy shop on the northeast corner of 101st Street and Broadway. They print it, insert the loose sheet manually, and fold the print run. Block Association member Eliza Lansdale gets it from them. She counts out newsletters and envelopes and runs around the neighborhood delivering them to sub-distributors and building captains who then distribute them further. For instance, she gives a couple of hundred issues to a high-school student who lives in my building. That person subdivides the batch and delivers to the small buildings on West 102nd Street between Broadway and West End Avenue. The big buildings like the Broadmoor and the Master get batches delivered to their building captains.

Caitlin: Why a print newsletter in this day and age?  Do you foresee a day when it will go electronic?
Hedy: In addition to disseminating information, the print newsletter is our vehicle for envelope distribution, which is still primarily how we receive membership contributions from residents. But residents should know that on our website, they can contribute by credit card any time.

Caitlin: In its slightly anachronistic way, I suspect that a paper copy makes people stop and really take the time to read the news and neighborhood vignettes. How much does it cost to produce?
Hedy: Each issue costs about $800. The contribution envelopes cost about $150. We print 2100 copies. And that’s attractive to our advertisers because I estimate that 2-3 people read each issue, so our reach is around 4000-5000 people. The ads generate income to defray the cost of publication, and thankfully we have all the ads we need. Jane Hopkins has done such a good job! In publishing, a 50:50 ratio of ads to articles is the approximate goal, and we’re roughly there.

Caitlin: OK, we've got the distribution but what about the content -- what's your process there?
Hedy:  Four times a year, about six weeks in advance of publication, I send out an email to contributors in which the article lineup, assignments, and deadline are specified. That email is based both on what we historically print in a particular issue (such as the recurring annual events) as well as any current issues of importance (the gingko tree assault, for example). A group of faithful writers submit their articles, which are then lightly edited; this takes several hours, and I am grateful now to be working with Amy Edelman who has come out the gate very strong in this copy-editing role!  Ads that Jane Hopkins collects and all the articles are sent to the designer, Bradley Spear, who then does a preliminary layout. I review the layout and provide feedback about placement and prioritization. Brad makes changes and returns revised layouts for review. With some luck, only minor tinkering remains. Some issues (like the last one of 2017) require more back and forth until the layout is set. Content is proofread, and corrections are provided to Brad who makes corrections and returns a final proof for review. Brad sends the graphic file to Best Copy for printing. And then we start the delivery process above.

Caitlin: What we in the community get out of the newsletter is intangible: first and foremost, its very existence fosters a sense of community. What do you get out of your involvement with the newsletter?
Hedy: I get to shape the content of what is the primary public face of the organization. I believe that the organization’s role in the community is an important one, and therefore making its functions and initiatives known to residents in a way that reflects our efforts accurately and positively is critical. Although there are many residents who are here and have been here for many years, there’s also a lot of turnover. Providing a sense of perspective, which I can do because I’ve been here a long time, is part of what we want to communicate.

Caitlin: It seems you’ve been looking to train someone to take over for quite a while. Do you think you’ll ever succeed, and if not will this 47-year-old institution of a newsletter vanish?
Hedy: It’s possible. There could come a time when I just have to say that’s it. But for as long as I have an associate who will take care of the nuts and bolts of editing and proofreading, I’m happy to oversee it, keeping an eye on the issues of importance to the organization and assigning articles accordingly.

Caitlin: I know that Ginger Leif, a former editor from the earliest days, performed a colossal labor of love by archiving print issues going back to the very first issue (Thank you, Ginger!). These are now part of the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group’s files at the Bloomingdale library branch. Have you ever looked at that collection and felt part of the long continuum of time – that we are all impermanent?
Hedy: I haven’t been over to see the archive. I have my personal collection, so I’m aware how fat the folder has grown. I do feel part of the continuum of the neighborhood, especially as I got to know Cherie Tredanari and Ted and Aysa Berger, who were founders of the organization. I feel as if I accepted a baton from them (Cherie ran Halloween, I took it over from her). And I’m concerned, as I know you are, that the next generation of baton recipients doesn’t seem to have identified itself. With the trend toward two working parents, there just isn’t as much time for volunteerism, and since there’s no pressing issue in the neighborhood for residents to rally around (such as crime or drug dealing, as there once was), I don’t think there’s a sense of urgency to get involved. Although I’m very aware that we’re all very temporary, I prefer to focus on what sort of imprint, if only a subtle one, I can leave while I’m here.

Caitlin:  I keep thinking that connecting via technology has supplanted the need for hyperlocal community. But as technology becomes more and more dehumanizing, people will turn back to the local bricks and mortar community right under their noses. There’s so much benefit in it. That’s the lesson I learned from both the Block Association and BAiP. Which reminds me!  Without the newsletter, BAiP would not have taken off as quickly as it did nine years ago. Because of their communications networks two block associations were able to get word out efficiently to all neighbors in five square blocks about BAiP’s creation. The infrastructure of the block associations and their newsletters jumpstarted BAiP. We need to put that on the balance sheet of under "newsletter successes."
Hedy: I couldn't agree more!

Caitlin: I think it’s pretty obvious that we share the love of living in Bloomingdale.
Hedy: Oh, yes, I’ve loved living here. It’s quiet without being isolated. We aren’t swarmed with foot traffic en route to an attraction or institution. People, if they’re inclined, get to know one another, whether because they do the alternate side shuffle, have children, walk a dog, or hang out at the diner. I used to say, especially when Oppenheimer and the Green Farm were here, that I could walk from my building to 96th Street to shop for Thanksgiving and return with everything I needed even though I’d left my wallet at home. I think it’s still pretty true, but maybe not as much.

Caitlin: A village.
That’s a good place to stop because I know that the Annual Meeting on March 22 will focus on the street-level retail crisis. It sure would be nice if every landlord would make a good faith effort to have the shops on our streets occupied by commercial tenants and usher back in the law of supply and demand, and perhaps a new era of local retail. Thank goodness for the shops we still have -- and for their support of the newsletter. And thank you and your team for bringing it to us four times a year.  There's plainly a great amount of volunteer sweat equity and TLC involved.

By Caitlin Hawke

A little over a year and a half back, thanks to this blog, I received a message from New York Times journalist and editor, Daniel J. Wakin. Virtually a lifelong Bloomingdaler with the exception of two stints abroad for the Times, Dan told me he had a book in the works about our neighborhood that he was researching. I was captivated by his conceit: to bring to life the seven buildings along Riverside Drive between W. 105th and 106th Streets by telling the tales of the people who lived there.

I knew the block well as I had my first and only prime lease in one of these "Seven Beauties" as Dan calls them. So I quickly connected Dan to Gil Tauber and Jim Mackin, two pillars of the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group (for more on BNHG, see below).

From one of his walking tours, I knew Gil had traced Nina Simone to 336 Riverside (though additional information has been elusive in confirming her residency). Many people know that Duke Ellington lived for a time at 333 Riverside with his sister Ruth and his music company was based there as well. His son Mercer lived next door at 334. This explains the origins of Duke Ellington Boulevard, aka W. 106th Street.

So while some of the characters of this beautiful block were known to me (Julia Marlowe, Marion Davies, Saul Bellow), I'd never heard of Bennie the Bum -- Bernard McMahon -- a bootlegger who worked with Legs Diamond and holed up right here at 334 Riverside Drive with a maimed knee after a $428,000 cash heist from an armored car at the Rubel Ice Company. Given the title of Dan's book, I will leave to your imagination what becomes of Bennie.  But let's just say he never had much use for boots again.

I wrote a little about Dan's book "The Man With the Sawed-Off Leg and Other Tales of a New York City Block" here, and Dan kindly agreed to sit down with me for an interview just as his book was set to publish on January 23. What follows is my exchange with this son of Bloomingdale. What I didn't know was how in sync I would feel with Dan's love of the layers of our streets.  In some parts of the interview, had I not known he was describing our neighborhood, I would have recognized it all the same.

If you are interested in encountering these long-gone neighbors of yore, grab Dan's book here. It's a wonderful read for anyone who loves to imagine both what lies behind these beautiful facades and, of course, who came before us.  You'll also find Dan lecturing for Landmark West on February 21.

Enjoy!

An Interview with Bloomingdaler Daniel J. Wakin
Author of "The Man With the Sawed-Off Leg and Other Tales of a New York City Block"

Caitlin Hawke: I know you grew up on W. 106th and then moved away. So, can one go home again?
Dan Wakin: You can if home is an amazing, variegated, vibrant neighborhood in a city that half the world wants to come home to. Can you go home again to your childhood house? Yes, with emotional complications.

I was born in 1961, moved away for college and returned to the neighborhood after graduation. I lived on 109th and Amsterdam then 113th between Amsterdam and Broadway (commuting to Newark, N.J., where I was covering the federal courts). I was then assigned in 1992 as a correspondent to the Rome bureau of The Associated Press, spent six years there and then became news editor for southern Africa, based in Johannesburg. We moved back to my childhood home on W. 106th in 2000.

Caitlin: What appeals to you about the neighborhood and how did you deal with returning to your childhood home to live as adult?
Dan: I like living in a neighborhood that is a place people come home to after work, but is still a truly commercial, vibrant, urban scene with big institutions and diverse populations. It's both cul-de-sac and destination, a zone apart yet a hub of its own. It's a fundamentally unpretentious place that will never successfully put on airs, where comfortable dowdiness and frayed elegance exist side by side with tenement life, strivers and college students. Riverside Park is our back yard and you can see the river, a reminder of our island city status. (Peace, Bronx.) Sadly though, many of the apartments are way beyond the means of middle class people. By neighborhood I'm talking RSD to CPW and 96th to 116th.

I solved the melancholy of nostalgia for my childhood by reveling in the great life my boys were making for themselves as they grew up here.

Caitlin: Yes, I size you up as a fairly nostalgic person. That can be a dirty word in the boom-boom times of NYC real estate. Do you really think of yourself as nostalgic - even for a day that preceded your time on earth such as the times you write about in your book?
Dan: I wouldn't say I'm a nostalgic person. As journalists, we're very un-nostalgic - always looking for the new or the unknown or the unrevealed. But I do have a strain of nostalgia, which helped make this book something of an escape from the day-to-day. And I do feel pangs when a favorite store or building disappears. Then, when I realize how quickly you forget those old places, and the new becomes part of the scenery, I realize I'm not as nostalgic as I thought. Development vs. preservation is one of the major storylines of New York City. I'm not an activist nor an investor, but an observer fascinated by the duet. I also love sunlight and air and historical rootedness. Often when I think about wanting to live in another time on earth, I wallow briefly but then I think back to how lousy it was for large classes of people and then I'm not so nostalgic.

Caitlin: How do you feel about the changing architectural profile of the UWS?  
Dan: This is hard to answer - the development on Columbus Avenue in the high 90s is so different from the high rises popping up in the 70s and 80s, for example. The architectural profile of the UWS has always seemed a glorious corned-beef hash to me. Some glass towers in the mix are not terrible. Though I'd hate to lose all the tax-payers on Broadway.

Caitlin:  What do you miss most in the neighborhood from the time you were growing up?
Dan: Again, hard to answer. I was a kid then, and an adult now. Those are two very different kinds of people. If I can project myself into childhood now, I'd say I'd miss the passel of kids that hung around on the sidewalk after school or during the summer and played street games or demonstrated an enjoyable idleness.

Caitlin: Let's talk a little about your book. I wanted to congratulate you on the publication. It reads to me as very much as an ode to Bloomingdale, and in particular to that beautiful block of Riverside Drive from 105th to 106th Street.
Dan: Thank you!

Caitlin: You gave a standing-room-only talk on January 17 for the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group, and something struck me: you showed very few pictures of the bricks and mortar. This book is not an architectural romp through time, it's about the flesh and bones that inhabited these grand buildings over a certain era.
Dan: Yes, good point. I am deeply fascinated by this stark contrast: between permanent structures of brick and stone, eternally there, standing in the same spots from my childhood to my middle age to long after I'm gone, and the countless generations of human beings who have lived, died and disappeared from memory inside those walls. Soft, evanescent flesh vs. hard, permanent bricks. Memories, stories, experiences vs. urban topography with its own meaning.

Caitlin: Yes, what a wonderful idea to dig into the insides of buildings. We tend to fixate on the exteriors since we can access the architectural and construction details more easily. What historical, governmental, archival or other records did you find most useful for the physical history of the buildings?
Dan: The City Register, Department of Buildings web sites, The Real Estate Record (at Columbia University and online) and newspaper electronic archives.

Caitlin: And for the personal histories of the "characters"?
Dan: Private archives, published memoirs, corporate histories, court and government records, census records, city directories.

Caitlin: What was the hardest part of getting to the people who inhabited or passed through your buildings?
Dan: Except for famous names like Duke Ellington and Marion Davies, they were not quite at the level of fame to have much preserved about them or biographies written. Although I was just contacted by a researcher - after my book was published - who said there is an unpublished memoir by Lothar Faber, of the pencil family, that mentions 335 RSD!! Oh well.
 
Caitlin: Yes, you have to eventually go to press. But I know what you'll be reading soon! So what most eluded you or bedeviled you in your research? And what darlings did you have to kill for lack of flesh you were able to recreate?
Dan: Some of the characters were just not super fascinating. I mean, how many of us are? I'm bedeviled by the feeling that if I had just spent more time digging, scrounging, reading, etc., I could have provided a fleshier picture. But you have to cut off the hunt sometime. Biggest footage on the cutting room floor is more detail about the works of the poor artist Michael De Santis, who painted portraits of Columbia professors and died destitute, a boarder at 337 RSD. I left out details of my mini-tour of the sites where his pictures remain, and the paintings that Columbia has in storage, and efforts to restore some of them. My smart editor also had me cut excessive detail about minor criminal characters. The cast of extras just got too large.

Caitlin: So which of the "Seven Beauties" is your favorite on the outside?  And which had the best characters on the inside?
Dan: River Mansion at 337 Riverside Drive. I feel a real connection from my childhood, because I grew up a few doors away from it. In some weird way, I connected it with Miss Havisham's house from "Great Expectations," a book I loved growing up. It's also the most interesting building of the bunch, with the stark contrast between the limestone ornamentation and red brick.

Caitlin: I agree and having lived right next to it, I often imagined how beautiful it must be inside. So who were the best characters in your research?
Dan: Marion Davies who lived at 331 Riverside was a live wire. Michael De Santis, the artist, in 337 Riverside makes me feel melancholy. And the gangsters of 334, of course, are the juiciest.

Some of the "characters" who have lived in the Seven Beauties on Riverside Drive:
Actresses Julia Marlowe and Marion Davies and Nobelist Saul Bellow (Credit: R. Meek)

Caitlin: And of all the people you researched, who do you most wish you could hang out at Henry's with for a beer and an interview?
Dan: That would be Jokichi Takamine, the Japanese scientist who overcame opposition from rivals and anti-Japanese sentiment and isolated adrenaline. How could he fire his mother-in-law, who helped set him up in the U.S., as president of his company? How did he feel living three doors away from the mistress of the man [newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst] whose newspapers so atrociously whipped up fears of the "yellow peril?" Is it true he denied partial credit for his adrenaline discovery to his long-suffering assistant?

Let me also say that meeting one of the great musical figures in American culture - Duke Ellington - would be incredible. And I'm sure Henry's would have been particularly delighted to have him there.

Caitlin: Yes!  The ghost of Birdland would approve, too.  So as we near the end of our interview, I wondered if you would reflect.  Your book focuses on a pretty tiny slice of New York City. Does it tell us anything about the city as a whole?

Dan: I think it does. You could dig deep into lots of individual blocks in New York and find some pretty interesting stories. But the mix of people in these particular townhouses really does get at the essence of what makes the city so great. Here you have manufacturers from a century ago who made stuff we still use today living next to actors, writers, builders, inventors and a gang hideout. They all came to this place to make a buck or make a mark, and did it living shoulder to shoulder. Surely their paths crossed directly, and sometimes without them even knowing it. That amazing mix is really the essence of New York. And we living in this town are all part of that mix, and can rightfully claim that history as our history. Gangsters? Inventors? Famous actors? Heiresses? Indigent artists? They're all just our neighbors.

Caitlin: With this book and your NYT byline, you've now left a trail of electronic breadcrumbs for a future researcher to write about at least one of inhabitants of your building. Can you give me some stories that a researcher could never find about your family, growing up on W. 106th, the mark you hope you'll have left?
Dan: At this point, I'll retreat to the journalist's stance and say I'd rather tell the story than be part of the story. But thanks for asking!

Caitlin: OK, so "Game On!" for the next generation of researchers. Many thanks both for your time and for giving Bloomingdalers this great new source. I don't go by those buildings anymore without thinking of Legs Diamond's boy Bennie the Bum, Bellow, baking powder, and the Duke.



Note: I wrote recently about Dan Wakin's January 17 talk presented by our good neighbors at the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group. If you don't yet know the group, you might be interested in their self-described pursuit:  Discovering, preserving and sharing our history. The tend to concentrate on the neighborhood known as Bloomingdale but sometimes they toss in a too-good-to-pass-up talk on some aspect of Upper West Side history. You'll see their upcoming events right on the BNHG home page.

By Caitlin Hawke

Neighbors are taking the loss of an Upper West Side film institution personally.  And I must say, I have a lump in my throat.

Alas, this is the dawn of a gloomy week for culture on upper Broadway: we say farewell (sayonara, adios, adieu, arrivederci) to beloved foreign and indie film mecca Lincoln Plaza Cinemas (LPC) for good on Thursday.  LPC goes out with a bang on January 28 when staff plan a tribute to the nonagenarian owners, the late Dan Talbot and his widow Toby.  

Sadly Dan died on December 29 (of a broken heart, perhaps), soon after the announcement that the cinema's partner/landlord Howard Milstein would not entertain lease negotiations. Petitions were drafted. Pleas were made. Emails went out fast and furious.

I'm susceptible to speculation about the motive for not renewing the lease and about what will happen with the space.  Indeed all kinds of rumors now swirl -- that Lincoln Center's Film Society will take it over in a premeditated deal. (Very likely, if you want to place bets). That it will become part of the Alamo movie-beer empire or something similar. That LPC will move into the Metro. (This last one's not gonna happen. I've come to believe that the not-so-benign neglect of our local landmark is a strategy to let it crumble-in-place.  And Toby Talbot has lost her programming partner-in-crime.  And the Metro is completely gutted inside, which is rumored to have killed a local Alamo deal a few years ago for the Metro.  But it sure is a nice Bloomingdale thought.  As Gary Dennis has so beautifully documented, Bloomingdale used to be a contender in the realm of theater and cinema.  But no more.  I always whisper a little prayer for the landmarked Metro exterior to stand tall as long as possible and maybe some angel will bring it back.  A naive little dream, yes.)

While most of these rumors would receive open-armed welcomes, it's sort of hard to believe that anyone would get into the retro business of art-house films these days with everyone glued to their phones, streaming their lives away. The old-time concept of a dark room full of silent strangers collectively sharing the magic is just about as quaint as hailing a yellow cab will soon be. 

But there are fine examples of models that work (more on that below); and there are fine examples, such as the Talbots for the past 40 plus years, of what the hip would call "tastemakers."  Nonprofits and small cinemas who still keep the fire burning for those who refuse to watch on a postage-stamp screen.  The tributes to Dan and Toby Talbot have been effusive and, as owners of New Yorker films, the New Yorker Theater and LPC, Dan and Toby earned their spots in the film pantheon by being market makers for the foreign and independent film circuit. Columbia University houses his papers and this blog makes for more good reading if you are interested.  So while Hollywood kicks Harvey Weinstein to the curb, let us hold the Talbots on high.  Cinematic history will be very kind to their legacy.

Just one week more. Forget any conflicted feelings you may have for the Plaza. Yes, it was worn from years of non-stop cinephilia. Yes, yes, a bit dowdy. Yes again that it harbored an occasional pickpocket or two.  But think back and tell me with a straight face that Lincoln Plaza Cinemas didn't open your world. Delight and dazzle you. And upon occasion blow your mind?  

For me it would be like choosing a favorite child, there have been too many delicious films screened there to single out just one. Though I do have a photographic recollection of the cloud I wafted out on after seeing the 1999 Paul Thomas Anderson film "Magnolia."  Yikes, nearly twenty years ago. One frigid Saturday night, I emerged from the late screening and streamed up Broadway humming Aimee Mann's beautiful soundtrack on my way home.

Five days left to get in there and pay homage.  And I have just the right rec: neighbor Manfred Kirschheimer's "My Coffee with Jewish Friends."  Known as Manny, this Bloomingdale documentarian is getting his due after decades in the business and an impressive body of work.  MoMA gave him a retrospective last year; their copywriter put it better than I can when qualifying Manny:

"[he] weds the aesthetic exuberance of modernist urban chroniclers like Walt Whitman, Joseph Stella, and Charles Mingus to the leftist populism of Studs Terkel and Jane Jacobs. His documentary (and quasi-fictional) films are intricate montages of sound and image that thrum with hard bop or proto-hip-hop energy. They are fanfares and requiems for New York’s immigrant working class and demimonde, its art and artists, buildings and builders, haves and have nots."

"My Coffee with Jewish Friends" is a klatch on film.  And Manny makes you a fly on an old-time Upper West Side kitchen wall.  The film is playing every day though Thursday at LPC.

And if after "Coffee" you're jonesing for more Manny, visit the Metrograph.  Just this past Friday, Manny spoke there at the opening of the run of his 2006 film "Tall: The American Skyscraper and Louis Sullivan." "Tall" is also around through Thursday.

Above I mentioned cinema models that could work in the era of smartphones and boom-boom rents: well there is one right there. Perhaps a bit precious on the concessions front, the Metrograph has a calendar that is part old Cinema Village, part Quad and part Film Forum. It's quirky and satisfying programming; and though it's a world away from the Upper West Side, it's well worth a visit--if only to say loud and proud that NYC can and should sustain such art houses.

So vaya con dios, dear Plaza. Fare thee well, Daniel Talbot. Best wishes to the entire LPC family for your next chapter. And to the filmmaking son of Bloomingdale Manfred and our Queen of UWS film Toby, much mazel.

The Metrograph gives me hope.  The good things that the plate tectonics of NYC real estate subduct to the molten mantle do come round again.  Hopefully, we'll know the real ones when we see them and not just follow the next shiny thing.

I am looking at you, Mr. Milstein.

If you are reading this post in an email, you have to click through to see the video below.