Wednesday May 16th – I wake up to find a news report online that actor Nick Stahl has gone missing; I find myself overly occupied and strangely perturbed by this news. I’ve always been a fan of his, and at one stage during my teenage years had a small crush on him.
…Okay, no, let’s be honest and make that “I had a WHOPPING BIG crush on him.” Ha ha ha! I’ve always kept half an eye on his career; he’s about the same age as me and seemed like he picked interesting movies, like Man Without A Face and In The Bedroom. I actually really liked his turn as John Connor in the much-maligned Terminator 3 – which was universally hated until the big pile of cinematic poop known as T4 came out, after which time people didn’t seem to have such a problem with T3! His disappearance left me uneasy, and pleas from his wife asking for any news of his whereabouts were sad to hear, to say the least. I would just like to say here and now that despite my big fandom, I did NOT have him locked up in my cellar or anything like that! Ah well. Time will tell where he is, I guess. (Addendum: it was later discovered that he had gone on a giant drug bender and turned up only when he needed more money for drugs. He then went to rehab, left rehab, went missing again, and at that point I started to care just that little bit less…)
After breakfast at home, I wandered down 7th Avenue to the Village, to get a closer look at the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street. When I was a teenager in the UK and my mum was away on business, I used to stay up late and watch all these ‘unsuitable for teenage audiences’ late-night movies on Channel 4. One night they had a movie about events at the Stonewall, and although I must admit that I was so young I didn’t fully understand everything that was going on (one scene where a man heard about the death of Judy Garland and then killed himself left me particularly perplexed at the time… “Why would you kill yourself over Judy Garland?” I thought), it did leave a fair-sized impression on my psyche. I must remember to seek out that movie and see how much better I understand it now, at this age! Anyway, later research revealed parts of the real story. The Stonewall Inn was a gay bar, which in the 60s in America (and a lot of other places, for that matter) was a big no-no. I believe that, at the time, it was also illegal to be LGBT or a cross-dresser, too. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.
Anyway, in the late 1960s, after years of suppression and now in an era of civil rights activism and liberation, tensions were, I suppose, at an all-time high. In June 1969, the police raided the Stonewall Inn, looking to arrest ‘deviants’, and after excessive use of force (not to mention the basic injustice of the whole situation) was observed, there was resistance… then a crowd gathered outside, the bubble burst, and the next thing you know there’s riots on Christopher Street. These riots continued over a number of nights, the riots turned to protests, and this turn of events was basically the catalyst for the gay rights movement and gay pride. Quite something, eh? From little things, big things grow. The Stonewall Inn now is kind of a non-descript place, a little hole-in-the-wall bar, but it proudly bears a giant rainbow flag across the front wall. Across the road there’s a small park that holds statues of same-sex couples, commemorating the events at the Stonewall. I personally find the statues a bit ugly (they’re all white and just a bit robot-looking), but the idea behind them is a good one. The park is pleasant and usually filled with a small handful of curious tourists, people scarfing down sandwiches from nearby delis and the odd guy asking for change.
I left Christopher Street and took a circuitous little toddle around the Village. I passed the narrowest house in New York at 75 ½ Bedford Street (2.9 metres wide, apparently), previously home to a selection of writers and actors. It was on a beautiful street, but to be honest, if I had the money they had I’d probably pick somewhere a bit more spacious, despite the novelty of being able to claim the narrowest living room EVER!!!
I eventually made my way to Bleecker Street, where I stopped at Cones Ice Cream Artisans for a quick snuffle at their selection. I had heard that the ice cream was almost chewy, which piqued my interest. As I approached I shared a smile with a guy who was sitting outside in the sun, and he followed me in – turns out he was working there. I tried a whole bunch of delicious flavours, from ginger to lemon to corn (according to the sign, it is ‘Brazil’s favourite’, but it was a bit weird for me, even as someone who loves corn), but in the end I opted for the chocolate. And, true to the rumours, the ice cream was – and I can’t explain how – a bit chewy, but not substantially so… kind of like cotton candy after you’ve had it in your mouth for a few bites and it bunches together briefly before dissolving. And it was yummy to boot, so I was a very happy girl. I wandered past Murray’s Cheese Shop, once more resisting the urge to go inside and go nuts like the proverbial bull in a china shop, only because I didn’t want to carry around cheese all day only to come home and find it had died a smelly death. A few steps down the road I was greeted with a confusticating sight. A ute (a ‘pick-up truck’ to our North American friends, I think) was parked on Bleecker Street, and another ute had pulled up alongside it. In the back of each vehicle was a man in a beret playing a piano. Real pianos. Big pianos. And both of these guys were singing and laughing like loons. Did I just drop acid without realizing it? No camera crews or anything that I could see, just two guys playing piano in berets on Bleecker. Nice.
After a nice long walk, I eventually found a subway station and went up to the Uniqlo on 5th Avenue. When I had gone in the other day I had discovered that they do FREE alterations on their jeans, which to a shortass like me is a godsend! Even the ‘short’ length trousers in stores are usually too short for me, so I always end up spending a buttload on tailoring (if I don’t just let the extra couple of inches drag on the ground)… when I saw that Uniqlo did it for free I was like, “JEAN FRENZY!!!” I picked up my new, fabulously-fitted jeans and then walked north until I hit the south-east corner of Central Park, passing those poor stinky carriage horses, and then took a walk along Central Park South.
Wow. Talk about a case of ‘how the other half lives’. Swanky hotels and apartment buildings with smart awnings, and doormen who eyed me suspiciously if I veered too close to the doorway. I passed two or three people hailing cabs, all of whom were wearing beautiful cologne. The views of the park and northern Manhattan from any one of those hotel rooms or apartments must be simply stunning. I started to imagine what it would be like to live there, but my reverie was interrupted by a man shouting into his mobile phone outside a very, VERY expensive-looking building. He had one foot in a giant black car and looked just like one of the head honchos from the Godfather; slicked-back black hair, striped long-sleeved collared shirt, big gold bling necklace and rings… Mafia? I think so. As I passed, he was yelling into his phone (sounding dangerously like Robert De Niro in Goodfellas), “YOU WANNA COME HERE MOTHERFUCKER?” I made sure to give him a wide berth and keep moving VERY QUICKLY.
I made it to Columbus Circle alive, and then got on the subway. It had been my intention to get off at 18th Street and go home, but instead I stayed on til 14th and went to the Chelsea Market. On the way, I passed a fried chicken joint called Dirty Bird To Go… I must remember to give it a try some time! Once at Chelsea Market, I dropped into Anthropologie and browsed around, drooling at all the beautiful clothes, and by the time I came out the food places at the market were closing up. I walked home along 8th Avenue, passing two guys who were freestyling just for the fun of it, one-upping each other with their rhymes.
I dropped off my jeans and looked around for dinner, feeling terribly indecisive. Nothing really appealed, and I had forgotten to pick up my book at the apartment so I didn’t really want to sit at a restaurant and stare into space. In the end I found myself in front of my apartment again. There was a police officer standing, as usual, in the door of the cop shop across the road; he waved hello, and then a police car pulled up in a spot just in front of him. Next thing I know, the cop in the car uses his loudspeaker to shout at his friend, “WHY YOU BEIN’ SO LAZY?” I snorted with laughter as cop number 2 got out of his car and they had a friendly tussle. It’s nice to see that there’s a sense of humour in there.
I eventually decided just to go to the Garden of Eden market to pick up a few things for dinner (they have a great hot food and salad selection), and then came home to read. I tried turning on the TV but really it was such bad reception that it wasn’t worth it, and it just looked like Law & Order on every channel so I gave up and went back to my book. After eating, I wasted time on the internet. The connection was dropping in and out, and when it was working it was terribly slow, kind of like the shitty internet you get if you forget to pay a bill and they put you on dial-up speed. I was worried for a moment (“Would Annie have forgotten to pay the internet bill? Surely not…”) but decided not to give it any more thought; it was time to be disconnecting and getting to bed anyway!
Thanks for stopping by,
Tara.
Born in Hong Kong and raised all over the world, I've been tootling around for 33 years now. A Spanish friend of mine once said that "the smallest pot has the finest marmalade"... I have to agree with her! I'm small but I can still make 6-foot Brazilian bodybuilders cry if the need arises. And I never need to whinge about legroom on a plane!
little tara 