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BEST OF MANHATTAN
Entertainment
BEST COVER BAND
MR. BROWNSTONE
Appetite for reconstruction. Everything seemed normal, if a little quiet, when we walked into Bellevue, the hard-rock watering hole near Port Authority where, on our first visit three years ago, we witnessed a Mexican-food delivery man race a moped up and down the length of the bar to a cheering crowd. Picture Bellevue by way of this: We knew a heavy drinker who finally decided he'd found bottom when he was 86ed from Bellevue.
So who cared if, when we stopped by two months ago, the jukebox sounded a little light? Cars as opposed to Danzig. Hey, change is natural, right? Besides, a little Metallica always went a long way with us. Then, after assuming the position at the bar, we also noticed it was Raising Arizona on the tv, instead of Edward Penishands (the only good thing about watching the tube at Bellevue was finally finding out whether those dirty jokes from high school were actually based in fact).
All right, so no more graphic sex. Still nothing to get alarmed about. Yep, we thought, grabbing our drink and turning to face the room, move along folks, there's nothing to see here—
"Where's Duff McKagan!"
"Excuse me?"
"The…the picture," we stuttered to the suspiciously un-slutty barmaid, "the framed, two-foot-tall picture of Duff McKagan—where is it?"
"Oh," she answered casually, under the mocking glow of newly installed, hideously hippie-freshman-dorm Christmas lights. "Probably in the basement."
"Well, can you find out? Immediately?"
"I'll…ask…the…new…owner," we heard slowly through the dizzy haze that gripped us like death as we tried not to go into shock.
Well, Duff McKagan may no longer hang out on 39th and 9th, but the better news, we discovered weeks later, is he's still performing, and not with grunge's leftovers. The perennially smirking bass player can be seen, semi-regularly, on stage at B.B. King's or during one of the popular Rocks Off boat cruises that circle the city, playing all your favorites from Appetite and Lies. Plus "Civil War."
How do they look? Like Axl, Duff, Izzy, Slash and Steven Adler—20 years ago. How do they sound? Tighter than a 13-year-old groupie. The vibe? Hormonal—not a dry panty in the house. But what else did you expect when a young, sweaty, shirtless Duff starts ripping through "Rocket Queen"? If it ever was a joke, to the crowd or them, both of you forget by the second song.
The Lord taketh away, and then the Lord giveth back. Ten fucking times over, you kings among men, you rock gods among mere listeners.
BEST BAR TO
PICK UP A HUSTLER
THE TOWNHOUSE
236 E. 58th St. (betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.)
212-754-4649
Urbane cowboys. From the street, the Townhouse looks like, well, a townhouse. Located on tony E. 58th St., the Townhouse resembles a gentlemen's club, and most of the men are dressed for the occasion. But then you notice the slight disconnect between the majority of patrons—successful men d'un certain âge, in suits and blazers—and the younger, scruffier guys. While not straight-off-the-bus-Port-Authority street hustlers, these are definitely men on a mission. The management keeps things pretty aboveboard (everyone remembers when the city shut the late, lamented Rounds for facilitating "solicitation") but everyone knows the score. So if a good-looking, slightly hard-around-the-edges John Rechy type asks you for a drink, just remember: You may end up paying for a lot more than that mojito.
BEST REASON
TO AVOID SEEING
YOUR FAVORITE DJS
THEY'RE PLAYING AT APT
Dance music, sans dancefloor. APT wants to be beyond cool—no sign, no velvet-rope lieutenant outside. But you have to wonder what the owner was thinking with this space. It's pretentious, pricey and doesn't have any room for dancing. Though they book some of the best DJs from New York (Spinna, Bobbito, Metro Area), Cali (Peanut Butter Wolf) and Europe, all you can do is squeeze in while trying to hang on to that $8 Sapporo. After navigating through all the trendies on the wall rolling their eyes and doing their best to look jaded and bored, you realize this: I'm going home to have a party in my own APT with my own friends and my own beer.
BEST WAY TO
EMBARRASS YOURSELF IN FRONT OF YOUR DATE AT CONEY ISLAND
THE 100+ MPH BATTING CAGE
Strike 23. We played baseball in high school. We weren't bad, either. At 17, we could at least make contact against just about any pitch—smoking fastballs, even major-league curve balls. So when we found ourselves strolling by the batting cages at Coney this summer, we thought we'd treat our new girlfriend to some traces of our former jock glory.
"This is how fast they pitch in the pros," we said as we stepped into the cage.
We didn't even see the first pitch coming. We just heard a loud "Bang!" behind us—the ball hitting the backstop. By the third pitch, we thought we had an eye on the ball as it exploded out of the hole. But despite a string of increasingly desperate, tired swings, we never made it within six inches. The most embarrassing moment came during the last two chances, when we tried to bunt, in a desperate attempt to make contact.
A couple of teenagers started to snicker, but we didn't dare turn around. Our date was laughing, too. Worst thing about it was, we deserved it.
BEST GO-GO BAR
WITH FREE BUFFET
ROXXIE'S
324 E. Railway Ave. (Knickerbocker Ave.) Patterson, NJ, 973-279-6999
Burger with your clams? Roxxie's is a large go-go bar located on East Railway Ave., just a stone's throw from the Clifton border. It's so close to the railroad tracks that the rectangular building rumbles every time a train goes by, and you can hear the train whistle gloriously over the loud satellite-channel music. The bar is so dark that the men stumble in the door blindly as their eyes try to adjust, before they scatter loosely around the bar like homing pigeons.
The men who patronize Roxxie's are of all ethnicities, but are mostly blue-collar types with a handful of white-collars thrown into the mix. All can safely indulge their sex stare, and plenty of dancers will even grant a gratuitous grope in exchange for a tip. The go-go dancers are largely from Eastern Europe, and like all Eastern European women, they're intriguing, provocative and predatory. When not on break or strutting around the stage in their thong bikinis and eight-inch platforms, they're avidly lap dancing in a separate room.
As the Friday-afternoon happy hour approaches, the cook and bar-back scamper about, setting out the free buffet. Famished from their absorption of alcohol, the men line up eagerly with paper plate and utensils. Strong appetites that have been unleashed and whipped up from peaking lust are ready to pile up their "all you can eat" plates with the buffet offerings of the day: hot dogs, hamburgers, baked beans, macaroni salad and romaine lettuce with tomatoes.
Then, with full bellies, it's back to the ogling. What a wonderful place.
BEST ART-RELATED EXPLOSION LEADING
TO A BACCHANAL
MADAGASCAR INSTITUTE
Don't touch that. It was an arctic January day, and disaster began with a simple plan: create a confetti cannon to act as a starting gun for stupidity. Namely, NYC's inaugural Idiotarod, a drunken version of Alaska's sled-dog challenge featuring mushing men. The confetti cannon—a potato-gun variant—was being crafted by the Madagascar Institute, erstwhile merchants of mischief and mayhem.
Several hours before the race, Chistopher Hackett, the Institute's dreadlocked captain, was tinkering with the contraption when…BOOM! Premature detonation. In Hackett's face. Destruction was immediate and catastrophic: fractured orbital socket, broken jaw, rearranged teeth and a sizable hole in his cheek. Compounding matters were cops.
In post-9/11 brouhaha, the police assumed terrorists were vaporizing Brooklyn. They rushed to the wintry, bloodied site in Gowanus to find injured Hackett, as well as a cache of decommissioned guns. Weapons were used as building blocks for sculptures, but cops thunk nefariously.
A fat pile of legal suck soon swamped insurance-less Hackett. Official inquiries. A jaw wired shut. Medical bills zoomed past $80,000. There was no recourse but to bash it up.
So, in March, the Madagascar Institute threw "Best Idea Ever!," a nightlong bacchanal at Volume, Williamsburg's latest paint-supply factory turned venue. There were inflatable nuclear cooling towers. Gyroscopic machines launching revelers toward the ceiling. Not to mention homemade absinthe, which further blurred the line between benefit, disaster and blackout-induced merriment.
BEST KNITTING FACTORY TAKEOVER
THE DROP DEAD FESTIVAL
I vant to fuck your brood. A well-known haven for art rock, melodic indies, experimental jazz, breaking bands and other music that gets earnest ex-college-radio-DJ types to come all over themselves, Knitting Factory threw a nice curveball with September's three-day Drop Dead festival.
In a coup that's likely due to the wall-to-wall crowds at their Johnny Cash tribute earlier this year, NY Decay Productions secured the whole club for their annual pan-horror-rock festival featuring vendors, horror film screenings, giveaways, zombie burlesque and roughly 50 bands ranging in sound from greasy roots punk to rockabilly, surf, goth, experimental and anything morbid. Headlining acts included Ausgang and Skeletal Family, genuine proto-goth artifacts of the 80s UK scene, contemporary art goths Cinema Strange and Bella Morte and contemporary surf-rockabilly heroes Deadbolt, morbid experimental musician David E. Williams, DC punks the Alphabet Bombers and others from both here and abroad.
Not catering to the mall punks, gothic techno-metalheads or the posturing nouveau-rockers, Drop Dead Festival was instead meant for Misfits-worshipping misfits who crawled out from the woodwork in search of the likeminded. Basically, it was Halloween—two months early and three times as long.
We raise our cup—filled with the blood of three virgin lasses, of course—to NY Decay Productions, and to Knitting Factory.
BEST SPORT
HANDBALL
Dodgeball is for wimps. In this age of electronic entertainment, with its complex circuitry and live-action role-playing, recreation has never been so sedentary and mysterious. The majority of those entertained by these technologic sports rarely understand how pushing a button while reclining on the Laz-E-Boy causes a laser to slice through the bad guy's face 10 feet away on the plasma screen.
"So what?" you ask. With New York City resembling Tokyo more and more, you note, it will soon be time to dig out the bedrock beneath Times Square and construct an artificially lit arcology where Conde Nast and Time-Warner employees live, work and breed. Let them play Halo 15 and order Fresh Direct without ever seeing sunlight again.
We couldn't agree more. Let the gamers accelerate humanity's evolution into high-tech mole people. We don't blame Xbox—we thank it.
What concerns us in the age of technological diversion, however, is the loss of real sport. Recreation has become too complicated, diverted by eggheads who'd rather examine stats than toss around a real ball. Think of those opponents who protest a loss by saying, "My controller isn't working" or, "My fantasy league team isn't as good as yours."
Send the gaming geeks out to the handball court, where there's naught more than a wall, a ball and some lines on the ground. There are a few rules, but they have a certain grace that other sports don't have—they seem natural, as if handed down by God. It's also a compact game, perfect for the city.
Release yourself to the rhythm of the popping rubber ball and the ebb and flow of the relay. Life will be redeemed to you in the surplus of the human spirit that is real sport.
BEST YANKEE STADIUM STRATEGY WHEN
STORM CLOUDS
ARE GATHERING AT GAME
TIME
DON'T GO IN
Joy in mudville. You're on your way to the big ballpark in the Bronx. The scene under the subway crackles with apocalyptic bonhomie. You're pining for that moment when, emerging from the ramps and tunnels, you behold the bright Elysium that is the Yanks' home field. But for God's sake, before going through the turnstiles—before you even leave the office!—check the Doppler radar for any telltale green blobs gathering over Bergen County.
The infernal chaos of the Stadium in a downpour is an experience to be avoided at all costs. It's a Woodstock of off-duty cops, a kindergarten field trip to Penn Station at rush hour. Worst of all, to Mr. Steinbrenner's accountant, it's a day on the books for your courteous ballpark wait staff. In order to avoid paying those vendors another game's piddling wages, chances are that if the first pitch is thrown, the game will be played to its conclusion. Rain delays of two hours and up have become commonplace at the Stadium in recent years.
The solution is to avoid entering in the first place, until you're reasonably certain the threat of rain has passed. There's no better place to wait out the storm than the News Room bar at 854 Gerard Ave. One block removed from the boisterous, Yankee-centric frat-house abominations that line River Ave., the News Room caters to a more discerning neighborhood clientele. The beer's cold—and half the ballpark price—and the jukebox knows motown, disco, R. Kelly, you name it.
See hoochies your mom's age shake it all over two guys on the dance floor at 7:15 on a weeknight while following the game (or the ungodly delay thereof) on tv.
BEST OPENING-NIGHT MOVIE SPLURGE
RESERVED SEATING AT LOEWS
Let them eat front row. Once, on the short leg of a very long trip, Lufthansa bumped us up to first class. We got to board right away, trading those inevitable minutes of aisle-pushing through coach for immediate beverage service. The leathery goodness of those seats had us considering a change of career to something that would garner frequent-flyer miles. We weren't prepared, however, for the strange discomfort we felt when we'd accidentally make eye contact with "our people" as they filed to the back of the plane. Uneasy, embarrassed by our newfound privilege, we pretended to be already sleeping to avoid the passing looks.
These feelings: comfort, relief, beverage-service joy countered by a touch of seat-endowment shame, returned on the opening night of The Day After Tomorrow. Our boyfriend bought tickets for the show. We had spent the day scrubbing and swiffering the apartment, so he decided to treat us right by clicking the new "reserved seating" option on Fandango.com. We were skeptical, but it was his $5 per ticket to throw away. (Actually, at the time he said it was only $2 more, knowing we'd be stressed by the actual figure. And now? It's too late; how quickly we grow accustomed to luxury.)
Rather than arriving early, waiting on line and scrambling for not-too-close yet not-too-far seats, we showed up just before show-time, visited the reserved-seating box office and entered the theater. An usher escorted us to our seats, beacons of comfort in a hard, dark world. An usher-cum-waitress gave us snack-bar menus; we weren't hungry but almost ordered food just to make use of the generous tray tables between every two seats. Around us, latecomers clamored for the last seats. The usher-waitress became guard as well, brought to the brink of physical altercation with patrons who had not paid for reserved seating but demanded cushy affluence when confronted by the first-row-only availability of general admission. Their rebellion was swiftly squashed.
And yes, there was shame. We felt a little wrong for living on the right side of the cinematic tracks. It could've been us in the front row. In fact, it has been, time and time again. But with the dimming lights, our shame subsided. In the darkness, with no watchful eyes, there was only us, and only joy.
BEST PUB CRAWL
THAT TIME WE ENTERTAINED AN ENTIRE AIRCRAFT CARRIER DURING FLEET WEEK
Climb aboard, sailor. Everyone loves a man in uniform, but what do you do once you've caught one? When we walked into Westside Tavern with a few friends one night, encountering a sea of white before us, we knew it was Fleet Week. It seems those bright white outfits, alternating between an oversized shirt accented with a neckerchief and a square-shouldered, starched, button-down variation—not that we were paying attention—inspire an outpouring of generosity, including free rounds and subway passage.
We were no different. Taking mercy on the gang for winding up in Chelsea in search of a good time, we directed the crew from the U.S. Iwo Jima to other places we thought better suited them—a mix of jazz bars and choice dives. But, after buying rounds for the shore party ourselves, and splitting dollars for jukebox picks and pool games, we were rewarded by the days that followed: a week spent traveling around with a young fun group of sailors—everyone with their leave buddy—from bar to bar.
Trying to showcase the city as best we could, we ended up experiencing the city as a tourist, through their eyes, visiting a combination of new places and old favorites, even giving places we detested a second chance. When we found them the next night at Gold Rush on 10th Ave., charitably sharing their complimentary drinks with us, we threw back beers and shots while we challenged them to more pool, witnessed a saucy dance routine—despite the restricting uniform, girl sailors can move and look stripper-hot doing it—drilled them about sailor speak and absorbed the details of stories covering their onboard antics and gripes. The bar nearly empty, we had the run of the place and stayed until last call, which luckily came right after the pool table grew blurry.
The next night, we met up at Bleecker Street Bar, miraculously devoid of NYU students. We rotated pitchers, played pool—a game not often associated with boats, yet still mastered by many sailors—and threw darts at a target poorly positioned next to a frequently used walkway, until a commander grew bored and declared a need for karaoke. Off we went to Sing Sing, where, despite the expensive drinks, everyone seemed to be having fun. The sailors were lined up to do a song until the bartender mentioned to one of the higher-up officers that they seemed to be in the wrong neighborhood and would probably feel better if they left and went somewhere else—generally West. Anyplace except there, basically.
Stunned but compliant, we headed out, the sailors a little deflated by this first encounter with vicious and vocal animosity. At Nevada Smiths, not surprising, most of Fleet Week's fleets had flocked. Loose ladies abounded and the boys were fast engrossed, but a little agitated by no longer being a center of attention. We're ashamed to say that we stayed again until closing; the sailors, almost without exception chainsmokers, taking frequent cigarette breaks to escape the stale beer fumes. Outside, they passed the time starting conversations with passersby, quickly learning how friendly New Yorkers can be.
The Iwo Jima scheduled to be underway the next day, we bid our new friends goodbye and unsteadily headed our separate ways, ending a non-stop week of fun.
What did we take away from our catered pub crawl? We learned that the brig does exist and you go there when you screw up. People do actually "swab the deck." Putting your hands in your pockets and smoking in uniform is frowned upon, but doing it and walking will bring punishment if you're caught. Sailor caps are one size fits all.
So what do you do when you've caught a sailor? You have some fun with them, then throw them back. They'll come back next year, all grown up—and ready to keep a little while longer.
BEST ONLINE POKER
POKERROOM.COM
All in. By all rights, Pokerroom.com ought to share this award with the more venerable Pokerstars.com, whence 2003 World Series of Poker champion Chris Moneymaker got his start. Thing is, though, we're Mac-based and so is Pokerroom. Given the profit potential of online gaming, it's hard to fathom that no other live-action poker sites (that we know of) are 100 percent Mac compatible.
With Pokerroom, the Mac user is not saddled with additional program downloads. Think this is a small deal? Try holding aces over queens on the turn with $160 in the pot only to be knocked off line because Virtual PC crapped your processor. Not fun. We also like this site for the quality of the competition: It's low. Now, perhaps our game's improved since switching over, or maybe "creative" Mac types are more right-brained and somehow make weaker tablemates. Who knows?
Whatever the case, we've been winning more since we joined and, well, that is fun. About the only drawback we've found is you can't access your complete hand history the way you can on other sites, but we expect this to change as membership grows. With all the usual bells and whistles like weekly tournaments, real-money bonuses, private tables, play-money tables and poker variants (Hold 'Em, Omaha, 7-Stud, Hi-Lo) we see no reason to play anywhere else and neither should you. See ya at the river.
BEST PLACE TO
REKINDLE YOUR YOUTH
MILLENNIUM SKATE PARK
In Owl's Head Park
(betw. 68th St. & Wakeman Pl.), Bay Ridge
Dude, I think my ankle's broken. In the mid 1970s Bruce Logan, Russ Howell, Stacy Peralta, Tom Sims and Greg Weaver brought skating into the homes and dreams of kids across the world. In 1982, a scrawny 14-year-old named Tony Hawk won his first competition, taking skating from a pipe dream into an accessible arena for thousands of lost urban kids. Once-misplaced and -directionless city youths found communities in empty loading docks and vacant parking lots.
Suddenly street skating was more respected than bowl riding. The dreams of skate punks were rising around them in freshly constructed steps, railings and sidewalk curbs. It wasn't just a way of getting from point A to B; it wasn't just a way to pass time. Skating became a way of life, a saving grace, giving disgruntled youths a means of expression that wasn't possible in the well-tailored, rigidly ruled sports of football or hockey. Under bridges, up library steps, hanging off the backs of buses—thousands of skateboarders took over, filling the air with the scrappy rattle of soft wheels on hard asphalt.
Today, skateboarding is such a part of city life that it's not uncommon to see a businessman with a briefcase riding to work or an ad exec board out of a photo shoot. It's appropriate then, that Brooklyn (being the birthplace of significant thought) would cross the thrasher world of skating with the once-were-full-time-now-die-hard skaters of corporate New York. Though the city is in and of itself a skate park, it is hardly skater-friendly, what with triple-parked cars and recently purchased lots. Luckily there are places like Millennium Skate Park, which offers 14,000 square feet of concrete bowls, "skatelite" ramps and metal ledges, a haven for four wheels and wood.
There is no better way to tap back into your youthful pride than to call in a sick day and spend the afternoon skating. Dig out your Walkman, slip in a heavy-metal tape and take off to Owl's Head Park in Bay Ridge. The park is sunken and not visible from the street, which is great if you're rusty, and makes skating feel like a secret again. Upon arrival you'll skate down a 12-foot-wide cement "waterfall" to the floor, where you'll find a six-foot street bowl with an assortment of grinding banks. Three ledges of various heights with wide, metal-covered edges simulate a truck dock that'll bring a tear to your eye.
Further along is the free-form bowl, designed by Andy Kessler, which consists of different pool shapes five to eight feet deep all merging one into the other. The park floor and numerous ramps are meant to be rebuilt every few years by neighborhood patrons in the hopes of instilling a sense of community, responsibility and ownership over the park. In fact, many local skaters were consulted during the original construction for just this reason—perhaps why it is so well maintained. Who would have thought skating would have become a socio-political promotion tool?
Requires: helmet, knee and elbow pads.
BEST GYM FOR
TRAMPOLINING
RUDY VAN DAELE'S LIFE SPORT GYM
West Park Church, 165 W. 86th St.
(Amsterdam Ave.), 212-769-3131
God, this is fun. Mondays through Saturdays, gymnastics teacher Rudy Van Daele welcomes students aged one to 70 explore their bodily strength and agility and to expand their psyches while learning gymnastics and trampolining at his Life Sport Gym, located in the attic of West Park Church. Van Daele's teachings translate basic bounces, flips and other techniques into profoundly freeing spiritual transformations. Soaring under Rudy's wing is great for body and spirit.
"I believe the happier and more comfortable students are, the faster they learn," he says. "In Life Sport Gym, we start by giving students total freedom to do whatever they want to do. Then, through alertness and paying close attention, we create trusting relationships that give students the comfort and confidence to try things they would be reluctant to do in more restricted arenas. The learning progression simply follows from there. It's really a process of freeing impulse and creating confidence, as well as demonstrating basic techniques that most people—especially young children who haven't already been taught restrictions—can easily assimilate. We encourage students to do their personal best, without competing to best others."
Van Daele's explanation of his students' accomplishments is modest, almost humble. But those who've succeeded under his tutelage say he's a genius who imparts pure inspiration. He uses yoga as a basis for his gymnastics and trampoline teachings because "it's about health, and that's what I'm about as a teacher. Yoga provides students with a lifelong buffer against the health-damaging stresses of competition, which is so high profile and prevalent in gymnastics."
Even if you don't make it to his classes, you're welcome to enjoy watching Van Daele's students of all ages, including infants, perform at his annual benefit, "Womb: Temple of the Child", an extraordinary high-flying performance staged in the Sanctuary of West Park Church (this year on November 13). Professional gymnasts and musicians usually join in, adding bounce and fund-raising clout to the event, proceeds from which go toward tuition scholarships for children who cannot otherwise afford to attend classes.
BEST TRIVIA NIGHT
THE NIGHT CAFE
938 Amsterdam Ave. (betw. 106th
& 107th Sts.), 212-864-8889
We'll take fair and balanced trivia for $1000, Alex. There's a lot of hype about the trivia night at Rocky Sullivan's. While we respect Liam, the fine Irishman emcee, and his weekly, alcohol-drenched quiz nights, it's not quite up to par. When our geek-out requires more than a tv dinner and Alex Trebek, we visit the Night Cafe.
Why shlep to 106th St. on a Sunday night? First of all, people cheat at Rocky Sullivan's. They let you use your cellphone during the match. That's like whipping out Google for the Times crossword puzzle. Teams are virtually unlimited in size, there are no prizes and there are six rounds. Yes: six. Which can mean a three-hour trivia night.
At the Night Cafe, there are rules and regulations designed to keep things fair and moving along. Most important, no phones allowed. With two rounds of 18 questions each and teams limited to four members, you're committing about an hour of your night to alcohol and trivia, during which you have numerous chances of winning prizes. A bottle of wine goes to the winner of the first round, overall winner and best team name. Categories fall in line with Jeopardy's: food and drink, movie plots, hodgepodge. And, bless them, the sports questions are far and few. Correctly answering the night's final question, always the hardest, means a free round of drinks for your team.
The Night Cafe is infested with politicos, so if you can't hang with the Trots and those bores from the ISO, maybe you do want to stick to Rocky Sullivan's. You also won't find two Jeopardy champions leading the show downtown: Dave Cook and Brian Flanagan, the uptown trivia-night founders, both played Jeopardy back in '96. Cook won $23,000; Flanagan, $23,001. Show-offs.
BEST GRAFFITI (OUTDOORS)
5 POINTZ
Jackson Ave & Crane St., LIC
Tag, they're it. Formerly known as the Phun Phactory, 5 Pointz is a block-long exhibit of graffiti artists in Long Island City, directly across the street from that other art institution, P.S. 1. Covering the four walls of this building are the burners and pieces of graffiti art normally dispersed throughout the urban landscapes of the world, illegal to create yet representative of an expanding hiphop culture. 5 Pointz acts as the canvas over which writers of varied backgrounds display their work for a certain length of time, depending on how unique the style. Always great for a quick drive-by, or a "while-I'm-here" walk-by, 5 Pointz is the museum that never closes, situated next to the train yards, the former venue for the illegal artist of yore.
5 Pointz reps the five boroughs by title and the next level of aerosol art in concept. With sections of walls brilliantly painted to resemble individual mentalities, the spraypaint bleeds and blends to display how the various underground artists of our day intermix. The skill of some of the artists exhibited outshines others, but the total scheme of 5 Pointz allows for such a hierarchy. Meres, the artist in charge nowadays, hand-selects where each artist will display, leaving the best spots for the heavyweights while still inviting and encouraging the next generation to participate. Aiming for a higher plateau than graff, many spots are filled with aerosol paintings, such as the reproduction of a Rembrandt self-portrait by Sperm. Others like Sense3 choose to evoke the purist, spreading complex burners upon the bricks, conjuring an old-school vibe. It's enough to make the ancestry proud.
BEST SUMMERSTAGE CONCERT
NAS
Fences are for apartheid states. Forget the fact that the opening acts were bullshit—a limp DJ battle between two losers and a glitzy, Broadway-style breakdance performance by the latest generation of Roc Steady—Nas put on the best show of the series. Don't feel bad; a lot of people stood in line for hours only to be disappointed. Which is weird, because inside it was at about half-capacity, with plenty of room to chill.
Only problem was, it was raining that day, making everything a bit slippery, but we were happy to see hardly a line for beer and burgers (great burgers by the way, served on hot dog buns) and a quick line to the Port-a-Potty. Heavenly. Spark the j.
And then, Nas. The beat for "New York State of Mind" surprised everyone. The chunky piano loop rolled out from the speakers and filled the venue, spilling out over the walls to wake those just outside the circle. Over our shoulder, we noticed three kids hopping the wall, smiles all over their faces. They ran past us into the crowd—"We made it!"—and behind them, 10 or 20 others coming up the hill. Then it's 60, 100, 200 kids climbing over the wall, storming the concert like we hadn't seen in years. It was a beautiful chaos, people taking the music back.
They raced toward the stage and were quickly lost in the sea of heads. Cops came on stage, threatened to shut things down, and Nas asked for calm.
But 10 minutes later, the mic was back on. The show went on, even surrounded by cops who seemed to be practicing for their upcoming stint at the Republican National Convention. And because it was Queens' day in the park, Q-Tip did a drop-by to represent. But you probably heard about that.
BEST GRAFFITI (INDOORS)
MCCAIG-WELLES GALLERY
129 Roebling St. (betw. N. 4th & N. 5th Sts.) Williamsburg, 718-384-8729
Writing on the wall. While most galleries will throw an occasional graffiti artist or clone in the mix to appear current and edgy, McCaig-Welles has been repping the elite of aerosol artistry since March of 2001. Dalek, Tats Cru, Doze, Seen, West One, Shepard Fairey, Futura, UA, Ces, Espo, Cope, Duro, Quik, NYC Lase, AngelOneSevenNine, Phem9, Dash, Stash, Lady Pink etc… It's impossible to front on names of this caliber. Hands-down, exhibit after exhibit, McCaig-Welles holds the crown.
BEST INTIMATE
REGGAE SPOT
CAFE DEL BAR
945 Columbus Ave. (106th St.)
917-741-0270
Red black and green with your amber? The utter coziness of Cafe Del Bar means that no one can even move without some sort of social interaction, whether it be a friendly excuse-me, or a gentle tap on the shoulder. The best time to come is on a weeknight, when intimacy, rather than claustrophobia, reigns supreme. And just in case patrons still feel like strangers, the bartenders make a concerted effort to learn everyone's names before engaging in playful banter. The crowd, an eclectic mix of African expatriates, Columbia students, artists and locals follow the bartenders' examples, and make friendly introductions among themselves.
The vibe is so welcoming that first-timers feel like regulars, and often become them. Soon stories and conversations are flowing, in English, Swahili, French and Twi. Upon entering the glowing bar from quiet Columbus, visitors are accosted by intoxicating rhythms. DJs spin a delectable mix of underground reggae, funk, and Afrobeat music that induces everyone to hop off their stools and dance unselfconsciously, late into the night. For stamina, patrons can visit neighboring restaurant A for tasty French-Caribbean offerings amidst a similarly laidback atmosphere.
Red lights lend a certain sexiness to the already intimate setting, warmly illuminating faces, while invoking a nostalgic, bordello kind of feel. African masks, photos of antique cars, and a lone soccer jersey hang tastefully on the walls. No one pays much attention to these decorative details, however—they're interested in more meaningful things like laughing, dancing and sharing stories, and making everyone feel at home. The generously portioned Ghanaian beer, "Star," is perfect for sharing with your new friends, lovers, dance partners and confidantes.
BEST GAY BAR FOR STRAIGHT GUYS TO
PICK UP CHICKS
G BAR
225 W. 19th St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.)
212-929-1085
All teams welcome. When we wanted to take our friend out for a drink, we opted for g bar. He's no metrosexual (okay, he's homely), but we figured g's frozen cosmos (the bar's signature drink) would loosen him up. What we hadn't counted on were all the fag hags. G bar is the place where boys who like boys feel safe taking their Real Girl girlfriends. Maybe it's the giant glass window that screams, "We're here, we're queer, we're cruising." Maybe it's the ambient trance music. Or maybe it's the unisex bathroom (you have to walk past the urinals to get from point A to point B).
Soon enough, Pete found himself in conversation with two very comestible Asian women, who thought he was cool for hanging in a gay bar. Pete didn't get laid that night, but he's been back.
BEST CIRCUS
THE BIG APPLE CIRCUS
The greatest one-ring show on Earth. By 1977, the one-ring circus had been pretty much extinct in North America for 50 years. Paul Binder had just returned from an extended tour of France with his juggling partner and co-conspirator Michael Christensen, where they had been seduced by the intimacy and high-art aspirations of the one-ring European circus tradition. As he tells it, Paul awoke one morning in his ramshackle loft in the Manhattan neighborhood then known as Washington Market with a clear vision, which he immediately shared with his polydactyl cat, Ange: "The New York School of Circus Arts presents the Big Apple Circus!" He swears to this day that the cat smiled.
Paul and Michael hustled up the cash and assembled a team of remarkable talents, including Philippe Petit, the man who walked a wire between the two towers of the World Trade Center. They set up their little green tent in the shadow of the towers and changed circus history.
The Big Apple Circus succeeded beyond their wildest dreams and inspired a rebirth of the one-ring show in the Americas. They did away with the overly chatty mercurial ringmaster familiar to attendees of the three- and five-ring spectacles of the time, opting instead for a seamless presentation of acts linked by a common theme and punctuated by Binder's jovial presentation as ringmaster. They brought the production values of the Broadway musical into the Big Top.
The show has continued to thrill and amaze spectators of all ages by remaining true to its core values. They never set out to conquer the world or build a Disney-like entertainment conglomerate. They never intended to branch out into multiple touring units recycling old shows, outlandishly expensive concessions items, theme parks, Vegas installations or hotels. The object of the exercise is and always has been to provide the highest-possible-quality entertainment to audiences of all ages, and in the service of that pursuit they continue to set the standard by which all other North American circuses are judged.
BEST ORGIES
ABBY EHMANN
editrixabby.com
Like it's 1969. In the beginning, there was the Sexual Freedom League, and it was good. Then, in the legendary Era of Disco, the gay Disney World known as Continental Baths turned into Plato's Retreat, and it was okay. Then, the Department of Health closed down all the sex clubs.
And that really sucked.
Finally, with the Giuliani administration came the conversion of the last holdouts like Billy's Topless into bagel shops and t-shirt stores. Hardcore dives like the Hellfire Club were forced to either close or move to the outer boroughs. Not long after, desperately trendy downtowners—you know, those who seek out decadence as if they're fulfilling merit-badge requirements—were shelling out large amounts of cash to attend over-hyped, softcore and completely artificial sex parties like Cake.
The real decadence—once as much a part of New York as corner shell games and getting run over by taxis—is harder and harder to find. At first glance, the sex-party scene, a former bastion of hope for a more polymorphously perverse future, presents some particularly depressing options. You can go to Pelagia's One Leg Up soirees, which are harder to get into than Stanford (and much like college admissions, require an application essay), or you can check out the swinger scene, where you can party with suburbanites while trying to avoid the roaming solo masturbators.
When the going gets tough, the tough go underground. For those who care to look deeper than the Style section of the New York Times, the city's sexual underground is alive and well—and the reigning queen of decadence is Abby Ehmann, editrix of Playground magazine, who throws her occasional parties in lofts, dungeons and other secret locations. Come as you are, or just come: Unlike many places in the scene, where girls groping girls seems almost mandatory but men touching men is verboten, Abby's parties are gay- and bisexual-friendly. After all, even if you're not into guys, you have to ask yourself what the hell kind of orgy forbids good ol' fashioned sodomy between men?
Though anything that's safe, sane and consensual goes, it's not as scary as it sounds. The come-as-you-are vibe is friendly and always polite—imagine a cocktail party with sex acts—and while we've seen single guys, the vibe is mostly about couples sharing an adventure.
BEST PRIMETIME
LESBIAN PORN
OLYMPIC WOMEN'S
BEACH VOLLEYBALL
Girl-on-girl, on sand, on tv. We salute our Olympic athletes as much as anyone, but parking in front of the tv and enduring hours of uneven bars, vaults, high dives and relay races—not to mention the commentary from washed-up former Olympians whose 15 minutes was 15 years ago—just doesn't have the same allure as when we were 10.
So we were surprised to find ourselves hanging off the edge of the couch in front of an Olympic women's beach volleyball match. It turned out to be fast-paced, sun-kissed drama, and both lithely muscular teams were all but naked. Over the course of a few days, we watched several matches, but there was something about one particular American team.
Widely regarded as the world's best beach volleyball players, Kerri Walsh and Misty May (a porn star's name if we've ever heard one) stormed the Olympics, where they didn't lose a single match—and walked away with the gold medal. The two first met back in their college days, when each was MVP-this and top-athlete-that for Stanford and Long Beach State. Upon their first encounter, Walsh asked May, her volleyball hero, for her autograph. A decade later, the affection is clearly mutual.
The six-foot-two Walsh rewarded May with a frisky ass-smack whenever May scored a point. Or missed a point, come to think of it. Walsh just smacked May's exquisite athlete's ass a lot. The sexual tension between Walsh and May positively throbbed off the scorching Athens sand. The cherry atop this glorious sundae? That would be when Walsh spiked the ball between the grimly bad-ass Brazilians, scoring the gold-medal point. After a resounding victory roar, she fell to her knees in the sand and covered her face in joy and disbelief. An equally elated May tackled her, and, fully horizontal, they writhed ecstatically in the sand, Walsh tightly wrapping those tan, lanky legs around—where else—May's ass.
To our eternal gratitude, NBC replayed it—twice. We now really, really salute our Olympic athletes—especially Kerri Walsh and Misty May. Here's waiting for the DVD.
BEST READING SERIES
HAPPY ENDING READING SERIES
Most fun, best crowds. Amanda Stern is the hardest-working woman in New York literary nightlife, as she demonstrates every Wednesday (summers off) with the Happy Ending Reading Series in Chinatown. Situated on the encroaching border of the LES at Forsyth and Broome Sts., the reading series takes place in a bar known as the Happy Ending Bar that's marked as a healing center on its yellow awning. One of our favorite things to do is stand around and watch newcomers figure it out.
Inside, a surprisingly swank bar serves drinks while the readers do their thing. Each is obligated to sing or dance or perform in some way in addition to presenting their material. The crowds are always thick, the guests are consistently amazing, and the fact that Amanda ends every show by encouraging people to "get drunk, go home with somebody" leads to that actually happening.
BEST GAY AFTER-HOURS SEX CLUB
THE STUDIO
A fistful of fun. You won't find it in the Getting Off section of HX or advertised in the back pages of Next. The solid-steel door, in a nondescript two-story building in the Flower District, is plain and unmarked. To find it, you have to know someone—or be online in the wee hours of the morning, where someone named "VersPNP" or "Hot2nite" might invite you to a private party.
Once upstairs, you check your clothes and enter into a dark labyrinth of partitions and mirrors. They call this funhouse simply the Studio, and inside, anything goes. Condoms and lube are available, and so are rubber gloves. The guys vary from gorgeous to gross, but unlike the baths, there's no standing and modeling. The name of the game is sex, the more the merrier. The action can vary. You're as likely to see someone snoring in the sling as a hot muscleman posing on a dais. But until 8 a.m., when the last tweaker puts on his clothes and the staff hoses the walls down, you'll get what you need. For that night, anyway.
BEST MOVIE
ABOUT NEW YORK
THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1-2-3
Will ya? To see classic movies set in New York, we check in regularly with Film Forum. We saw The French Connection there, and it reminded us of how many great movies were set in New York in the 1970s. There's also Dog Day Afternoon, The Panic in Needle Park, Taxi Driver and even the nonviolent Annie Hall.
Then there's the sleeper of the bunch: 1974's The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3. The plot is straightforward: Four guys hijack a subway and hold it and the passengers hostage, threatening to kill one passenger a minute unless the mayor comes across with a million bucks. What raises this one from a run-of-the-mill cop procedural is brilliant performances by Walter Matthau as the wisecracking Transit Police lieutenant in charge and the sinister Robert Shaw as the head hijacker. Back then, Transit was a separate force, and Matthau plays the man in charge with a convincing kind of world-weariness and bleak humor that Denis Leary can't quite muster as a post-9/11 fireman in Rescue Me.
Look at New York in the 1970s in these movies, and the heroes, long before 9/11, still were good civil servants who kept the whole urban mess working. Guys like Matthau's Zach Garber were the quiet, wise-ass, unflappable heroes to whom a subway hijacking constitutes just another daily shitstorm in a lifetime of shitstorms. He expects nothing else from life but aggravation leavened with stupid people. He is exactly the kind of guy you would want in charge in a crisis. He's smart, realistic, and he's not about to jeopardize the public safety for his own politics. The movie is dark and violent, from a time when the city was too, which gives Pelham additional punch.
If you have only known New York since its time of prosperity, see this movie just to remember what life was like in the days when the city was almost bankrupt, and subways had no air-conditioning but plenty of graffiti. Added bonus: The ending is a corker.
BEST USE OF TITS
AT A ROCK VENUE
PUSSYCAT LOUNGE
96 Greenwich St. (Rector St.)
212-285-6100
We almost forgot what they looked like. "Sex, drinks and rock 'n' roll," claims the website. A real advantage of the Pussycat Lounge is that if you get bored of watching your friend's band, you can hang out downstairs in the kind of trashy, no-frills topless bar that used to be a fixture of Manhattan, but in the post-Giuliani era is now a rare breed.
There's something charmingly democratic and populist about walking through a door and beholding a variety of naked female breasts in all their glory—without paying a cover charge beyond the usual overpriced drink. Likewise welcome is the kind of utilitarian go-go bar environment that eliminates concerns of dealing with strippers hassling you to buy them drinks or get cozy in a pricey VIP room. This is smut for the people, the opportunity to hang out casually in a room with a shooting-gallery style stage of gyrating, nearly nude women. Just do everyone a favor and tip the girls—at a place like this it's gotta be a pretty thankless vocation.
As for the rock 'n' roll, Pussycat is a legitimate performance space upstairs, probably out of adherence to the 60-40 zoning that kept their titty bar in business. The upstairs regularly features bands and DJs a few nights a week. They pack a small stage with a full backline and respectable sound system, a second bar and a balcony lounge where patrons can chill out. Nights there have featured rock, punk, rockabilly, live hiphop, burlesque performance art, the Bindlestiff Family Circus weekly "Lucky Stiff" side-show night, assorted private parties and other events. Something about the whole scene reminds us of Malcolm McLaren performing as a barker outside the Pistols' 100 Club shows, lasciviously soliciting passerby as if the club were still a strip bar and the band an actual live sex act.
When you slip outside for a smoke, get cheap thrills from the fact that this is the closest thing to a den of vice you can experience on short notice without having to immerse yourself in actual criminal demimonde. In these days of cheap thrills in short supply, we get them where we can. Pussycat is both a sleazy good time and a great functional venue for small bands building cred to compete in the gladitorial combat of the local music scene.
BEST MC STILL SELLING CDS ON THE STREET
JERU THE DAMAJA
On the corner. Gangstarr introduced Jeru back in 1992 on Daily Operation and the follow-up, Hard to Earn. DJ Premier even produced Jeru's first two full-lengths. But we all know that being an artist that's respected and perfectly aligned with the gods doesn't necessarily mean one can afford the house in the hills. Jeru has always been a people's poet, traveling a path that's very different than other hiphop acts. He's stayed clear of the fads of the music industry, most recently the age of bling-bling. As he states on "Scientifical Madness": "Fuck a two-hundred-dollar sweater/We need to try and reach the niggaz/On the corner."
If hiphop were a comic book, Jeru would be yet another intelligent warrior, standing in the ranks of Wu, poetically fighting for empowerment of the weak and the weak-minded.
Avoiding major labels, Jeru produced and distributed his third album, Heroz 4 Hire, himself. And no one does marketing like J. We saw him on the corner of 8th St. and 6th Ave. the week before his latest album, Divine Design, launched. He was polying it up with a lesser breed of MCs, cats also from Brooklyn trying to sell their burned CDs to Fat Beats shoppers. They circled him, one resting on the hood of a parked car, another sitting on his dirtbike, all listening to his words of advice. As he explained the beautiful struggle, it became clear that he respects those hungry to get in the game, those willing to take any approach necessary to ensure it.
He told us that his new album was due out the following week. We gave him a pound and said, "We're buying two!" He and his boys all started laughing. But because it was Jeru, a week later we did buy two copies: one for travels, one for the library. A bit later, a friend called to say he'd seen Jeru in front of Virgin Mega, selling his joints for a "few bucks cheaper than inside."
This is definitely one of the most slept-on Brooklyn cats in the business. He's of the rare breed that reps New York while actually chilling on the streets of New York. Divine Design and pretty much any product, collaboration, guest spot and most importantly, any live show involving Jeru the Damaja, is a hiphop purist's dream.
BEST RAUNCHFEST
GO-GO IDOL COMPETITION
BoysRoom, 9 Ave. A (Houston St.)
212-358-1440
Go, go, boys! We haven't seen anything like this since the early days of the Cock. The walls of both levels of the club are plastered with images of naked twinky lads, while tv screens play scenes from really hardcore porn. In a very dark room, a young man's head finds itself dangerously close to another's crotch. Maybe he is just helping him look for a lost contact lens that fell between his legs or something.
On Saturday nights, Cazwell, Amanda Lepore and Matt Bell host Go-Go Idol while DJs Jon-Jon Battles, Adam, Miss Guy and Mistress Formika provide the music. On this particular evening a line-up of very tasty boys is competing for the title of "Go-Go Boy of the Week"—and a cash prize of $300.
"Come on! You can do better than that!" Formika yells out, castigating a particularly shy contestant. "Hustler boys get fucked by fat, balding businessmen from Nebraska for much less. What made you think you deserve 300 bucks for that?"
During an intermission, hottie bartender Pedro stands up on the bar and administers free tequila shots from on high. Once the performance resumes, some of the go-go boys will also rise to the occasion and provide a healthy dose of tea-bagging to patrons lucky enough to stand close to the stage.
"That was quite a ballsy performance," one patron remarks after a contestant from New Jersey showed the audience why two fingers are better than one (and three are better than two).
At the end of the night, the cheering crowd picks a victor. Afterward, the winner confesses: "I just felt like acting a bit slutty tonight, and—well—300 bucks is a good excuse to do so."
BEST VIEW OF
THE EMPIRE
STATE BUILDING
METRO HOTEL ROOFTOP
45 W. 35th St. (betw. 5th & 6th Aves.)
212-947-2500
All the way up, please. Everyone visits New York and pays to wait in line for the Empire State Building only to ride its elevator to the top and take pictures of Manhattan and beyond. Have you ever once considered the feelings of the Empire State Building? Tourists, and locals too, walk all over its roof without any regard, just taking this slab of concrete for granted.
In these post-9/11 days, with buildings disappearing on random Tuesday mornings, we should stop neglecting the skyline's now-most-notable icon and get our asses over to the Metro Hotel. Take the elevator to their roof and take pictures of what will be staring at you: the Empire State Building from just blocks away.
From a distance, the city's tallest building doesn't look real; it's an abstract pillar that may as well be made from Lego. From the Metro's rooftop, however, it's a piece of architectural genius and beauty. It's also close enough that one imagines throwing pebbles at the rooftop tourists.
Did we mention the Metro has a bar?
BEST LOW-KEY
WINTER GETAWAY
PLACENCIA, BELIZE
Paradise peninsula. Placencia is a small village on the southern coast of Belize, about 40 klicks inland of the world's largest living barrier reef. We went down there last winter to complete our open-water diving certification and liked it so much, we're planning to return next April when the whale sharks come by to feed. Mainly a stop on the Caribbean scuba/bone-fishing circuit, we encountered an assortment of geriatric eco-traveler types and more than a few Mennonites (American Mennonites have been evangelizing down there for decades). But that's about it. No Teva-clad North American gomers to speak of. No expats or eurodouches either, thank you very much.
Apart from the stunning aquaculture, on offer there is a nice-sized sand beach, one main dock, a half-kilometer-long strip of pensions and restaurants (seafood is fresh and cheap), a soccer field and 458 permanent residents of mostly Creole and Garifuna descent. A few sleepy, thatch-roofed resorts can be found north of town (including Francis Ford Coppola's Turtle Inn, where we did our scuba certification).
Other than that, there are few signs of large-scale development. In fact, the place is pretty much sequestered, with tiny farms and orchards backing their way across the flats toward the mountains of the interior and coastline surrounding being 98 percent mangrove. Still recovering from Hurricane Andrew back in 1992, the town has yet to be transformed into any kind of travel destination the way the country's cayes have. Doubtful that it will any time soon.
To get to Placencia, you fly in to Belize City and then either hop a turbo prop (two-stops; 45 minutes; $140 U.S. round-trip) or take a bus (five hours; $45 U.S.).
BEST GOLF COURSE
FLUSHING MEADOWS
PITCH AND PUTT
In Flushing Meadows Park
718-271-8182
Baby tees. Golf may be the easiest sport to despise. The readiest criticisms you can level at the grand old game are, in the main, demonstrably true. Expensive: check. Elitist: you betcha. Time-consuming, boring to watch and damnably difficult to master: check, check and check. What's amazing about the Flushing Meadows Pitch and Putt Golf Course, then, is that it addresses every one of these deficiencies. In fact, in all of the meaningful ways you can name, it drastically improves upon the quote-unquote real thing.
Regular, full-scale golf is painfully subject to the three great urban limitations: space, time and money. Real golf typically demands a dozen expensive clubs, greens fees in excess of $50 per round, five or more hours of your precious time and, ideally, a Lexus to transport you to and from Dutchess County. At Pitch and Putt, only two clubs are required: an iron (for the pitch, or short-lofted shot) and a putter. Clubs rent for a buck apiece, and the round itself costs roughly $15. That and a MetroCard, and you're in business.
On Flushing's course, none of the 18 holes is longer than 80 yards. This has several temporal benefits. Not only does a round take less than two hours to play, but one may dispense with long and arduous years of trying and failing to learn how to play in the first place. Absolute novices (read, your spastic date) can master the basic art of getting the ball in play very rapidly, and there's no way you can send the ball too far off-course.
By the time you reach the water hazard on the back nine, your stroke should be manageably steady and true. But it gets better. The genial grounds crew constantly circulates around the course on a golf cart, dispensing beer and snacks at market prices. Not only that, but during the high summer months, the course is lit for night play—with a possible group tee-off as late as 11! For novelty value alone, the experience makes a hell of a night out. As a method of letting off steam after another late-inning Mets collapse, it's invaluable.
In short, if the Rodney Dangerfield character in Caddyshack had designed a course, this would be it. All of the good times, none of the comical Ted Knight pretentiousness. Take the 7 train to Willets Point-Shea Stadium, walk toward the Tennis Center, hang a left at the foot of the ramp.
BEST BOARDWALK
SOUTH BEACH, STATEN ISLAND
That's one reason to go. Thank the Jersey gods for boardwalks. These planks of wood were custom-built and slapped down for good times, greasy food stands—and for muscle-heads to show off their trophy girlfriends. But for some reason, they're bicycle-unfriendly, or at least Coney Island's are. Wheelchairs, baby strollers, skateboards, shopping carts for the homeless—those are all fine. But dare to bike along Coney Island or Brighton Beach and you're treated like an outlaw.
Better to bike along Staten Island's South Beach boardwalk, where views of the Verrazano Bridge and ocean liners compete for bikers' attention. To get there, one must navigate some hairy turns and steep hills, but the ride is worth it. The only place off-limits for bicyclists is the piers. And the boardwalk stretches uninterrupted for miles with several "comfort stations" and ice cream stands along the way. This is not the Jersey coast: You won't find any meatheads or Baywatch beauties. It's mostly kids playing and older folks sitting. Come to bike, not to gawk.
BEST GAY-STRAIGHT BAR SCENE
CLUBHOUSE
700 E. 9th St. (Ave. C), 212-260-7970
AC/DC. Officially a gay bar, unofficially the coolest place in town. Wedged into a tiny corner on Ave. C and 9th St., this hole in the wall offers a live DJ. Don't let the staff's attitude put you off, because this place offers the best gay-straight crowd in town. This is where Rufus Wainwright's posse unwinds after a night of posing at Beige, and where DJ Susan Morabito threw a birthday party for her twentysomething gal pal. If the vibe got any cooler, it would fall into the East River and end up in Williamsburg.
BEST
UNDERAPPRECIATED CONEY ISLAND RIDE
ELDORADO AUTO SKOOTER
1216 Surf Ave. (Henderson Walk)
The Bee Gees were here. When the line's too long for the Cyclone, head straight for Eldorado Auto Skooter bumper cars. The cool neon sign out front tells you everything you need to know: this place has been around a while. Once inside, the disco and the mirror ball remind you of your past, perhaps when you once slow-danced in your high school gym. (And speaking of dancing, the Eldorado boasts the best ride attendants. They're known to put on quite a show, boogeying to the tunes that blare out from the loudspeakers.)
Eldorado Auto Skooter is also one of the last rides that doesn't require a ticket for admission. Instead, you get a cool token with a bumper car on it. If Coney nostalgia is your thing, pay for two rides—use one to get in, keep the other as a souvenir.
BEST ROLLING PAPERS FOR A SPECIAL
OCCASION
TRUE BLUNT FLAVORED
NTBCW Trojan-flavored. We all listened attentively to Redman's "How to Roll a Blunt" on his very first album, Whut, the Album? back in the day, but most of us knew long before that the skill of the blunt. And to that kid who was designated roller of the crew, this song was your crown, a song made in applause to his precision technique. But the times, they are a'changing, and in the continuous attempt to find new ways to enjoy the sticky-icky green one must not be shy. The bong is a must at any age, the pipe is great for those adult moments of contemplation in the dark, the Bamboos and Lion of Judah's an everyday fixture. But there are special occasions that one must jazz up the high.
Before that concert, grab a Champagne True Blunt and surprise the crew. When the sweet moist smoke passes through their lips, left only to linger on the wetness of the tongue, they will thank you.
Or try banana-flavored rolling papers—wonderful on a cool autumn night in the park, just you and your lover talking like every day is a comfortable Sunday and the world is at peace.
Who knows what the aroma does to enhance the sensation? At the very least, in such a state, it adds to the experience. And the lingering, sugary taste of candy—especially from our favorites, watermelon and bubble gum—makes for lips that should be licked.
BEST FEMALE GO-GO DANCERS IN A GAY BAR
THE SLIDE
356 Bowery, basement (Great Jones St.)
212-420-8885
Going down. You practically have to step over the scampering rats to get inside, but once in the Slide, you're greeted by throngs of boys (and a smattering of girls) packed into their 2Xists. Every Thursday night, sleazemeister Daniel Nardicio takes over this proverbial hole in the wall for Tigerbeat, a party where stripping down to your underwear is mandatory. The anything-goes atmosphere extends to smoking, dancing and sex. Upstairs, in the Marquee, you can watch one of the patrons on stage, feeling himself up, or see two exhibitionists putting on a show.
But the real treat is the go-go girls. In a tip to the polymorphous perversity that makes the Lower East Side the anti-Chelsea, Nardicio usually has a few Real Girls shaking their booty in Wonderbra and thong panties. The boys eat it up. Figuratively, of course.
BEST RECORD-STORE NEWSLETTER
NYCD
173 W. 81st St. (betw. Amsterdam &
Columbus Aves.), 212-724-4466
Sign up
at heynycd@aol.com
Give those guys a contract. Do you think it's easy running the best record store in Manhattan? Just ask Sal and Tony, the humble proprietors of NYCD and co-authors of the funniest email in town. Their weekly update on new releases also includes genuinely entertaining tales of retail torture. They can even bitch about oblivious customers without sounding like bitter kids whining about having to work for a living. ("Idea for a new reality show: 'Sex And The CD,' in which two retailers are repeatedly told where they can shove their product.")
They're also capable of some of the most refreshing music criticism in town. Consider this take on the remastering of the reissue of Fleetwood Mac: "Mick Fleetwood's cymbals on 'Over My Head' could slice through bread. (not sure what that means, actually)." And here's their update on a recent anthology: "GUNS N' ROSES released their 'Greatest Hits' CD this week, despite Axl Rose, a psychiatrist's cash cow, going to court to prevent its release for fear of it obstructing the sales of the new Guns record, 'Chinese Democracy,' which doesn't exist."
Rock critics for a certain Weekly Entertainment magazine are already regularly stealing Sal and Tony's best lines. The two probably aren't surprised, though, since being appreciated is Job None at NYCD. They're still always ready to warn you when the store has a new heavily hyped album that's actually really awful. The NYCD newsletter is fun, free and written by two guys already so resigned to misery that they'll be amazed if a single person actually subscribes to it after this write-up.
BEST PLACE TO WATCH BOOTLEGGED MOVIES
ANY CHINATOWN BUS
Is this in theaters yet? Chinatown buses have quickly morphed from phenomenon to institution. Stroll East Broadway any afternoon and no less than 10 people scream "Deee Seee!" and "Phil-a-del-phia!" Ante 20 bucks and you're cruising. Included in the cost are the best bootlegged movies this side of Kazaa.
Sit beside a woman munching fried noodles, settle in and the features roll along with the bus. Hungering to see Will Smith act robotically in a first-run I, Robot, shot by a theater-mounted camcorder? Horror your bag? Take a trip to DC, and watch the head-munching monster from Jeepers Creepers send teens to their ignorant demise—if you can stomach fourth-generation static gore. On a recent voyage, we were treated to the Mummy—overdubbed in Chinese, then subtitled in grammatically deficient English. You ain't lived until you've seen swashbuckling hero Brendan Fraser hurl a string of Chinese invectives at a bandage-swaddled villain, translated as, "I kill you dead, mummy!"
BEST PLACE TO BUY BOOTLEG MOVIES
SUBWAY PASSAGE BETW. TIMES SQUARE & PORT AUTHORITY
Get burned. It makes sense that the underground world of bootlegging is alive and well in—the underground. We do our best to avoid dropping $25 to the corporate overlords for a DVD. Given the chance, we support the little person, especially when the little person is five-foot-tall "Lupe" lording over a blanket of the latest DVDs and CDs. She's usually in the same spot at the same time, but there are no guarantees. If "Lupe" feels the heat, she packs up and leaves, sometimes taking a few days off before setting up again.
On our first visit, we asked the gentleman next to us if he'd bought from her before. "No," he answered, paying for two DVDs, "but I asked someone and they told me they're quality." We only bought one—a test. Our $8 Kill Bill: Vol. 2 came wrapped in a re-sealable cellophane bag with blurry cover art, with a plain white disc. But every scene was clear, with nothing to betray the camcorder in the theater, and the sound was just fine. After the closing credits, the disc ended.
With some movies, we don't care about the special features—if the deleted scenes were that good, they'd be in the fucking movie—so "Lupe" was clearly the bootlegger for us. We returned a few days later and picked up Fahrenheit 9/11, which was also top-notch (for a boot).
Inventory changes weekly, sometimes every few days. And don't tell her that we sent you.
BEST TIME-KILLER
VIRGIN MEGASTORE, UNION SQUARE
This Virgin has a million lovers. Everybody knows the Virgin. She's situated in a cherry location, with several subways underneath her. Not surprisingly she's the only one in lively Union Square. With her giant, bright sign attracting us, we have the option to enter from either her front or rear entrance. You can enter through one and come out through the other.
We all love the Virgin for being open late, especially on the weekends. So many people are inside wearing her cans and touching her buttons for free entertainment. Sometimes we just hop in and out of the Virgin. Other times we've spent hours inside her. Most of the time we tell our friends to meet us inside her. Mobile service is sketchy, but we always find each other amongst the masses. We also go to the Virgin even if there's nothing else to do. She always satisfies.
We always start out on top taking it slow, walking through every aisle making sure we cover all areas before heading downstairs, which is where most of the fun is anyway. Many nights, if you're interested in making a purchase, the Virgin has a sale. Sometimes she'll have a deal where a percentage is taken off the bill, but we prefer the "buy 2, get the 3rd free" option.
If you get tired of walking around, pop a squat at the Virgin's cafe for a warm, soothing beverage or dessert. Feel free to use her public bathroom, but be careful about touching the seat. This Virgin gets a lot of ass. We usually leave the Virgin because it's either time to go, we were spent, or some of our friends just needed a smoke from being inside her for so long.
We'll be back. There's no other spot in this city that allows us to spend that much time inside without hearing a complaint. You have to love the Virgin.
BEST PLACE TO SPOT NEBBISHY AMERICAN GUYS WITH HOT ASIAN CHICKS
TONIC
107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey &
Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501
We're not jealous. Honest. For this award, we might've picked all of Williamsburg. But for the sake of presentation we decided to let the city's best avant-garde music club stand as metaphor. Down on Norfolk St. is where the most fashionable Asian ladies seem to pick men not for their physical prowess, not for the fashion sense—but for similar musical inclinations. In return, guys who once had trouble scoring anything north of harelip are soon accompanied about town by a well-groomed, fit and stylish beauty.
This has become a big problem for their former partners—the nebbishy American girls and nebbishy Asian guys left with empty beds. But one mustn't be bitter. Regular Tonic acts such as Marc Ribot, John Zorn and Jim O'Rourke are hugely popular overseas, with artsy types beyond our borders more open-minded than the local population, so there's plenty of music nerds to go around. On any Zorn night, for example, hook-up is in the air—among both the musicians and the audience—so let the sunken-chest white boys and Miho Hatori look-alikes pair off at the bar. The rest of us can find our own happiness.
BEST WEEKLY
ROCK 'N' ROLL
DANCE PARTY
MISSHAPES
Saturdays at Luke & Leroy's
21 7th Ave. S. (Leroy St.), 212-645-0004
Bring your pogo stick. In the canon of gatekeepers, Thomas Onorato ranks up there with St. Peter and Cerberus. We are always amazed at his ability to engage us in pleasant conversation, then to turn around and lay the smack down on the riff-raff. He is, after all, one of the reasons this is one of the best parties around town even though it is on a Saturday.
The party is hosted by the trio of Geo, loveleigh and Greg K., and features a rotating roster of guest and celebrity DJs such as Boy George, Melissa Burns from the electro band W.I.T., James Iha and John Cameron Mitchell. The crowd encompasses a wide cross-section of the population that likes to wear black and has black hair (whether dyed or natural), as well as the usual downtown crowd. Inside, we find a very healthy mix of gay and straight boys and girls, all bound by their nasty habit for dance and rock 'n' roll (whether it be electro, pop, garage, indie, punk, etc.). Once the $3 drinks start pouring and the music starts roaring, it will be hard not to find a new pretty friend to take home.
BEST SHUFFLEBOARD
GOLD RUSH BAR & GRILL
493 10th Ave. (betw. 37th & 38th Sts.)
212-244-5165
Senior citizen's game, our ass. Along a barren stretch of 10th Ave. sits a saloon with a watermill wheel out front and working-men's manna inside: beer, bartender babes and a couple televisions. A favorite drinking hole among nearby Javits Center's union workers, Gold Rush is one of the West Side's best-kept secrets. There're several varieties of beer served up cold and cheap by flirty, no-nonsense bartenders baring midriffs. The eats are good, if pricey for the décor.
More important, there's shuffleboard. With 20-plus feet of well-smoothed maple wood smothered in sawdust, Gold Rush's table may be New York's longest. The pucks are well-used, but the table is flat and has few—if any—dead spots. There's even a scoreboard for those who can't count above 10.
BEST OUTDOOR
VENUE TO SEE
MOODY INDIE BANDS
EAST RIVER PARK AMPHITHEATER
We also know a couple of bars nearby. Now that walking past the Lower East Side's projects to East River Park is a lot less scary, heading down to one of East River Music Project's summer concerts in the park's recently renovated amphitheater is a pretty good low-cost, low-pressure option to pass an afternoon and early evening. Take the south side of Delancey all the way east under the Williamsburg Bridge and across the pedwalk over the FDR. The park's been given some significant attention and renovation as well, including fresh greenery and flowerbeds and a significant cutback on trash, abandoned drug paraphernalia and human body waste.
The amphitheater itself is at the park's south end, rows of wood benches on stone in the ubiquitous Greek model. It feels smallish but seats a pretty sizeable number of bodies, though if there's a big headliner it's best to turn out early to get the seat you want.
East River Music Project is a small coalition of New York's established music scenesters looking for an outdoor summer venue for local talent and established small bands. This past summer, performers included Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Cat Power, Sea Ray and the Natural History. The refurbished bandshell within doesn't pack the most crystal-clear or thunderously loud PA system, but the sound is adequate enough that none of the bands will suffer.
The best part, though, is the view of the river and the Brooklyn skyline directly behind the stage. On a sunny day, you're outside, in the park, catching a cool breeze off the river and grateful to be alive, in the park and listening to good bands. On an overcast day, you can slide into a little more self-indulgence, waxing melancholy and emotional over songs about failed relationships and lost love. Oh, and did we mention ERMP's summer concerts are free? Use your money for an ice cream.
BEST BAR TO DRINK TWO-BUCK BUDS, THEN BLOW OUT YOUR EARDRUMS
TOMMY'S TAVERN
1041 Manhattan Ave. (Freeman St.)
Greenpoint, 718-383-9699
Ten bucks buys a buzz. We are not so difficult to please. Provide some decent speakers, a mug of cheap suds and a couple bands to reaffirm our faith in guitar-drum combos and we'll sing your venue's accolades like an indie rock canary. Hence, our adoration of Greenpoint's rough-and-tumble Tommy's Tavern.
Until a couple months back, Tommy's was where old men came to drink away troubles and watch daytime tv. Then promoter Todd Patrick recognized the potential: A sparsely attended bar, a pool table and a back room rigged with a sound system to shatter even the most ardent eardrums. Patrick was soon setting up shows, and red-nosed barflies were shoulder-to-shoulder with a couple hundred twentysomethings. Now, three or four nights a week the bar bumps with the sounds of bands like Ghost Exits, This Moment in Black History and phonetic nightmare USAISAMONSTER. Bands bop about the floor, their light show a couple feeble disco balls. The door policy is a hassle-free alternative to bullheaded bouncers; just pay the $5 or $6 cover.
Early in the evening, we grab a two-dollar Budweiser draft and shoot pool with a couple drunken Polish locals. When the show starts, we push our way past swinging doors and enter a sonic assault. Concertgoers are packed like peanuts and the décor is reminiscent of grandma's country kitchen, but a little character—and even less money—make this Greenpoint dive a well-worn respite.
BEST LITTLE-KNOWN MUSEUM
HISPANIC SOCIETY
613 W. 155th St. (B'way), 212-926-2234
Know your raza. New York is full of gorgeous monuments to the glory (and greed) of the city's famous old families: the Frick Collection, the Rockefeller mansion (where the Museum of the City of New York is housed), the Morgan Library. One of the most astounding is the rarely visited Hispanic Society, located in Washington Heights as part of the Audubon Terrace amalgamation (which also includes the American Numismatic Society and the American Academy of Arts and Letters).
Built by the turn-of-the-century art collector Archer Milton Huntington to house his enormous art collection, the Hispanic Society contains one of the most impressive gatherings of Spanish and Mexican art outside of those two countries. If you're looking for an opportunity to see world-class art without encountering the jostling crowds of the Met or MOMA, check out the Hispanic Society's Goyas, El Grecos and Velasquezes. The museum is especially strong on Goya, and features his The Duchess of Alba, a portrait whose lush blacks and reds practically leap off the canvas. The museum is crammed full of Hispanophile glories, from paintings and sculptures to stunning tapestries and ceramics, but only lightly dusted with visitors. There often are only a handful of people in the museum at any given time, which provides the extraordinary experience of communing with a Velasquez all by one's self.
Most impressive, though, is a room dedicated to the "Provinces of Spain" series of Spanish artist Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida (1863-1923). Sorolla y Bastida's magnificent paintings depict Spain as a land of perfect crystalline light and relentless motion, from bullfighters saluting the crowd to fishermen dragging in their haul to the religious procession winding its way through the streets. The buildings themselves are of historic interest as well, their Beaux-Arts grandeur designed by renowned architects Stanford White, Cass Gilbert and Charles Pratt Huntington.
BEST PLACE TO
SPOT STRAIGHT BOYS WITH GAY HAIRCUTS
TEANY
90 Rivington St. (betw. Orchard
& Ludlow Sts.), 212-475-9190
Silly children. The first time we went to Teany, Moby's upscale and esthetic tea parlor, it was because we spotted a famous person trotting up Ludlow St. and guessed that might be where he was going. Famous dude wasn't there—perhaps he's not a fan of lavender iced tea—but we were treated to the most intense concentration of complicated men's mops ever seen in the Western world.
Clearly these men are not going to a unisex salon, nor anybody you'd recognize as a barber. Perhaps their girlfriends are supremely stylish and good with the scissors. Or, perhaps, they're spending a godawful amount of time to have a similarly lithe and wan creature craft their bangs just-so. We're laypeople when it comes to calculated haircuts, so it's hard to imagine the time needed to dangle those strands over a left eyebrow, oh so accidentally, while the rest is angled in quite another direction.
Look, but don't stare. Last we heard, Orchard St. is still part of New York City.
BEST PARTY
THE RUB WITH DJ AYRES,
COSMO BAKER, DJ ELEVEN
Don't pass it on. There are plenty of talented jocks in this city who are overlooked because they haven't figured out the mysterious art of promoting. New York City is huge, always offering an alternative to the alternative. Most club owners have skimped out on promoting by asking the DJ to do all the work. Cosmo Baker, Ayres, and DJ Eleven have figured it out, and are throwing the best party in the city, with a fun crowd and properly mixed rekkids. Their revelers come from all kinds of different backgrounds and ethnicities, but are joined together in just blamin' it on the boogie, dancing to hip-hop, disco, funk, 80s, and guilty pop pleasures. It's hardly forward thinking, but that's beside the point. Uncross your arms, lean back, dip it low, shake your goodies and yell back that you don' care...you don' give a fuck, whuuut!
BEST PROOF THAT
LINCOLN CENTER
AUDIENCES ARE IDIOTS
THEY NEVER BOO
Not once. Ever. Ask any classical music fan, "Have you ever booed at a performance?" and see what they say. We've been around classical music most of our lives and have never seen it happen. We've attempted, on a few occasions, to show our displeasure with a particular performance, only to be drowned out by a wailing chorus of orgiastic hosannahs. To the average classical music twit, at least in New York, every performance is the Best Ever; classical music fans are really clapping addicts, members of a cult of competitive enthusiasm.
Where is the critical faculty? Where, as Hemingway might have asked, is the aficion? Booing is still a robust and honored tradition in Italy, and occasionally one will hear protests from the English, but for the most part, those "Live from Lincoln Center" audiences are a bunch of self-important conformist dolts. We can't wait until 2050, when Lincoln Center is filled with classic rock tribute bands with names like Four Sticks and Welcome to the Machine, churning out the complete Physical Graffiti or Animals. No doubt the pretentious bozos of the future, in their titanium tuxedos, will be pressing the electronic "clap" buttons as fast and furiously as their robot overlords will allow.
BEST VENUE TO WATCH A SWEAT-SOAKED
CONCERT WHILE
SMOKING A CIGARETTE
ASTERISK ART PROJECT
258 Johnson Ave., 2nd fl. (Bushwick Ave.)
Ponce de Leon moshed here. For some years now, Manhattan's rock 'n' roll meccas have been whitewashed by a dual-pronged attack of gentrification and regulation. Gone are Brownie's, Tramp's and Coney Island High. In their gaping void we find soulless suckpits like Rothko and CBGB's rotting remains. To take the concert scene's pulse we travel deep into Brooklyn. There, streets run thick with dog shit and shows shake us like they did when we were 17.
Asterisk is our favored venue when we want to feel like angst-ridden fuckwits. Part gallery and part performance space, the Asterisk Art Project (as the space is formally known), reeks of dad's-away-let's-turn-up-the-speakers-to-10 spirit. Teens and jaded scenesters alike flock to watch bargain-priced bands and, if they choose, mosh with anarchic—and anachronistic—impunity.
Yet Asterisk is hardly 100 percent idyllic. A substandard ventilation system (an open door that's shut when bands play) lends the air a sauna quality, augmenting the scent of sweaty rockers, washed and unwashed. Plus, the lack of a liquor license may earn some detractors. Still, we overlook these grievances for a few simple reasons: Asterisk brings the hot, unpretentious rock, and we can smoke a cigarette inside. It's a small pleasure we don't take for granted.
BEST STREET ANTHEM
"WHY" BY JADAKISS
Two turntables and some questions. As far as pop music goes, this song lacks a good melody or any real hook. Jadakiss, with that grizzly yet smooth delivery, trades on that in this tune and just asks why. Political bellyaching and pop music don't usually mix well, but for these turbulent times, we haven't heard many songs asking questions.
Jada has a bunch of them, from silly to sofa conspirator. "Why did Bush knock down the towers?... Why they'd let Terminator win the election?" We don't know, Kiss. It's just nice to hear a hiphop voice that asks the questions. And it's also great that Hot 97 refused to censor the lyrics. Why Clear Channel tryin' ta ruin the radio?
BEST REASON
TO GO OUT
OPEN BAR
After the revolution, it'll all be free. The economy may be "recovering," but we're still skinflints. Our diet consists of Chinatown's dollar fried dumplings. A crowbar must pry 15-percent tips from fingers clutching our ninth mug of bottomless coffee. And we're thanking our starless nights that ripped jeans are all the rage. Still, for all our penny-pinching we're unable to kiss booze bye-bye. We love how the second beer loosens tightened muscles, the fourth beer enables imagined pool sharkdom, the sixth beer sends us into snoozeland. We love it indeed; we just don't want to pay for it.
Luckily, the post-9/11 recession has taught us bars will do anything to corral our pocket cash, even resorting to dumping free booze down our ever-open gullets. Of course, the hope is that three well vodkas will whet palates and encourage us to drop five bucks on a Bud pint. Fools! A nighttime stumble around the city's watering holes reveals a smorgasbord of gratis inebriation.
Head to Leopard Lounge on Tuesday nights and suck down an hour's worth of beer and liquor. Buy a concert ticket at Trash and pound as many PBRs as you can stomach. The Lower East Side's Rothko regularly plies patrons with Red Stripe. A little recon can score a week's worth of free intoxication. The Onion hosts a bi-weekly booze bash (sign up at onion.com).
The mother lode, however, may be found on email newsgroup New York Happenings (nyhappenings-subscribe@yahoogroups.com to sign up). The up-to-date to-do list features some of the city's best concerts and parties—and their attendant booze enticements. Your liver may never get any downtime, but your wallet certainly will.
BEST REISSUE OF A BEST LOCAL BAND
THE REVELONS GET ANTHOLOGIZED
The Swinging Madisons were also pretty good. Remember when the punk revival broke big, and we all got to revisit the past and marvel at how overrated most of the original bands were? That sad saga's been on a perpetual loop here in NYC. Aging idiots are always prattling on about the greatness of the Del-Byzanteens or the Cosmopolitans or their roommate's old band. We'll even get excited enough to track the music down, and find them all to be lame art-school projects.
That's why we weren't excited to see the Revelons' Anthology released on the SepiaTone label. The name was certainly familiar from the usual recitations of supposed Great Lost NYC Acts. The clever artwork for the reissue even notes that the Revelons were cited as "New York's best underground band" in the 1981 Playboy Music Poll—but, really, who'd care? Besides, the bass player was Fred Smith from Television, which isn't exactly inspiring.
As it turns out, though, the Revelons were a really good band. Maybe the vocals are too studiously quirky and dated. Otherwise, these tracks—recorded between '77 and '82—remain genuinely inspired and touching tunes about love, youth and youths in love with music. Gregory Lee Pickard can take genuine pride in being a genuine lost talent.
But it's still time to move on, dude. Those tracks from 2002 are just plodding.
BEST INDOOR/
OUTDOOR HANGOUT
THE CAVE
10-93 Jackson Ave. (11th St.), LIC
718-706-8783
Four and a half rooms of fun. The Cave, which has a restaurant upstairs called Willow Creek, keeps expanding to the point where we don't even really know what to say about it anymore other than you should go there. Take the 7 train to the first stop in Queens and walk over to Jackson Ave.
When you walk in, you'll be in the restaurant section. There, you can order the best (though overpriced) fish tacos we have ever had. Downstairs, it's a bar with a performance space and all sorts of secret passageways. Outside, it's a garden with tiki torches and a movie projector for Monday movie nights. Upstairs and in the other room, there's a new digital jukebox (you've got to see this thing) and a pool table—the only pool table in the area that we like—so the title "Championship Pool Player of Long Island City" is kind of up for grabs.
BEST PLACE TO SEE CLOSETED MEN
LOOKING GUILTY
THE UNICORN
277 W. 22nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.) 212-924-2921
"What strange things they sell here." What? Huh? What am I doing here? What is this place? Oh, look, a cute little shop, I think I'll go in!
Every time we walk past this low-key gay porn palace (which is often, considering we live right down the block), we see the same scene: A man walks a few steps past the entrance, stops, looks like he just thought of something, then makes a quick U-turn and slips sharply into the door. Men walk out with a curious look on their faces, a look like, "What an odd and interesting establishment! What a curious assortment of erotic adult home video entertainment! It's so interesting that I happened to accidentally walk in here!"
Spare us. You go to the Unicorn because you want to watch hot studs reaming, sucking, fucking, fisting, balling, pounding, raping and tonguing tight male ass. You want to see jizz-gargling muscle boys bite each other's nipples as you stroke yourself with Man Butter and fall into a sticky, crusty martini stupor. We know, pal, 'cause we like the same things.
BEST BAR TO
PICK UP DORKY
BUT CUTE GIRLS
LIT
93 2nd Ave. (betw. 5th & 6th Sts.)
212-777-7987
No wingman required. There she is, in a thrift-store summer dress, discolored high heels and tattoos running down her arm. She's tired of emo and wants to talk about her new favorite band. The lanky dude next to her wears a tight, worn green t-shirt that ends just at his white leather belt and brown pants. His disheveled mod cut seems to fit his lanky rubber band frame. All he wants to talk about is how crap his band played tonight in the basement. They really need to find a new bassist who can bring out the funk in their punk. Maybe she wants to be seen walking down the street and in front of her friends with Mr. Sensitive I'm In A Band, but girls need good loving, too. And Mr. Sensitive I'm In A Band isn't going to do it at four in the morning. He's already back at his apartment, writing lyrics for a song about how this girl is going to break his heart. She's yours for the taking.
BEST REASON
NOT TO NAME
"BEST LOCAL BAND"
WE MIGHT INSPIRE
ANOTHER ARTICLE LIKE THIS
He also remembers to goof on Sum 41 and Good Charlotte. Last year's "Best Local Band" was the Bamboo Kids, whose self-titled album will finally be getting a domestic release on Get Hip records this month. We won't take credit for that, of course—mainly because we can't think of a single band on Get Hip that's gone on to greater success. Besides, we're already embarrassed to have inspired one of the lamest pieces of music journalism ever written.
At least Adam Williams wasn't paid for hacking out "Best Band to Inspire Not-So-Polite Gestures at Huge Tastemaking TV Networks" for PopMatters.com. His tribute to the Bamboo Kids is sadly typical in its ineptness. Consider his controversial opening statement of "Fuck MTV." ("That's right…" he hilariously adds.) Williams then further embarrasses our city by claiming that "New York City is where [punk] all started back in 1974, and 30 years later it's where everything is happening again."
The main thing that's happening again is tired rock-crit clichés. Williams even hacks out the classic lameness of celebrating the band's "simple recipe"—in this case, "consisting of two parts early Clash, a handful of Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Marky, a pinch of vintage Pistols, and a sprinkling of Television and NY Dolls for taste." We're also assured that "bassist Vince Cecio holds down the bottom with precision."
Is it any wonder that everyone hates rock critics? The most tired rock band in New York is already more talented than Williams will ever be as a writer. There are three truly interesting and innovative musical acts in town, and it'll be easy enough to feature them in articles over the next few months. A cretin like Williams can wait that much longer to find out what's going on.
BEST WAY TO
COMMEMORATE THE BLACKOUT OF '03
AVP OPENS
Let's do it again, like we did last summer. We were really looking forward to seeing the first showing of Freddy vs. Jason when it was opening on Fri., August 13th—but that didn't happen, thanks to the massive Blackout of '03. Fortunately, Hollywood's creative bankruptcy made it easy to celebrate the first anniversary of that disappointment. The success of Freddy vs. Jason quickly got the hacks ripping off the fun idea, and we spent August 13th, 2004, watching Alien vs. Predator. Of course, this time around, we were praying for a blackout after the first 15 minutes.
BEST SUMMER SERIES
CELEBRATE BROOKLYN!
AT PROSPECT PARK
All in the Brooklyn family. Bryant Park may draw the hip hordes and Central Park may attract the largest crowds, but for sheer programming diversity you can't beat Prospect Park's annual "Celebrate Brooklyn!" series. Featuring a wide array of live performances, film screenings and combinations thereof, "Celebrate Brooklyn!" attracts big crowds, but the capacious Prospect Park Bandshell never feels too jammed. The attendees are usually a highly diverse bunch—from babies to seniors, and encompass a far wider spread of people than your average Central Park show.
This year's lineup included concerts by L.A. roots rockers Los Lobos, South African vocal group Ladysmith Black Mambazo, uber-producer Hal Willner's Neil Young tribute show, r&b phenom Van Hunt, former Uncle Tupelo and Son Volt frontman Jay Farrar, They Might Be Giants and the Bob Marley Roots Rock Reggae Festival. Even better than the musical performances, though, were the film screenings, which were shown with live musical accompaniment—a great treat for fans, returning some of the old-time moviehouse ambience to the experience. Buster Keaton's comic classic The General was scored by the Alloy Orchestra, which provided lovely, traditional original music for the Civil War adventure. In the strangest mash-up of all, punk legends Pere Ubu, complete with notoriously flaky frontman David Thomas, provided a score for the Roger Corman sci-fi flick X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes. The film was better than advertised (a grade or two above Z) and Pere Ubu were magnificent, offering musical accompaniment by turns chilling, grandiose and very, very funny.
BEST MOVIE-THEATER SEATS
LANDMARK SUNSHINE CINEMA
143 Houston St. (betw. 1st & 2nd Aves.)
212-330-8182
Sunny inside, too. Though year after year, Film Forum programs the most consistently intriguing and varied lineup of films in New York City, the best movie house in terms of sheer comfort is the Landmark Sunshine Theater. Opened three years ago after a long period of sitting dormant (the Sunshine was a Yiddish theater in its previous life),