A Glomerous* Weekend

Photos by H. Darr Beiser

Chelsea sunset

I went to New York City to see Peter and his band Glom perform at The Bitter End. Have you heard of it? Check out the people who played there on the Legends tab.

And now adding to the legends, the great New York Glom were the headline act there on Friday night. And there is nothing to describe the pride one feels in one’s children’s achievements, oh yes, there is a word, a very good word and it’s kvelling.

That's my boy!

Here they are performing in the the Village, lifting themselves from the mire of a Bushwick nightclub in only one year.  

From my perspective they are still the little boys who hung out in my basement, whom I delighted in serving freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, who had big music dreams like so many others.

But now they’ve released their first album, Bond, they are working on their second, and they are making the dream come true.

So proud.

Darr and I imagined that we sat in the same seats as Bob Dylan’s parents did when they came to see him perform. 

The weather this weekend was perfect. I know that’s a throwaway line but in this case I mean perfect. To wit, Friday and Saturday’s highs were 74 and 76 degrees, there was NO humidity, there was a slight breeze.  Adding to this luxury was an absence of New Yorkers. They must pretend it’s Paris and go out in the month of Auot. Bob waxed on about being able to park in front of one store and then drive and park right in front of another. To me it sounded like just another day in Tucson, but to him it was nothing short of miraculous.

The Flower District

Hoteling: I broke out of my usual hotel prerequisites, boutiquey, quirky, charming, and costly, to instead stay at the Hilton Garden Inn on West 28^th Street. Was it quirky, charming?  No, but neither was it costly. The price was an amazing $159 a night, and because Darr is a Hilton Honors Member of Some Standing, we were given two free bottles of water.

Our next door neighbors, the Poms

But the setting was pretty magical. It is in the middle of a blooming block of flowers and plants. We were in New York’s Flower District, differing from the financial district or the diamond district in that all of its wares are out on the street.  And it was sweet. 

  

I bounded up at 6:30 a.m. determined to experience a have-it-all day as I am wont to do in New York City.

Peter, the rock star, was able to squeeze us in for breakfast. We took the subway to Brooklyn. Note—New York subway advantages—you can share a fare card, you only have to swipe it once, it’s the same fare, and oh, it goes everywhere all over the city all the time. This was in contrast to the recent experience on the more fragrant and fancier BART system in the Bay Area, which has none of these features.

Peter has become well known at his local Blue Bottle Coffee where he was greeted by barrista Molly who said how sorry she was that she missed the show. He also gets special discounts there, such as free coffee.  

We stood in line at his favorite bagel place, Crown Bagels Deli, run by Peter, a man from central casting who plays a Brooklyn bagel store owner.  Friending, comforting, serving, thanking, seating, repeating orders with the precision of a laser. Here I saw something I hoped never to see. Peter ordered a cinnamon raisin bagel with tofu topping instead of cream cheese.  Cousin Fred said he wished I hadn't told him that. But as my son likes to remind me, as it IS 2019, mom. 

We took our bagels to Cobble Hill Park to enjoy the perfect weather. This little park was utterly bucolic, a birthday party in one corner, a baby stroller in another, a man lying on his back in the grass reading a real book. You would have no idea that you were in a city of 2.5 million.

The Vessel

From there we went to Hudson Yards. I tried to like it. I really did. I wanted to go up in the thing. I looked at the Vessel but I think it's better looking from it than at it and this was not possible because there were no tickets until late in the day. The shiny new skyscrapers were indeed massive and gorgeous. And the views. I guess. But then we made the mistake of checking out Jose Andres’ Mercado Little Spain. There you will find all the right Spanish foods, everything from pulpo to paella, and a BAR-celona. But it came across as a chaotic underground food court. There were some seats, but many high top tables sans chairs, or as I call them, “lean cuisine.”

From there we found ourselves engaged in six floors of a shopping mall.  Such high end shopping, such low end patrons. Miles of gleam and sheen and but soul sucking as can be. And you could have been in Minneapolis.

  

We fled from there to the safety of Hell’s Kitchen to meet our friend Matt for lunch at Medi Winebar. By the way, what do you do when Hell’s Kitchen turns into Heaven’s Gate and the Meatpacking District turns into a Prada-packing paradise? Is it time to rename the city neighborhoods? Perhaps just by percents? The point five percent district, the one percent district, the two percent, and so on? Anyway, Matt is a TV critic and can pack more information into an hour conversation than anyone we know. The arts, the theater, the new season, the gossip!

Dinner at Rosa Mexicano. Just don't go there. It's a chain. It's not Mexican, it's not Rosa. The company was superb with cousin Fred and husband Bob. But why do they have to make the guacamole at your table? Darr doesn’t make me come into the kitchen and watch when he makes guacamole. And it’s 100 times better.

Things I saw that made me know I was in NYC. Within minutes of arrival I saw a woman in a flashy sleeveless red jumpsuit with bright read hair and a headband and gold platform shoes, dashing across streets as if in an race. At the stoplight a total stranger and I discussed their gender. At Washington Park I saw animal rights protesters wearing Guy Fawkes’ masks and I heard a drum circle, and I saw enormous bubbles floating in the sky. And that was just day one. I saw a lot more the next day, models and bikers and businessmen, and millennials running in Equinox t-shirts, and secret smokers and dopers and vapers, homeless people and triple stretch limousines. Every race and language in a matter of blocks.  Because that’s just New York City in 36 hours.  Imagine what might happen in 48 hours. I will be back to find out.

The Flatiron Building

*Full credit for this excellent portmanteau goes to Paul Girolami.