Today is Billy Crudup’s birthday. Also, Graham Jones, guitarist from Haircut 100. Kevin Bacon, Wolfgang Puck, Billy Eckstine, Beck and Nelson Rockefeller.
And me.
Apropos of nothing, here I am accessorizing with a daughter.
I received a sudden up-tick in hits overnight. Upon further investigation, I found that Slice, a blog about pizza, linked to my post about the best slice in town. These guys are serious about pizza. Fanatically so. They titled the link, “You Are Incorrect, Sir.” It’s all so subjective! Who’s to say which is best? I’m sure their best slice is something elegant that’s pretty to look at. Well, I find The Famous Ray’s (11th Street version) to be delightful and will stand by it. Satisfaction guaranteed or see me for a refund.
A recent post about the best sneaker store in Brooklyn begat the question: “Where is the best pizza in town?” After an exhaustive, two-decade study, whereby hundreds of slices were consumed, I can affirm with unequivocal certainty that this…
…is the best pizza parlor in the city. It’s a tiny runt of a joint. Typically, the four or five tables are all occupied and you have to stand at the counter. But standing with a slice of Ray’s pizza beats the living hell out of sitting in any other parlor.
It’s on 11th Street and 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. I’ve been going there since I arrived in New York as a young punk circa 1980. The fact that it’s still there and has stood the test of time should tell you something. And I don’t want to hear any smack from anny a you fuggin’ goombahs in Bay Ridge.
There are dozens of pizza parlors who all claim to be the “Original” Ray’s or the “Famous” Ray’s. The urban legend I’ve always heard kicked around is that “Ray” is a derivative of the Italian Re for king. Hence, the King of Pizzas. Whatever. I can’t be certain this is, indeed, the “Famous” Ray’s, nor do I care. The fact is that there’s something about the cheese they use in concert with the texture of the crust that makes this:
There’s a somewhat famous Pizza joint on Bleecker Street called John’s. It’s in all the guide books. The pizza is decent and worth a visit if you’re in the neighborhood. Many years ago, legend had it that it was frequented by Woody Allen. Once, I was standing at the urinal in the men’s room and saw that someone had written “HI WOODY” on the wall at eye level. I thought of poor Woody Allen reading that while taking a piss and it made me laugh.
On another visit to John’s, Lou Reed and his then wife, Susan, came in and sat in the booth behind me.
I included a pic of David Mamet to make it appear as though he’s reading this post. Tee-hee.
The fall theater season is starting to take shape and if you like the acerbic wit of David Mamet (who doesn’t?), you’re in luck. There are no fewer than THREE Mamet productions being mounted. His, some claim, woman-hating play Oleanna, will get a Broadway revival staring Julia Stiles and Bill Pullman. It’s Stiles’ Broadway debut. Good luck, cupcake. I saw this play years ago in the East Village with William H. Macy and Rebecca Pidgeon (Mamet’s wife). A college professor stands accused of sexual harassment. Did he do it? That depends on who you ask. Men tend to say he was falsely accused. Women tend to be wrong.
Mamet’s new play, Race, is also getting a run on Broadway. Mamet’s new productions are shrouded in secrecy. I think it’s more of a marketing ploy than anything else. Race will star James Spader and Richard Thomas.
Finally, The Atlantic Theater Company, one of my favorite venues in the city, will host a pair of Mamet one act plays. One-acts are great because if the first one stinks, you needn’t suffer for very long. An entirely new play will start after the interval. After the Mamet one-acts, the Atlantic is mounting a Sam Sheppard play. Those guys really have their shit together.
A closer inspection reveals that this is a residential building, which is an anomaly in this neighborhood. This area, just north of Grand Central Station, is populated with office buildings. Some of the apartments in this building have beautiful French doors that open onto spacious outdoor decks that wrap around the corners.
During my workday, I occasionally stop to watch a woman carry a baby outside, put him/her in a swing and tend the garden. Here, she feeds the baby breakfast.
This kid is growing up in rarefied air. People who are this wealthy, who can afford to live in such splendor in midtown Manhattan, usually have more than one home. This kid will never have to worry about how to pay for college. I never went to college because I was broke. I think most folks believe that a college education is their God-given right. Well, it isn’t.
This kid will never know want. That’s not to say he’ll be trouble-free. But he’ll never know the financial struggles most of us have to endure.
The café I’m posting this from just played the Annie Lennox cover of Bob Marley’s I Don’t Want to Wait in Vein. I’m generally not a fan of covers—the original is almost always better—but once in a while someone gets it right. The way she sings it, Annie sounds like she’s hurting for someone. I wish I could give her a hug right now.
Exile on Pain Street 