A giant pin-striped cloud hangs over Manhattan, as mighty Alex Rodriguez has struck out. But there’s still joy in Mudville. Alex has proven once again that he’s no Casey, or Babe, or Lou, or Joe, or Derek, or even Jorge. Alas, there would be no story-book ending (unless of course you were from Lansing, Michigan or some such place). But that’s alright, as A-Rod seems to be a real nice fellow, especially when you see him out in those seriously tailored suits. As a movie star once said, “there’s no crying in baseball,” and it is hard to cry for this guy or his teammates, who are making tons of money while most people are trying to just get by. The good ones make over a hundred grand a game, sometimes more, even if they don’t play.
In the end it wasn’t the maligned pitching that let our hopefuls down but the vaunted bats of our gaggle of 20-million-dollar men. What does this mean for nightlife? Who are the winners besides Detroit and the losers besides the Yankees and their followers? Early October is still the off season for nightlife. Most of the tourists are back where they live, and aren’t due back until the Christmas shopping season or next summer. The students are studying, or spending their trust fund loot on keggers. Everyone is a little ill as various viruses and bacteria celebrate our chills and dampness. It gets dark way too early, and that can be so depressing.The weather is much colder at night and people go home to change and stay there. The Jewish holidays occupy a great deal of the population and everyone is still trying to pay for there summer frolicking. Finally, nobody knows what to wear.
September after fashion week until Halloween is rough. Throw in the baseball playoffs with a local team involved and it’s a disaster. The crowd at Snap sports bar was nervous as I popped upstairs while taking breaks from the renovation I’m doing downstairs. The place was packed with concerned citizens munching burgers and fries and more exotic fare, washing it all down with gallons of swill. It won’t get better than this. With the Yankees out of it, these sort of parties will be reserved for Saturday, Sunday, and Monday night football. The sports bars took a big hit because the Yankees couldn’t make one. The regular joints no doubt owned by sad Yankee fans will rejoice as the early exit of the home town heroes will have the hordes seeking other distractions. DJs and booze will help them forget.
The game ended while I was on the L train going home to Brooklyn. I stopped caring about Baseball and football and especially basketball a long time ago. Maybe it was that sequence from A Bronx Tale where Sonny tells the kid to stop hating Bill Mazeroski, the Pirates slugger who had made Yankee legend Mickey Mantle cry. Sonny asks the kid whether if his dad needed money, would Mickey come up with it? I’m not going to cry about the pinstriped millionaires now off to an early vacation with their movie star/model girls. I’m concerned about building joints that pinstriped suits enjoy enough to spend a thousand dollars on a bottle of booze. Love Derek and Alex to death, but we all have bigger problems.
I was a real Nowhere man last night. I had every intention of heading back to the city to celebrate with Rocco and Jayma and Andrew and Noah and the rest of the gang as Lavo turned one years old. I remember Noah asking me if I thought it would work. It was a sort of a redundant question, as he and his very sharp partners had crunched the numbers and dotted all the I’s before investing the millions it takes to build such a place. I told him it would be a home run. It’s more than that — It’s the grand slam the Yankees never managed. It has spread nightlife up and to the right of its familiar zone. I will be up there for brunch on Saturday to support and celebrate.
Last night, I walked Lulu and chatted up my neighbors on the way. The air was chilly and me and my crew headed to The Brooklyn Star to find hearty fall fare. We were joined by a real movie star and his gal and enjoyed the food and vibe of this seriously great restaurant. The desserts made the eyelids heavier than the coffee could handle, and we said good nights. Somewhere, a Yankee was taking off his socks in his luxury apartment surrounded by the stuff that dreams are made of … but he wasn’t thinking or caring about me, and frankly the feeling is mutual.