I am a gym rat. I admit it. I travel constantly and the first thing I do, before I plug in my laptop or call home to say I’m okay, is find a gym. And it can’t be just any gym. Not a little room in a hotel with a rusting treadmill, not a tanning salon/health club, but a serious gym with a capitol “G”. I remember calling one place and asking, “Do you have a bench press?” “No,” the nice girl replied, “but we have something very similar.” Thanks a lot, but no thanks. No bench press, no me.
I spend about two months a year in Los Angeles. A stone’s throw from seedy, hooker-infested Hollywood and Vine is Gold’s Hollywood, a gym rat’s dream: state-of-the-art, beautifully maintained equipment, trainers who know what they are doing and movie stars sweating right beside us mortals. Although crowded during peak hours, there’s plenty of equipment, three bench presses, three complete sets of cables, and everyone, including the stars (Keanu Reeves, Lenny Kravits, even Fabio) is more than happy to let someone serious “work in.” Although I once saw a chubby, mini-mogul type talking on the his cell phone while doing squats, the clientele are there to work. They just redid the interior and the industrial, hi-tech design, complete with the exposed air-conditioning ducts, is set off by white walls and lots of lighting, perfect for checking out growing muscles.
The day-pass policy is lenient. If you have $15, you’re in. The first floor is the free-weight area. Most of the machine equipment is sleek, black Icarian or Cybex, but there’s also a large selection of Hammer Strength. And of course, all the free weights and dumb bells any muscle head could want. There is also an abs/crunch machine I’ve not seen anywhere else: the Abflexor. You lie flat on your back, adjust the weight and lift your legs up giving a sensational burn. There’s also a terrific Vertical stomach bench where you can be at a 180 degree angle to the floor and crunch up.
The second floor has stationary bikes, traditional Stairmasters and skiing machines. Five of the Life Cycles are now fully Internet ready, so you can check your e-mail while burning off last night’s crème brulee. There are enormous windows letting in the California sun which makes doing cardio a bit more pleasurable. I only wish they gave out towels. I once forgot mine and had to buy five little Gold’s hand towelettes to dry off after a shower.
My work also takes me to the UK and, as the old joke goes, “When it’s 5PM in New York City, it’s 1938 in London.” Truer words were never spoken, especially when it comes the to the gyms.
I spent a miserable year training at the Earl’s Court Gym. The only free-weight gym anywhere near Chelsea and South Kensington, it’s actually closer to a medieval torture chamber than a gym.
The equipment hasn’t been updated in 20 years and when new owners took over, instead of upgrading, they decided to paint all the old stuff bright, disco-silver. As if we wouldn’t notice.
The weights are rusty; it takes three people to lift a seat because they are all stuck in one position; the cables are completely unbalanced (something I really hate.) Plus the towels they rent for about $2 all smell like Fish and Chips. And I won’t even go into the English with their pudgy, doughy bodies and their teeth! Dentistry has yet to come to London.
Then there is their Smith Machine. I was doing some easy warm-up squats, 25 pounds on each side when all of a sudden the entire Smith Machine started to tip backwards. Luckily, I was able to re-rack the bar and stop the whole machine from coming down on my neck.
I looked at the base of the machine and saw it wasn’t bolted down. I couldn’t believe it. I ran down to the desk and explained what had just happened and how dangerous it could be. The prissy guy behind the desk said, “This is a Victorian building, dear. We can’t bolt anything down to the floor.”
I went ballistic. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t bolt things down.’ Then you shouldn’t have a Smith Machine.”
“Well, dear,” he went on, “why don’t you just do it reversed so it won’t tip over.”
I was over the moon when David Lloyd’s, England’s largest Health Club chain opened up in the neighborhood. I took the introductory tour, paid my fee, and bid good-bye to Earl’s Court forever.
With it’s sleek, neo-modern, multi-colored design, they have done there best to imitate an American Style atmosphere so there is lots of restaurant space, a co-ed sauna, luxurious locker rooms. All I care about are the free weights and they have one decent size room that’s usually completely empty. Not much of a gym buzz, but it’s clean; there are plenty of mirrors and everything is brand new.
Located in the bottom floor of a high-rise apartment complex, the weight room is underground which makes it feel claustrophobic. But since it’s usually raining in London, I guess we’re not missing much by not seeing the outside world.
Despite my many slips of paper in the suggestion box, they still won’t get a Smith Machine. But they have enough for me to get a good workout. No shrug machine, or hack squat, but I don’t expect those. No Hammer Strength either. But in this land of Spray-Painted equipment and butter on everything, I’m happy for the small miracle of David Lloyd. They use the new rubber plates which I like, and they go up to 100lbs.
Manhattan has an unbelievable ratio of gyms per square block to people and I chose my gym there for convenience more than anything else. Equinox is around the corner from my apartment and I can be there in less than five minutes. Perscriptives, located on 54th Street and Eight Avenue is a better, more serious gym, but I decided that a few less pieces of equipment more than compensates for not having to deal with the NYC Transit System.
Equinox used to be “the” happening gym on the Upper West Side. That’s before the behemoth of all gym’s, The Rebock Club, opened a few blocks downtown. Now, the clientele is decidedly less upscale and we no longer get NYC Celebs like George Stephanopolis, but that’s fine with me. Rebock is prohibitively expensive and Equinox is just fine: clean, the machines are maintained and it’s really, really close. I can be there in 5 minutes, which is very important when it’s minus 17 and snowing.
It’s on three floors and the recent remodeling removed the previous claustrophobic atmosphere. There is no Hammer Strength equipment, and no hack squat or shrug machine, but they have plenty of leg presses, a butt blaster, four of bench presses and tons of clean, freshly laundered towels. Their benches also have wheels on them (something I found surprisingly rare) which makes hauling those suckers from position to position much easier.
The odd thing about Equinox are the instructors. I have never seen so many out of shape people working as trainers. You would think that the first thing a person notices in a personal trainer is if the trainer practices what he preaches. Not at Equinox. I thought it was a mirage when I finally saw a trainer on the floor in decent shape.
Vacations are hell for gym rats. The first thing we inevitably think of is, Is there a gym? I go to the small Greek Island of Mykonos twice a year and despite its size, Mykonos is quite cosmopolitan and there is a small, but adequate gym located about one mile north of town.
Run by a sweet, middle-aged Dutch couple, Jan and Ankie have been on the island for twenty years and truly love their gym. Although honestly the equipment is not much better than Earl’s Court, the gym is located in the midst of a beautiful garden with the Mykonian fauna virtually invading the gym. The doors and windows are always wide open and everyone from the locals to the international jet set is friendly. (I was chatting for 10 minutes with a tall, East European woman before I realized it was Martina Navratolova.) So despite the lack of state-of-the-art equipment, it’s always a pleasant environment. (And the Smith Machine is bolted down.)
Unfortunately, they know they are the only game in town so the daily or weekly rate is a bit expensive, but the rats must pump, so we have no choice.
I also spend vacation time in Palm Springs and my gym of choice there is the World Gym. There is also a Gold’s, which, has more square-footage, but the World Gym seems more spacious and it usually almost completely empty.
Located in a shopping mall, its walls are almost all windows which lets the desert light stream in. Unfortunately, because of that, there aren’t many mirrors and if you want to check out your ever expanding biceps, you have to go half-way across the gym. No matter. They have the same equipment as Gold’s in Hollywood, a friendly atmosphere, and my favorite type of free-weight plates: the iron grip variety. These are made out of rubber cut in an octagonal shape with a space cut through the sides so they can be easily gripped and thrown around. Some trainers prefer the standard metal plates, but I find these the easiest to use.
I just spent a month in Washington DC and the best gym there is Results, located on U and 16th. It can easily compete with Gold’s in terms of equipment, lots of Hammer Strength and Icarian. I went during peek times and it was never uncomfortably crowded. The only draw-back is that it is totally gay. Quite frankly, it’s the gayest gym I’ve ever been in with men openly propositioning other men in the locker room. Any one who is uncomfortable with such overt activities should be warned: stay away.
Dallas has a terrific gym located in the Centrum building not far from Downtown, called, not surprisingly, the Centrum Club. The people at the front desk were the friendliest I’ve ever encountered and when I told them I was there for a couple of days, they immediately waved the customary guest fee and gave me three days complimentary membership.
There is an Olympic size pool, and an Olympic size locker room with Steam Room, Sauna, and Jacuzzi. The weight room is a bit smaller than I like, but it was well laid out and had every piece of equipment I needed including the difficult-to-find shrug machine and standing hack squat. I was only there in the mornings, so I never hit the peak time. I have a feeling it could get a bit crowded. But it certainly made my Dallas trip more pleasant.
Without a question, my favorite gym of all the gyms I’ve been to in the world (and time and space prohibits me from mentioning them all) is Gold’s in Las Vegas on Sand Point. Incredibly, there are two Gold’s within a ten-mile radius, but the one on Sand Point is head and shoulders above the other; in fact, it’s head and shoulders above every other gym.
Although it’s in a strip mall, the space is enormous. And yet, it doesn’t feel overwhelming (like the Gold’s in Venice). It is the typical Gold’s industrial look but maybe it’s the signs above all the stations—Legs, Chest, etc.—that make it so inviting.
There is tons of equipment of course, great mirrors all over the place, 4 Smith machines (unheard of anywhere else) and a special area for the Power Lifters so they can grunt and groan away from us mere gym rats. I went at various times of the day and it was never, ever crowded. The clientele ranges from Show Dancers to Casino Workers. Everyone is happy and smiling, their skin glowing with that special desert shine, but there is plenty of serious lifting going on. All in all, my favorite gym around.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
Good For The Jews
I’m really glad that time of year is over: the time when He went into Jerusalem, when He was tried, and when too many people still believe my ancestors had Him crucified. (The old Lenny Bruce routine keeps playing in my head: “I admit it. It was my family. I found a note in the basement saying, ‘We did it,’ signed Uncle Morty.”)
In America, it’s hardly mentioned at all. It’s just a quiet little undercurrent, barely perceptible. Times they have a’ changed.
But not in England where I spend a lot of time. And certainly not at that bastion of serious entertainment, the English National Opera.
I’ve just returned astonished by a performance of Bach’s St. John’s Passion. Not from the glories of the music, which are numerous, or the physical production, which was terrific, but by the portrayal of the Jews, who, in this version are a particularly vengeful, hateful mob dressed in clearly contemporary clothes and shouting “Crucify! Crucify!”
This anti-Semitic staging ran through the entire piece. At the final curtain, there were no cries of outraged indignation, no screams to call the B’nai Brith Anti-Defamation League, no boos and hisses. Just heartfelt applause from the grateful audience.
In this day of political correctness, the Jewish choir being so clearly and joyously portrayed as the Christ killing-villains was a shock. In a nice opera house? Was the audience blind? Insensitive? Or simply so accepting of the stereotype that it was merely Easter as usual.
This was the first time I’ve heard the piece in English, not in its original German. Having the anti-Semitic epitaphs sung in my native language intensified my emotions. When over a hundred performers bellowed sarcastically, “We hail Thee, King of the Jews!” coupled with the spitting, cursing, and venomous expressions, it all felt so hateful. And hurtful. Reading the Gospel is one thing, but hearing it sung full-out felt so much more intense, which is, of course, the entire point of taking a text and turning it into a musical work. But at what price?
After the performance, I asked my companion if he felt anything strange about the portrayal of the Jews. He said very innocently, “Oh no. That’s the story. We’ve been listening to it since childhood.” And people wonder why synagogues are still being desecrated.
Over the years, I’ve always felt that being too PC was almost reverse discrimination. I’d hear myself screaming at the TV when a politician was clearly going over the top, “Com’on. Get off it!” But that was before I saw and heard Bach’s English-singing Jews. Maybe being too PC is a good thing.
I’ve seen many productions of The Merchant of Venice. They never bothered me. The old biblical movies never bothered me. This production did and I believe it encourages and dignifies anti-Semitism. Go ahead; call me too politically correct.
Of course, the rebuttal is clear: “It’s the Gospel; it’s Bach.” I know all that. I also know the original opening of Showboat began with “Niggers all work on the Mississippi.” In subsequent versions, it was smoothed out to “Darkies.” The current version of the score starts with “Here we all work on the Mississippi.” Although the black folk are still “totin’ dat barge,” it’s obviously better. (Although there were still plenty of protests at the recent revival.)
There were similar references in Porgy and Bess. No more. They have been totally excised from the score and playing versions.
Do you change great art to be politically correct? (Is this akin to painting fig leaves over masterpieces to conform to the mores of the times?) Do I advocate deleting the references to the Jews in Bach’s work? I don’t know. What would be more palatable? Is there a nice euphemistic way of saying, “Jews?” Hebrews? The Mob? You guys? Would that fix anything?
Of course not. Anti-Semitism would still exist. Racism would still exist. Bigotry would still exist. Would the power of the piece be diminished? Would it feel less Biblically accurate? (As if Biblical accuracy is even a possibility!)
As a writer, I’m particularly sensitive to any form of censorship. It’s ridiculous to ban the piece (and certainly the audience had no problems with it.) Should we not stage it and only do it in its original form? Or only perform it in German so this overly sensitive American is not offended? Should there be a program-warning saying this Passion may offend certain minorities? These are all ridiculous solutions. I don’t have a good one.
Living in America and especially being from New York City, I guess I’ve always been insolated from any type of anti-Semitic theatre. This production could never be contemplated by a New York Opera house let alone produced. I’m certain there would be a public outcry.
So, it was a strange and terrifying experience seeing the audience complacently sit there and not even notice that a horrible stereotype was being perpetuated.
The person I went with said I over-reacted; it was only an Oratorio. It happens every year. The music is beautiful. He said it wasn’t even worth writing about.
And yet.
I can picture my grandfather, a devout music lover who listened religiously to the Met Broadcasts every Saturday, walking out of the Coliseum shaking his head saying, “This is not good for the Jews.”
In America, it’s hardly mentioned at all. It’s just a quiet little undercurrent, barely perceptible. Times they have a’ changed.
But not in England where I spend a lot of time. And certainly not at that bastion of serious entertainment, the English National Opera.
I’ve just returned astonished by a performance of Bach’s St. John’s Passion. Not from the glories of the music, which are numerous, or the physical production, which was terrific, but by the portrayal of the Jews, who, in this version are a particularly vengeful, hateful mob dressed in clearly contemporary clothes and shouting “Crucify! Crucify!”
This anti-Semitic staging ran through the entire piece. At the final curtain, there were no cries of outraged indignation, no screams to call the B’nai Brith Anti-Defamation League, no boos and hisses. Just heartfelt applause from the grateful audience.
In this day of political correctness, the Jewish choir being so clearly and joyously portrayed as the Christ killing-villains was a shock. In a nice opera house? Was the audience blind? Insensitive? Or simply so accepting of the stereotype that it was merely Easter as usual.
This was the first time I’ve heard the piece in English, not in its original German. Having the anti-Semitic epitaphs sung in my native language intensified my emotions. When over a hundred performers bellowed sarcastically, “We hail Thee, King of the Jews!” coupled with the spitting, cursing, and venomous expressions, it all felt so hateful. And hurtful. Reading the Gospel is one thing, but hearing it sung full-out felt so much more intense, which is, of course, the entire point of taking a text and turning it into a musical work. But at what price?
After the performance, I asked my companion if he felt anything strange about the portrayal of the Jews. He said very innocently, “Oh no. That’s the story. We’ve been listening to it since childhood.” And people wonder why synagogues are still being desecrated.
Over the years, I’ve always felt that being too PC was almost reverse discrimination. I’d hear myself screaming at the TV when a politician was clearly going over the top, “Com’on. Get off it!” But that was before I saw and heard Bach’s English-singing Jews. Maybe being too PC is a good thing.
I’ve seen many productions of The Merchant of Venice. They never bothered me. The old biblical movies never bothered me. This production did and I believe it encourages and dignifies anti-Semitism. Go ahead; call me too politically correct.
Of course, the rebuttal is clear: “It’s the Gospel; it’s Bach.” I know all that. I also know the original opening of Showboat began with “Niggers all work on the Mississippi.” In subsequent versions, it was smoothed out to “Darkies.” The current version of the score starts with “Here we all work on the Mississippi.” Although the black folk are still “totin’ dat barge,” it’s obviously better. (Although there were still plenty of protests at the recent revival.)
There were similar references in Porgy and Bess. No more. They have been totally excised from the score and playing versions.
Do you change great art to be politically correct? (Is this akin to painting fig leaves over masterpieces to conform to the mores of the times?) Do I advocate deleting the references to the Jews in Bach’s work? I don’t know. What would be more palatable? Is there a nice euphemistic way of saying, “Jews?” Hebrews? The Mob? You guys? Would that fix anything?
Of course not. Anti-Semitism would still exist. Racism would still exist. Bigotry would still exist. Would the power of the piece be diminished? Would it feel less Biblically accurate? (As if Biblical accuracy is even a possibility!)
As a writer, I’m particularly sensitive to any form of censorship. It’s ridiculous to ban the piece (and certainly the audience had no problems with it.) Should we not stage it and only do it in its original form? Or only perform it in German so this overly sensitive American is not offended? Should there be a program-warning saying this Passion may offend certain minorities? These are all ridiculous solutions. I don’t have a good one.
Living in America and especially being from New York City, I guess I’ve always been insolated from any type of anti-Semitic theatre. This production could never be contemplated by a New York Opera house let alone produced. I’m certain there would be a public outcry.
So, it was a strange and terrifying experience seeing the audience complacently sit there and not even notice that a horrible stereotype was being perpetuated.
The person I went with said I over-reacted; it was only an Oratorio. It happens every year. The music is beautiful. He said it wasn’t even worth writing about.
And yet.
I can picture my grandfather, a devout music lover who listened religiously to the Met Broadcasts every Saturday, walking out of the Coliseum shaking his head saying, “This is not good for the Jews.”
CITY SECRETS: London/New York
JACK THE RIPPER WALKING TOUR
I know this sounds as corny as the wax works at Madame Taussaud’s, but trust me, it ain’t. It’s my favorite walk offered by The Original London Walks, the group that organizes hourly tours with subjects ranging from “Charles Dickens’s London” to “Princess Diana’s London,” from “The Old Jewish Quarter Tour” to the “Beatles Magical Mystery.” Show up at the Tube Stop, meet your guide, pay your £4 and you’re off. In two hours, see and learn more about London than most Londoners will ever know in a lifetime. “Jack The Ripper Haunts” meets Sunday nights at 7:30 PM at the Tower Hill Tube and is led by Donald (the world’s leading “Ripper-ologist”) Rumbelow. He escorts his group through the East End of London describing in gory detail the wheres and hows of each murder finishing at “The Ten Bells,” the pub where the prostitute-victims drank their final pints. Despite initial protestations from visiting friends, they invariably return to my flat in a Victorian frenzy saying, “That was the best thing we’ve done in London.”
SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE
Fact: theatre is better in London. Don’t argue. It’s true. They take it more seriously, young people go, and despite the protestations from artists that it is under-funded, the government gives the institutions buckets of money. The most astonishing theatrical experience takes place at the Globe, a recreation of Shakespeare’s playhouse, the “Wooden ‘O’” itself. What initially seemed to the cognoscenti (or “luvvies” as they’re called over here) a potentially Disney-fied experience has proven the opposite. To hear an actor deliver a Soliloquy directly to the Groundlings from a bare stage with only the sun for illumination redefines Shakespeare; in fact, it redefines theatre in general. It almost makes any theatrical innovation since 1595 seem obsolete and twee. Who needs scenery, lighting, helicopters, when you can connect, one on one, with the most glorious poetry ever written? Granted, not every actor is great, not every production is flawless, but, as a rule, these are life-changing experiences. Especially for a theatergoer.
Glen Roven
The Dakota
When I was kid trying to escape the monotony of Flatbush, I’d take the D train across the bridge each Saturday to the place I really belonged: Manhattan. Despite all the mysteries and glories I discovered , I remember the rush I got walking up Central Park West and coming upon that behemoth of a building for the first time, that German Gothic, French Renaissance, English Victorian cacophony called the Dakota. Of course, I didn’t know the architectural styles when I was 15. I only knew this wasn’t Brooklyn. This wasn’t Flatbush. This was glamour. This was sophistication. This was Manhattan. Although half-shutters mask the first floor windows, you can still peer into an apartment or two, now as then; I was dazzled by the enormous rooms, and the spectacular architectural details. I remember wondering, “Who lives here? What kind of people can be surrounded by this luxury.”
Of course this was before December 8th, 1980 when John Lennon was killed outside. Now tourists come by the score to pay their respects and /or gawk. But, when I first discovered the building, it’s pop-culture claim to fame was that it was was where Rosemary’s Baby was set.
The Dakota was designed by Henry Hardenburgh who also designed the Plaza Hotel. Legend has it that it was called the Dakota because it was so distant from the then urban hub. About ten years ago the grime of New York City was sandblasted away and now, instead of the black sooty color I remember, it’s a camel-hair tan. It seemed more gothic, more foreboding with the dirt, but I still can look at it for hours in amazement: the moldings, the terra-cotta panels, the corner pavilions and the story book gables and roofing.
Don’t try to penetrate its court yard. The ever present guard knows exactly who should be there and who shouldn’t. The apartments are for Yoko, Betty, Rex, Mia, and their friends. But we, the mere mortals, can still marvel at the magnificence. I’ve lived on the Upper West Side for over twenty-five years, but every time I walk down 72nd Street , I still become the 15 year old from Brooklyn, gazing up in amazement at my favorite building in New York.
I know this sounds as corny as the wax works at Madame Taussaud’s, but trust me, it ain’t. It’s my favorite walk offered by The Original London Walks, the group that organizes hourly tours with subjects ranging from “Charles Dickens’s London” to “Princess Diana’s London,” from “The Old Jewish Quarter Tour” to the “Beatles Magical Mystery.” Show up at the Tube Stop, meet your guide, pay your £4 and you’re off. In two hours, see and learn more about London than most Londoners will ever know in a lifetime. “Jack The Ripper Haunts” meets Sunday nights at 7:30 PM at the Tower Hill Tube and is led by Donald (the world’s leading “Ripper-ologist”) Rumbelow. He escorts his group through the East End of London describing in gory detail the wheres and hows of each murder finishing at “The Ten Bells,” the pub where the prostitute-victims drank their final pints. Despite initial protestations from visiting friends, they invariably return to my flat in a Victorian frenzy saying, “That was the best thing we’ve done in London.”
SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE
Fact: theatre is better in London. Don’t argue. It’s true. They take it more seriously, young people go, and despite the protestations from artists that it is under-funded, the government gives the institutions buckets of money. The most astonishing theatrical experience takes place at the Globe, a recreation of Shakespeare’s playhouse, the “Wooden ‘O’” itself. What initially seemed to the cognoscenti (or “luvvies” as they’re called over here) a potentially Disney-fied experience has proven the opposite. To hear an actor deliver a Soliloquy directly to the Groundlings from a bare stage with only the sun for illumination redefines Shakespeare; in fact, it redefines theatre in general. It almost makes any theatrical innovation since 1595 seem obsolete and twee. Who needs scenery, lighting, helicopters, when you can connect, one on one, with the most glorious poetry ever written? Granted, not every actor is great, not every production is flawless, but, as a rule, these are life-changing experiences. Especially for a theatergoer.
Glen Roven
The Dakota
When I was kid trying to escape the monotony of Flatbush, I’d take the D train across the bridge each Saturday to the place I really belonged: Manhattan. Despite all the mysteries and glories I discovered , I remember the rush I got walking up Central Park West and coming upon that behemoth of a building for the first time, that German Gothic, French Renaissance, English Victorian cacophony called the Dakota. Of course, I didn’t know the architectural styles when I was 15. I only knew this wasn’t Brooklyn. This wasn’t Flatbush. This was glamour. This was sophistication. This was Manhattan. Although half-shutters mask the first floor windows, you can still peer into an apartment or two, now as then; I was dazzled by the enormous rooms, and the spectacular architectural details. I remember wondering, “Who lives here? What kind of people can be surrounded by this luxury.”
Of course this was before December 8th, 1980 when John Lennon was killed outside. Now tourists come by the score to pay their respects and /or gawk. But, when I first discovered the building, it’s pop-culture claim to fame was that it was was where Rosemary’s Baby was set.
The Dakota was designed by Henry Hardenburgh who also designed the Plaza Hotel. Legend has it that it was called the Dakota because it was so distant from the then urban hub. About ten years ago the grime of New York City was sandblasted away and now, instead of the black sooty color I remember, it’s a camel-hair tan. It seemed more gothic, more foreboding with the dirt, but I still can look at it for hours in amazement: the moldings, the terra-cotta panels, the corner pavilions and the story book gables and roofing.
Don’t try to penetrate its court yard. The ever present guard knows exactly who should be there and who shouldn’t. The apartments are for Yoko, Betty, Rex, Mia, and their friends. But we, the mere mortals, can still marvel at the magnificence. I’ve lived on the Upper West Side for over twenty-five years, but every time I walk down 72nd Street , I still become the 15 year old from Brooklyn, gazing up in amazement at my favorite building in New York.
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