NYC, Good and Bad

Obviously, New York is amazing. No news there. And yet, seven years in, I find myself wondering whether the whole thing's worth it with increasing regularity. As more and more friends flee the city (either for L.A. or, heaven forbid, the suburbs), leaving my social life to fluctuate according to the ebbs and flows of my Netflix queue, it's easy to question spending about 70% of my monthly paycheck on rent. For one room, basically. But then again: what the hell am I saying? This city is life itself. If I'm bored here, it's no one's fault but my own.

This weekend perfectly mirrored my current love/hate relationship with New York City. First, the good:

It was gorgeous out Saturday. My girlfriend and I took a lovely bike ride down the west side of Manhattan, travelling south from 26th Street. This is one of my favorite summertime activities, and one of the best ways to see the city's nooks and crannies that I know of. It was especially fun to have her along, since I normally take these rides by myself. ANYWAY, here's why New York is the greatest place on Earth: so after about an hour or so of riding (with several stops, as I'm quite lazy), we stopped off at a little marina down near Battery Park/Ground Zero to grab a cool drink. The marina is framed by a sort of corporate park/shopping mall, basically the ground floor of a couple glistening office towers. It's essentially a fancy food court and some stores. So she watches the bikes while I run in to grab some juice or etc. As soon as I'm inside, I hear people cheering around a corner. Curious, I make my way over, and lo and behold the final ballroom dance competition from the end of Mad Hot Ballroom is taking place in this very mall, right now!

(OK, some back story: Mad Hot Ballroom is one of our favorite movies. If you haven't seen it, get it right now. It's wonderful. If you don't know it, here's the deal: In NYC, public schools in all 5 boroughs have ballroom dance programs. Kids who are still at the age where the opposite sex have cooties turn into perfect little ladies and gentlemen as they learn to foxtrot, swing, tango and etc. The whole 9 yards. Then these schools compete until one team is determined the NYC champs for that year. I'm not doing this justice. It's awesome.)

Forgetting the drinks, I run outside. We lock up the bikes and spend an hour watching the final round of competition. It's incredible. Not only is the show excellent unto itself, but we're standing on the set of one of our favorite movies, watching the drama play out live. Seriously, where else does this happen on a bike ride??? It was magical. And it's why everyone should live in NYC at least once in their life. I'm not saying you need to stay forever. But you've gotta do it once. This kind of thing is practically the norm.

And then, the bad: Same day, later that night. The girlfriend's sister is in town, so we fight our urge to plop down on the couch, order takeout, and stare quizzically at E!'s Sunset Tan marathon. I'm a dive bar kind of guy, but hey, it's Saturday night and I've got people in town, so I decided to up the ante a bit. New York magazine recently ran a small item concerning a new speakeasy connected to Crif Dogs, a hot dog joint in the East Village. What caught my eye is that apparently you go into the hot dog joint, then walk through a phone booth and into the speakeasy. Sounds kind of cool. And the cocktails are supposed to be quite good. Perfect.

Of course, it totally sucked. First of all, the door to the phone booth is about as intuitive as the cockpit in the space shuttle. So, picture this: I'm standing in an incredibly well-lit hot dog joint. Small tables stretch down the length of one wall. At these tables sit the type of preposterous East Villagers who'd be interested in a sit-down hot dog restaurant. The phone booth is on the wall directly opposite this wall of tables. In other words, I might as well be onstage as I stupidly poke, prod, pull, grab, and push every part of this goddamn phone booth except the right one. My pathetic fumblings singlehandedly broke the tension on what appeared to be 3 bad first dates. I was the evening's entertainment. It was awful.

Please keep in mind: everything I'm describing right now took place IN A HOT DOG JOINT. I'm not in line at Studio 54. I'm in a hot dog restaurant. OK. So I finally figure out how to enter the phone booth. I step inside and am greeted with a series of items New York mag curiously neglected to mention. I'm thinking you just walk in one door and out the other, right? Oh, no. Instead, the other door is closed, a camera is pointing down at me, and beside the phone is tacked an Instruction Sheet. Um, this blows. And it's not even a real phone booth phone. It's some crappy white plastic thing they picked up for three bucks at Radio Shack. Still, even though it's quickly dawning on my that this place is really, really not cool, I'm already in the phone booth. I can't just walk out in defeat, right? I pick up the phone, hit the button, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. Obviously, they're watching me through the camera. And they're not answering! I'm not cutting the mustard at a hot dog stand!

After another interminable minute of social torture, I cringe my way back out the door like the first idiot kicked off Survivor. My companions can smell the reek of social failure all about me. Oh, and I'm in a hot dog restaurant. My girlfriend decides to ask the Rubinesque (fat) girl behind the counter what's what. And this girl, who appears to double as the hot dog taste tester, looks down her nose at my girlfriend like she's just shown up for Truman Capote's Black and White Ball without any blue in her blood. Unbelievable! Chubster in a half shirt (who works at a hot dog restaurant) is giving us attitude!

I swear to God it feels like we're stuck in a science experiment. Have we earned our piece of cheese yet? I shuffle back over to the phone book. My people haven't suffered like this since the Old Testament. But I think I know the problem: obviously, a shlub from south Jersey like me ain't getting in. But they'll open the door for a girl, right? So I cajole the girlfriend's sister into giving it a go. She's leery, but relents. Here's what happens:

1. She picks up the phone.
2. Someone answers. Tells her they'll be right over.
3. She stands there for several minutes. Nothing.
4. Finally, the phone rings.
5. She picks it up.
6. Some unbelievably patronizing idiot says, "Next time, push the button on the phone."
7. She says, "I did. Someone said they'd be right over."
8. Idiot Who Works At A Hot Dog Restaurant says, ".......Oh. OK, someone else will be right over."

Now, I don't know who you imagine works the door at this super top secret, overly complicated speakeasy. But here's who actually works the door: Some middle aged, overweight, balding doofus in what appears to be a sweatshirt purchased at a blue light special circa 1989. And, for full effect, he's carrying a clipboard. Speakeasy doormen use clipboards? News to me. All that's missing is a velvet rope.

Anyway, using his girth to block our view of the fabled speakeasy's interior, Doorman asks if we've got a reservation. Huh? A reservation at a speakeasy? What's next, a disco ball at the bodega? Obviously, his question is about as preposterous as asking if we'd flown over on a Pegasus. Girlfriend's Sister stares at him for a moment. No, we (obviously) don't have a reservation. At which he glances down at his clipboard and begins studying the paper like he's splitting the atom. Uh, I can put you guys on the list. The list???!!!??? No thanks, dude. Girlfriend's Sister waves him away and we take off.

Here's how not cool the Crif Dogs Speakeasy is: a girl who lives in Boston realized how not cool it is.

And so, tail between our legs, we trudged off to a nearby bar, where I drowned my sorrows in a couple of wonderful, though ill-poured Belgian brews.

The moral? NYC is awesome until it isn't.