Review: "Eyes Wide Shut" (1999)

The news that Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman is getting her second divorce made my mind race back to the early 2000s when she divorced movie star Tom Cruise.

In the 1990s "Tom and Nic" were the biggest celebrity couple in the world. Great actors, huge stars, they made lots of big hit movies (A Few Good Men, Jerry McGuire, To Die For, and many others), and they also made three together, including their last and most notable one, Eyes Wide Shut in 1999. 

I remember when news of this movie was announced. It was a big deal -- the biggest movie star couple in the world making a movie with one of the greatest directors of his time, the Bronx-born Stanley Kubrick. They were making a weird movie, in secret, in England, and no one knew anything about it. The entertainment media of the day was fascinating by what this movie would be -- and the secrecy of its making and content became its currency.

There was also a lot of other drama surrounding Eyes Wide Shut.

A noted perfectionist, Stanley Kubrick spent almost two full years shooting the movie -- keeping these two huge stars off screens and out of other movies, much to the industry's consternation. Various actors kept getting hired, then fired, or replaced because the open-ended schedule made their continued participation impossible. The movie was supposed to be released in late 1998 -- then was bumped to the summer of 1999 where it would compete with the big action movies.

Then, the biggest dramatic moment of all -- in the Spring of 1999, just a few months before the movie's release, Stanley Kubrick died. Suddenly. So this secret movie with the two biggest starts in the world would be the last movie from the directors of Paths of Glory, Dr. Strangelove, A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket. Wow! 

Then, in July 1999, after all the hype, after reams and reams, hours and hours of coverage, the movie comes out and ... no one cares. It dies quickly. And more than 25 years later it's forgotten -- except for being the last hurrah for Tom and Nic. There divorce two years later would be its coda. 

So what's Eye's Wide Shut about? I still don't know. 

It takes place in Manhattan during Christmas time. Cruise is a wealthy, successful doctor, with a gorgeous, very bored housewife played by Nic. One night they go to a party, flirt with other people, then go home where Nic confesses her fantasies about sleeping with other men. Tom is horrified -- so he goes out walking the strees of wintertime NYC. He meets a friend of his who works in a piano bar and he tells Tom about a masked orgy out of Long Island where the friend plays the piano during all the nooky. Tom decides to go out to Long Island, puts on a Venetian mask, and witnesses all the nooky -- before he's found out, humiliated, ejected from the orgy, and made to fear for his life.

And there's something about hookers in the meantime too.

I love, love, love Stanley Kubrick's films but this one was boring, and his weakest effort. There's really no story, and you're not made to care about any of the characters. It's visually amazingly and it's more like an early-sound European movie than a modern organic film. 

When this movie was being made, and stories about it kept appearing, I was in college, and remember being super excited to see it. Then I graduated, came home, saw the movie that summer ... and left totally underwhelmed. Looking at the movie decades later, it's still lifeless -- and even more depressing considering the horrors we've learned about sexual abuse by rich people in the wake of Jeffrey Epstein.

Still, Eyes Wide Shut is an interesting look at a filmmaker at the end of his life, making his oddest movie ever, in a make-believe NYC at night, with two huge movie stars whose marriage would soon end -- and would gone on to other great movies, as well as more divorces.  

Mr NYC in Disneyworld

In the Islamic religion, Muslims make a pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia to see the Dome of the Rock; in Catholicism, the devout go to Rome to see the Pope give his weekly blessings and audiences at the Vatican; Jews head to the Wailing Wall in Israel and stuff letters into it; and in China, citizens make a pilgrimage to Beijing, laying flowers before the open glass coffin in Tiananmen Square where Chairman Mao lies pickled and wrapped in the hammer & sickled Communist flag.

And in America, we all at some point either make a pilgrimage to Disneyworld in Orlando, Florida or act alternatively embarrassed or proud of the fact that we haven't.

Well, yours truly finally made that great pilgrimage with the family in tow, where we spent five days in the Magic Kingdom and EPCOT, standing on very, very, very long lines, going on some fun rides, seeing some cool stuff, and soaking up the pure Americana of the place.

In the Magic Kingdom, we took the Walt Disney Railroad around the park, also going on the Jungle Cruise and the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, doing one rollercoaster on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, enjoying the privacy of Tom Sawyer Island, then seeing the Hall of Presidents show, taking another cruise on the Liberty Square Riverboat, getting spooked at the Haunted Mansion, spinning around on the Prince Charming Regal Carrousel and Dumbo the Flying Elephant and the Mad Tea Party teacups, taking more cruises on "it's a small world" and the Liberty Square Riverboat, then racing around the Tomorrowland Speedway (twice), and getting shuttled around the Tomorrowland Transit Authority People Mover.

Two highlights of our time in the Magic Kingdom: we saw the Monsters, Inc Laugh Floor where an audience is brought into a live animated show where the Monsters, Inc characters tell lots joke, some of them submitted by the audience. Two jokes were chosen from the audience and one of them was from my daughter! Her humor is now officially IP owned by the Disney Corporation. So proud! Then, one night for dinner, we ate on Easter Night at "Be Our Guest", a Beauty and the Beast themed restaurant which is a massive, cavernous space of four rooms made to look like the interiors of French palaces, and where the Beast walks around. It's totally surreal -- made even more surreal by the fact that we were still eating at 9 PM when the nightly fireworks show started and the restaurant was right next to ground zero for it and it sounded like we were being bombarded by artillery shells during dinner. The meals at "Be Our Guest" or prixe fix and comes with a very cool desert trio where you can paint your own cup (made out of white chocolate) and also "try the grey stuff" that, as the lyric goes, "is delicious."

We also saw the Carousel of Progress which was originally staged at the 1964 World's Fair in Flushing, Queens -- and my mother informs me that she originally saw it there too!

In EPCOT (which stands for Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow), we enjoyed seeing the various "nations" which usually consist of replicas of buildings from them like a Mexican Inca palace (that includes the Three Caballeros water ride), Reflection of China (a temple), and Canada Far and Wide (a 360 degrees show about how big and gorgeous Canada is), plus many others. Easily the best two rides we took were at EPCOT, and they couldn't have been more different: the first was Remy's Ratatouille Adventure which is an amazing 3D ride where you rush around the floor of the restaurant in the movie -- just like Remy! -- and people constantly try (and fail) to catch you; the ride includes changes in temperature (like when you're near a stove) as well as smellovision, where the delicious scent of baguettes hits your nostrils quite strongly. It's an amazing experience, well worth the 90 minute wait. The other was a much more genteel, but beautiful ride, called Living with the Land which is a tour through greenhouse and fish hacheries -- Disneyworld actually grows of a lot of their own herbs and veggies, as well their own fish, that's served in various Disneyworld restaurants. They even do work with the FDA that has a presence at EPCOT. Also, on our last night, we had another French-theme dinner at a place called Chefs de France that had very good food in "bistro."

And we went back and forth from our hotel and EPCOT via the Skyliner, a vast array of airborne cable cars that fly you over Disneyworld and provide you with spectacular views. Given how high up we were, and that these skyliners are pure glass, my kids handled our trips on them very well.

Disneyworld is so huge it's impossible to see all of it on one trip. In addition to the Magic Kingdom and EPCOT, there's also the Animal Kingdom and Hollywood Studios, as well as beaches and malls and yacht clubs. The best reason to visit Disneyworld is simply to marvel at the sheer audacity of the place, the fact that one company, lead by one man, dreamed this place up -- this artificial city that arose sphinxlike out of the Central Florida swampland almost 50 years ago. It's a pure American invention, a cathedral of entrepreneurial hutzpah -- a reminder of how Disney has impacted our culture to an incalculable degree and that Walt Disney is one of the most important Americans who ever lived.

And Disneyworld does provide a beautiful vision for American cities that I wish existed everywhere "across the the fruited plane": free public transportation, walkable streets, plentiful bathrooms and water fountains, no guns, and clean streets. Plus we got lucky -- despite the rain, it wasn't too hot.

So I suggest that all New Yorkers, like so many Americans, make the pilgrimage to Disneyworld to see something amazing.

 

Remembering "Kate & Allie" (1984-1989)

The TV comedy premise of two divorced women moving in together and re-starting their lives has found new life on Netflix: the streamer has two such shows, Grace & Frankie and Raven's Home. But the origin of this concept was Kate & Allie, a popular and very NYC-based show from the 1980s (on ... CBS!), that's largely forgotten today.

Kate and Allie are recently divorced middle-aged ladies with three children between them. They have moved into a Greenwich Village apartment, dealing with the challenges of single-parenting together, making up an impromtu family. While the show was "edgy" for '80s TV (Divorce! No men! Set in NYC!) it had your old-school basic sitcom format -- something would happen, hilarity and confusion would ensue, a resolution would be found, and important life lessons would be learned. It was unrelentingly wholesome, promoting "traditional family values."

And all on videotape!

Seinfeld this was not (in fact, it went off the air just a few weeks before that other classic NYC sitcom would premiere) but it was a smart, occasionally funny, and very white show, an artifact of its era. Kate was played by Susan Saint James (a popular actress from the 1970s show McMillan & Wife) and Allie was Jane Curtin (a few years after her run in the original cast of Saturday Night Live). Their kids were played by, among others, Alison Smith and Ari Meyers who went to mildly successful careers afterwards. 

A couple of interesting things about this show.

First, since it was about two women living together, and on TV during the Reagan era, CBS apparently told the producers to make it very, very clear that Kate and Allie were not lesbians. In fact, they tried to get each episode to end with them withdrawing into seperate bedrooms. The non-romantic nature of their relationship was hammered home a lot.

Second, Kate & Allie was a rare thing for the 1980s -- a show set and made in NYC (the only other sitcom shot here then was The Cosby Show). One thing that distinguished it from most sitcoms of its time was that each episode had a "cold open" where Kate and Allie (or their kids) would be filmed on the streets of NYC, with no audience or laugh track obviously, making an observation about the city and its people. It firmly established the show as rooted here and gave it a real city-vibe. As a kid who lived in NYC then, it was nice to see a show that took pride in being set here, unlike most shows that were set in anonymous suburbs in middle America.

I don't know if Kate & Allie is streaming anywhere but you can find lots of episodes of it on YouTube. Enjoy!

NYC In Abstentia

I love a good Latin turn-of-phrase. Thinking about, and planning, this blog post, my first substantial one in several weeks, I thought about not only what I'd write but about what its theme would be.

You see, living in NYC during this pandemic, it feels like the city we love is so close and yet so far. It's there, right out our windows, the concrete and steel and parks and everything we love exists but ... not really. We're here, it's there, we live in it and we love it, but so many of the things we love to do and enjoy in NYC are either closed, cancelled, or, if they are open, extrememly burdensome, not to mention potentially dangerous, to enjoy.

So much of NYC right now feels in absentia -- its there but not here, its in our minds and memories and hopes and dreams but currently unavailable in our reality, our daily lives. 

Scanning the media these last several weeks, these stories defined for me this peculiar sense of absence. What makes it peculiar is that some of these absences are most definately permament but others either aren't permament but ... they might be ... we don't know ... they exist in a kind of purgatory ... in absentia ... forever for or (at least) for now. But some of these things also give me hope that a better day, Annie's "Tomorrow", is only a day (or few) away. 

Here goes, Mr NYC's peculiar feelings about COVID-19 in NYC, the feeling of being "in absentia":

- There's the great musician Johnny Mandel, a child of NYC, who wrote many great songs including "Suicide is Painless" from the classic movie MASH. He died last month at the age of 94.

- There's the memory of the legendary "Black and White Ball" that occurred on November 28, 1966 at the Plaza Hotel. This was the party of the century thrown by the great writer Truman Capote for Katherine Graham, the publisher of the Washington Post. It was also Capote's re-entry into New York society after he had spent years researching and writing his masterpiece In Cold Blood, living mostly in the mid-west. Everyone who was anyone went to this party, a list of legends. This oral history gives a full account of what was, in many ways, the last time high society was openly celebrated by the world. In captured a moment in time before the horrors of Vietnam, riots, Watergate, and so many other body blows would hit the American spirit and psyche -- the legacies of which we still grapple with today.

- Then there's the funky world of NYC theater. Who knows when it will ever live again? Live performances will be the last thing that can "reopen" for obvious reasons, so it may be a year or more before not only Broadway but theaters and shows and performance spaces of all stripes will be able to come back. That's why this other oral history, written in 1985 to celebrate the 30th anniversary of Off-Broadway, is both a joy and also sad a thing to read. It reminds you of another NYC, a NYC that lives and breathes and performs and explores creativity. That NYC is on hold for the moment but we can always remember and honor it -- and that it returns ASAP.

- And then we come to the present moment. Many New Yorkers have left the city, quarantining in the country. An estimated 400,000 plus people fled. Some have already returned, some hope to soon -- but others think they might never come back. Others did stay (like yours truly) because the idea of abandoning their city in its deepest moment of need felt wrong. But I  shall not cast any stones. In a difficult situation like COVID-19, there's no right answer to any of this, no right thing to do, no perfect solution to a problem that persists and endures for the world. Should I stay or should I go? That's a question in a time and situation like this that only individuals can answer for themselves -- and we should all reserve our judgements of whatever decisions others have made. 

- And yet ... whatever you're doing during this pandemic, wherever you are, it's probably involving a lot of TV, particularly streaming shows. The wife got me watching this ridiculous show on Netflix called The Politician about a young man who aspires to one day become president and plots out his climb. In the first season he ran and (sorta) won the student presidency of his high school in California. In the second season, he and his friends move to NYC and take aim at unseating a powerful New York State Senator (most of which involves this young man giving speeches next to bridges in freezing cold weather). The plot is absurd but the acting, the writing, and the production values are first-rate (it also has Gwenyth Paltrow). It's a total guilty pleasure. Also, it's a total NYC love-fest, with numerous scenes filmed in restaurants and places that we love -- the kind of places that we can't go to right now. If you've seen or plan to see the second season of this show, you can find more about the glorious places where they filmed it in NYC here. 

- And yet, into the absence, into the void, comes some pure joy: a new show called Central Park on Apple TV. It's an animated musical show, pure fantasy, about a family that lives in Central Park and is trying to savev their home from a developer. The voice talent on this show is insane: Kirsten Bell, Daveed Diggs, Tony Shalhoub, Fred Armisen, even Ed Asner! And so many more! It's a wonderful new edition to the culture, an act of creation in a time of so much loss, that reminds us of why we eternally love NYC, even in the worst of times.

- Finally, there are the saviors. There are the front line workers healing the sick and keeping our city running at a time when it feels like it's frozen. They are saviors all. These saviors include the people at The Public Theater and WNYC radio who, for four nights, broadcast Shakespeare's Richard II in lieu of Shakespeare in the Park that was obviously cancelled. It's an amazing, beautiful experience hearing this great old play read by today's top talent. My family and I listened to it every night and loved it. You can listen to it here. Hopefully, in this time of destruction, Shakespeare on the radio becomes a new creation, a new light in the darkness, that lasts and shines on brightly.  

NYC is in absentia for now ... but never forever, and never totally. 

Interview: Hyapatia Lee - Writer, Musician, Author, Broadcaster, Adult Star & Activist

As a young man in NYC, I would sometimes watch The Robyn Bird Show on late night cable TV. The bubbly host would introduce various adult entertainers who would dance to popular songs, and later on Robyn would interview them about their lives and careers. Twenty-odd years later, I can't remember most of the people who appeared on that show but I remember one very well -- Hyapatia Lee.

To say she was "hot" is an understatement -- her beauty, her sexiness, and her attitude were stunning. She blazed out of the screen. She was a fireball of female power. She was celestial.

And smart! She was well-spoken, funny, and confident. I also noticed that she wore a Native American necklace, and spoke proudly of her Cherokee heritage. As someone young and impressionable, still learning about women and sex, I was mesmerized by this multi-dimensional woman. 

Years later I heard a fantastic interview with Hyapatia on the Rialto Report and learned more about her amazing and often challenging life. She had long ago left the adult business and migrated to grow legal pot in Colorado. Then, much more recently, I found her on Twitter, and she became even more fascinating -- it turns out that she is a Native American activist, author, and broadcaster, as well as a mental health specialist. Hyapatia Lee has lived many lives, done many things, and overcome a lot. So it was a great honor to have Hyapatia politely respond to my request for an interview and tell us more!

You seem to have lived many eventful lives – adult star, pot grower, Native American rights activist/author, and mental health advocate. If you can, what made you want to live these different lives and are there any others that I’m missing? 

I believe we are all multi-faceted individuals. It's not uncommon for people to have multiple interests in life. I also produce, direct, and edit my NATIVE STRENGTH TV show that's seen on ROKU, Amazon, and multiple stations across the country, as well as on my YouTube channel. In addition, I write and record my own music. I started The Lee Studios three years ago. There are plans for movies as well.

I want to live life to the fullest. I want to explore all of the activities that interest me. I also want to keep the Native American culture alive. I just want to enjoy my life. 

You are a woman of proud Cherokee heritage and have incorporated your identity into every aspect of your life (even your adult work). What would you like white and all other Americans to understand about the Native American experience and identity? 

I think most people, even many Native Americans, are unaware of the rich cultural contributions of Natives of this hemisphere. Some people may be aware of the vast culinary contributions, but the majority of our common wisdom has been destroyed by the colonizers and was carefully guarded by the elders. It's time to bring this out in the open and share some of it.

What are the special challenges of being a Native American woman?

The challenge of being any Native American first and foremost is to be recognized for who we are. Most people see us as white or Hispanic. They don't even recognize us when looking right at us! My people have been told to go back to their own country. As a woman, we have the challenge of proving ourselves to be equal and worthy. This is exacerbated by the hypersexualization of Native Women. Being Native or natural doesn't mean being sexually promiscuous. Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls is an epidemic most often perpetuated by oil pipeline construction workers who camp near reservations. So the biggest challenge for any Native American woman is to simply stay alive.

You’ve always been known as Hyapatia Lee. How did you come up with this name, and what does it mean to you today?

I suppose today it just is "me, a name I call myself." To quote The Sound of Music. LOL. 

Do you still live and grow pot in Colorado?

Yes, I do. With my health condition, cannabis is necessary to sustain life.

I first saw you dancing and being interviewed on The Robyn Bird Show cable television in the 1990s. What are your memories of appearing on that show, of Robyn, and did anything fun happen behind the scenes?

I loved being on The Robyn Bird Show. She was very sweet and professional. When most people ask if anything fun happened behind the set, they are referring to something sexual. Nothing sexual happened on the set of the show. It was professional.

What were your memories of visiting New York City back then? Did you like the city and spend a lot of time here?

I was surprised to spend three months in New York City the first time I was booked there for the opening of my first movie. I did dance shows in between the showings. The shows were sold out. I was only supposed to be there for one week.

You are a woman of great beauty and became famous for it, but your intelligence and spirit has sustained and brought you into different paths in life. What is it like to go from being an object of desire to a person who wants to educate and heal the spirits of others?

Personally, I am a bit dumbfounded. I never considered myself to be a "great beauty." I wrote a dozen of my movies and did the music for Body Girls and wrote an advice column for Cherri for five years. So to me, I have been using my intelligence all along. I guess people are just starting to notice now. I am very grateful. I considered my work in adult entertainment to be trying to heal the spirits of others. My movie Let's Get Physical was about ED caused by a man losing his job as an esteemed dancer after a tragic accident. But no one seemed to notice that, I guess. Sometimes I think some people become blinded by sexuality and entirely lose the message. What were the best and worst parts of being an adult star back in the 1980s and 90s? The best part was being able to write my own movies and being able to spend the vast majority of my time dancing on the road. Was it fun or more work than fun? Dancing was fun. Travel was fun. Writing movies was fun. 

Do you miss it at all?

I do not miss it at all, particularly the sex part. I did not particularly enjoy that part. That was the hardest part for me. I had to emotionally work myself up for a scene. It was a difficult challenge. I much preferred to shoot dialogue, coming from a stage acting background.

Would you ever go back?

I would never go back, not for anything in the world. Never.

Tell us something about Hyapatia Lee that we don’t know, and what are your hopes for the future? 

I have hypopituitarism, end-stage. My fears for the future revolve around the world left to my grandkids.

Anything else you’d like to tell us?

Hypopituitarism is a complicated, deadly condition caused by blood loss and other conditions. It means the pituitary gland has died. That's the master gland. That means I produce no hormones. So this gives me a unique look at life. I see what emotions all the hormones cause. It's also deadly and I'm allergic to the steroid I have to take for the adrenal insufficiency hypopituitarism causes. They make my throat swell shut and I can't breathe. Steroids are needed to bind with glucocorticoid receptors in every cell of the body, particularly the brain, or we die. THC also binds with these receptors and it helps, but it's not enough to keep me alive. Here is my GoFundMe link. This was set up by a dear friend of mine. 

Thanks Hyapatia! All the best to you and your health, your work, and your future in 2020 and well beyond. Good luck! 

Interview: Billy Procida of the The Manwhore Podcast

Sex! Love! Comedy! You'll find all that, and much more, on The Manwhore Podcast with Billy Procida!

More to the point, you'll find an intelligent yet sexy untangling of the complicated emotions, pitfalls, and opportunities of being a sexual creature in 21st century NYC and America. I've never heard anything quite like Manwhore: on the one hand, it's very titillating (i.e. lots of sex talk) but the podcast is also about the emotional and societal complications of sex and dating in a time of social media, #MeToo, and social/economic/political insanity. Billy and his guests obviously love to talk about sex but the show isn't really "pervy" -- it's more existential, asking "who are we as human beings and what does our sex lives tell us about ourselves in this crazy time?"

Billy is an NYC-based comedian and was kind enough to answer a few questions for Mr NYC about his comedy, his life, his podcast, and NYC.

Tell us a little bit about your background and career in comedy. Who are some of your comedy idols and influences? 

I grew up listening to George Carlin and Chris Rock. I stumbled up on Carlin simply by searching 'comedy' on Napster. Whatever files weren't broken became my comedy library. Being as prolific as he was, there were many albums I became acquainted with. With Rock, I thought he was hilarious in Dogma and then discovered his stand-up. I think I had Bigger and Blacker memorized when I was 13. Today, I find myself falling asleep listening to Doug Standhope—which probably explains all the nightmares.

What inspired the creation of the Manwhore podcast? What in your life and career made you decide to do this?

I had this very peculiar problem: women would sleep with me, but they wouldn't date me. So I wanted to find out why. Because I wanted relationships; I wanted love; but anytime I wanted to get more serious, it was always the woman who told me she wanted to keep it casual. This rarely ended things—I was still told to come over and do that thing that I do with my tongue. When it happened for the umpteenth time, I decided to start this podcast where I reconnect with former flames and find out what went wrong. 

Your podcast, while obviously being about sex, seems to also be focused on how sex and fun should be enjoyable without being exploitative or demeaning to anybody. Do you consider yourself and the podcast "woke" or just smart? 

I'm just a comedian with a fuck show. But a lot of people have described me with a variety of adjectives from woke to feminist to problematic. 

You and your guests have done some pretty wild things on your podcast. What's the craziest interview or thing your and guests did? Don't spare us the details!

I had a listener 'blow her way to Brooklyn.' A woman slid into my DMs on Instagram earlier this year. She lived in a nearby city and really wanted to hook up with me. It was late one night and I suggested she find a friend to give her a ride to New York City and how she could "thank" him. Then I thought...what if she 'thanked' a series of drivers all the way to Brooklyn just to hook up with me? Fueled by an overinflated ego, feeling flattered, I pitched her this scene where I would coordinate several rides to driver her different legs of her journey. She was to give a blowjob on each leg to show her thanks. Then she'd get to my door and 'get' to blow me (I personally don't think I'm much of a prize, but hey, whatever gets you going). So we documented it through her solo recordings in-between each driver up until she was standing outside my bedroom door talking about the anticipation of meeting me. We had a super fun night together and the next day recorded a surprisingly intimate and raw episode. Having a hot chick suck some dicks just to suck mine might be the craziest thing I've done on the podcast. 

That's pretty wild! Who are some of your dream podcasts guests that you haven't interviewed yet?

Dan Savage. Charlotte Clymer. Janet Mock. Laci Green. Kevin Smith. Louis C.K. Barack Obama. 

What's been the biggest surprise or thing you've learned -- about life, relationships (and, obviously) sex -- in doing the podcast?

I've learned to listen better—which is difficult when your job is seemingly to talk. But my job is in fact to listen, because this show is nothing without the women from my life. The more I listen, the more they talk. The more they talk, the better the episode. At least in my opinion. The same holds true in dating (and sex). 

How do you think the Trump presidency and ugly political environment has affected sex and relationships? 

Oh god, don't get me started. My sex and my relationships don't really change—I'm a cis straight white guy. I'll be fine. But the lives and relationships of many of my friends and colleagues might change, if they haven't already. I don't want to speak to those changes, because I don't really experience them and others can speak on it better, but it's no surprise that the Trump Administration—as well as the Republican Party, since it's in their 2016 party platform—is anti-queer. If you're a Republican who is openly for LGBT rights, you're a deviation of the party, since the GOP put it in their literal party platform. Explicitly. Trump tweeted a trans military ban. His vice president has attacked queers when he was the Governor of Indiana. Trump even put money back into abstinence only education (even though it's been proven time and again that it does not work). A lot of 'sex-positive' people want to say that they support LGBT people and are sex-positive and all that jazz...but vote Republican (or, ugh, third party). If you were able to and didn't vote in this most recent midterm election—and didn't vote Democrat—I'm willing to say that you are not sex-positive. Full stop. 

What are your thoughts about #MeToo? 

Dude, you gotta tighten this question. I think it's great that women are stepping forward with their stories. I'm glad that it's raised the topic of consent into many people's consciousness, enough that we might try to teach kids comprehensive sex education so they can learn about consent at younger ages. 

What are your hopes of the Manwhore podcast moving forward? 

I'm super excited for ManwhoreCon 2019. We just wrapped up my second annual fanwhore weekend in August, but I'm already so stoked to do it again! Fans are already talking about it in our secret Patreon-only communities. I also want to do more live shows in other cities next year and, of course, some fun episodes. I'm thinking The Pepsi Challenge of Cocksucking. 

Finally, tell us about your life in NYC and what you love about the city. And tell us anything else you'd like us to know! 

I love New York City. I've lived here 11 years and I always feel the magic—even when I spend 95% of the day inside. It's both a historical city and a modern city at the same time—and you can feel that all the time. I feel connected to hundreds of years of stories when walking down a street I know used to house the city's largest orphanage, or sitting in McSorley's Old Ale House, an institution that's had its doors open since Lincoln. My favorite book on New York, Lowlife by Luc Sante, describes this city in the most beautiful way I've ever seen. And I quote it often. "The firmament that is New York is greater than the sum of its constitutent parts. It is a city and it is also a creature, a mentality, a disease, a threat, an electromagnet, a cheap stage set, an accident corride. It is an implausible character, a monstrous vortex of contradictions, an attraction-repulsion mechanism so extreme no one could have made it up." 

Great quote! Thanks Billy! You can find Billy on Twitter @TheBillyProcida and download The Manwhore Podcast on ITunes.

"Nighthawks" -- The Eternal NYC Noir Enigmatic Masterpiece

Some paintings are breathtaking for their beauty or dazzling in their imagery (think Vermeer or J.W. Turner or most Renaissance paintings).

Some paintings tickle our brain with their complexity (think Jackson Pollack or George Seurat).

Some paintings are iconic for what they represent (think the romance of the “Mona Lisa” or the fiery political passion of “Guernica”).

And some paintings are memorable for their mystery.

No painting is more memorably mysterious than Edward Hopper's 1942 masterpiece “Nighthawks.” 

It's the painting that defines New York City noir. It's haunting, beautiful, and simple. “Nighthawks” depicts the exterior of a coffee shop on an anonymous downtown street, most probably Greenwich Village. Light emanates out of the window onto a dark, empty sidewalk. Through the window we see two men in suits sitting at the enormous counter along with a woman in a red dress. A uniformed man behind the counter bends over.

What is the man doing? What is he getting under the counter? What are the man and woman sitting next to each other talking about? Why is the other man sitting at the counter alone? Where is the door that leads from the street into the coffee shop -- and why don't we see it? What time of the night is it? Why is no else around? What’s going on?

The picture is nothing but mystery -- unanswered, unanswerable questions, an eternal enigma. Its simplicity -- the chromatic uniformity of the people’s clothes, the street, the buildings, all of the images -- gives us little to go on. All we know is that the coffee shop is called "Phillies". And each cup of coffee costs five cents (the going rate in 1942).

That's it. That's all. 

That's genius.

When Edward Hopper painted “Nighthawks” in 1942, the world was at war. New York was still a city of factory workers, tenement dwellers, and average Joes. The city was recovering from the Depression along with the rest of the country. It was a time when the future seemed uncertain (much like now). The mystery of those times, the spirit of those times and the haunting the New York that captured it, is reflected in the painting, and that's what makes it masterpiece.

I've blogged a lot about my love of NYC at night -- the jazzy, sexy, mysterious, dangerous feel of it. There's a hint of crime, of secret transgression about it. “Nighthawks” not only captures that mood perfectly but defines it. Not for nothing this painting has become an American icon, parodied and lionized throughout American culture (for example, The Simpsons or TCM's Open All Night intro).

How did “Nighthawks”, this ultimate NYC painting, come to be? Why has it endured?

Listen to this extensive segment from Studio 360 about the painting's creation and amazing legacy. In many ways, it asks more questions than it answers -- much like the painting itself. Sadly you can't see Nighthawks in NYC -- it belong to the Art Institute of Chicago. So if you're ever in the Windy City, perhaps drop in and see this ultimate piece of New York lore.

"Around the Town in 26 Hours and 36 Minutes"

In 1974 a very brave Daily News reporter took a marathon ride across the NYC subway system -- and wrote about the entire journey.

Reprinted here for the first time anywhere, go back in time and take the trip of a lifetime around a very different NYC.
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AROUND THE TOWN IN 26 HOURS AND 36 MINUTES 

New York Sunday News March 31, 1974 

The Lefferts Blvd. Station at four in the morning could be the loneliest place in New York. Or maybe just the coldest. Wind blows across the elevated tracks. I look out the train – suspended here – waiting for the return runs to Manhattan. Outside the night is dark except for some metal lamps on the deserted platform. Bare light bulbs form little circles of heat in the cold air. I am absolutely alone. Reflected in the train windows are its baby-blue walls splashed magenta and orange with graffiti. Beyond them I can see the black tops of trees, the low buildings of Queens stretching west toward Brooklyn. Far off, a yellow glow indicates Manhattan. Shivering, I cross to the open door and step out onto the platform. It is very still. A quarter moon hangs over Ozone Park, where all sensible people are asleep.

It might be warmer below near the token booth. Perhaps there is even a candy machine. But if the train should suddenly pull away…? No, I decide. Even if there is a machine, it won’t be working. There are some 6,600 vending machines in the New York Subway System. I know of four that work. The Interborough News Co. owes me eighty-five cents. Dear Sirs … I begin composing a letter in my head – then stop. If I give the locations of all the stations where I lost coins yesterday, they’ll think I’m mad. Some of those stations are 50 miles apart!

It seems to me that I have been here an eternity. I look at my watch: 20 minutes. This wait could ruin my chance at the world record. It stands at 21 hours and 8 minutes.

The first subway riding record – traveling the entire system of routes for a single fare – was set October 27, 1904: IRT Opening Day. The subway, an historic 9.1 miles, extended from City Hall to Grand Central, turning west across 42nd Street to Times Square, and then up Broadway to 145th St. After an official opening trip by city dignitaries – with Mayor McClellan holding a silver controller – followed by several hours of invitational rides, the subway was opened to the public at 7 p.m. 111,881 passengers paid a nickel each to ride that day. Scheduled time for an express was 26 minutes; the local took 46. Although those early riders were conscious of making history, it is doubtful that they had any thoughts of setting track records. It was just too simple.

The new subway generated appendages almost yearly. It reached Brooklyn via tunnel in 1908. The success of the IRT encouraged more construction. The Brooklyn Rapid Transit (after 1923, the BMT) began operations in August 1913, and the city-operated IND was opened Sept. 10, 1932. Under the dual contracts by which the city had financed construction of the privately operated IRT and BMT, it had also retained the right to purchase them. In 1940 both were acquired for $326,248,000. The three lines were unified under city control on June 12 of that year.

Two days before unification, Herman Rinke, a curious and still indefatigable electric railroad enthusiast, decided to tour the existing system for a single five-cent fare. He had no thought of setting a record. With unification, the IRT-operated 9th Ave. El was scheduled for demolition. His trip was a 25-hour sentimental gesture. It turned out to be the first recorded try. Since that day, 66 people have ridden the entire system in 24 recorded trips. These records are kept in an unofficial file at the TA Public Relations Dept. No one knows how may kids have done it just for fun. The 1961 subway map cited the example of a Flushing youth who had ridden all the routes in 25 hours and 36 minutes for a single token. The TA’s aim may have been to point out the scope or convenience of the subway, but that record – set Jan. 25, 1957, by Jerome Moses, 16 – instead seemed to invite competition. During the 1960s, subway derbies became a fad with urban students; 11 of them were completed during the peak years of 1966 and 1967. On April Fools Day of 1966, the M.I.T. Rapid Transit Club began a highly publicized ride. They had used a computer to route their attempt and informed the newspapers. On April 2, they were feeling foolish by 1 hour and 1 minute. And Geoffrey Arnold, who had held the 24 hour, 56 minute record since 1963 when he was 17, remarked “Pacific St. was a ridiculous place to start.” That June, nine boy scouts from Troop 290 in Queens further shamed the computer by logging 23 hours and 18 minutes. And on Aug. 3, 1967, 16-year-old James Law, with six buddies, rode from 168th St., Jamaica to Pelham Bay Park in 22 hours 11½ minutes; a time cited in the current Guinness Book of World Records.

When the Bronx Third Ave. El was closed in August 1973, subway route mileage was diminished 5.5 miles. On Oct. 8, Mayer Wiesen, 35, and Charles Emerson set a “modern record,” riding over 230.8 route miles, changing trains many times, and passing through the 462 operating stations, in 21 hours and 8 minutes. A record which looks as if it will stand unless I get out of the Lefferts Blvd. Station.

At 8 yesterday morning, I am just starting out, entering the 168th St. terminus of the Jamaica spur, an old elevated line taken over and extended by the BMT. The 1893 span between Alabama Ave. and Cypress Hills may be the oldest el track still in continuous use. The train I board is one of the oldest also: rolling stock built in the mid- 1930s. Sixty-watt bulbs light the cars. Hanging down from the ceiling are fans with black blades. I make my way to the front car, intending to ride looking out the window next to the motorman’s cab, but a handsome black kid, about 13, has got there first. He stands, hands in his pockets, nose to the glass, alert, ready to “drive the train.” At 8:03 we head toward Manhattan – looking down long streets of old houses, over expressways clogged with morning traffic, rattling past Cypress Hills Cemetery where miles of tombstones cast small, neat shadows in the early light. At Broadway-Myrtle, I change to the M train, yoyo-ing up and back to cover the Myrtle Line – past houses whose third-story windows, with pulled blinds, are often no more than six feet from the train.

9:15. Manhattan comes into view from the Williamsburg Bridge. The huge building blocks that pile its shore jut powerfully at the sky. Below, the East River is gray. It is a postcard approach. The train “zooms-in” like a 1940s movie – so familiar that I almost expect to see titles flash across. No matter. The Manhattan skyline still makes me gasp.

10:00. I am changing trains in Brooklyn when I see the kid from the Jamaica el again. We grin in recognition. “Hey,” I shout, “Are you doing the system too?” As the train doors shut, I see him nod. He swings off to Coney Island, while I race up in search of the Astoria train. On the DeKalb overpass I spot a snack bar and buy a Coke for breakfast. Aside from some coins in my jeans, a notebook and map, I have decided not to carry anything – sort of an urban Camp Fire Girl.

11:12 – En route to Flushing on a blue World’s Fair train. To my left Shea Stadium passes; while off to the right lies Flushing Meadow. The ribbed Unisphere and skeletal towers of the ’64 Fair rear up out of the flat landscape – fossilized like dinosaurs.

12:05. Returning to Manhattan, I change at Jackson Heights for the newer IND. On the underpass is a Nedicks – coffee and a hot dog – breakfast is shaping up. I am wiping mustard off my fingers when I reach the underground Roosevelt Ave. platform. On May 2, 1970, this was the site of the first subway fatality due to collision or derailment, in 42 years; two GG trains collided during evening rush hour, killing two passengers and injuring 71.

1:55. The F train to Coney Island is one of the new, longer R-44 models: pristine and elegant, with seats of muted orange and yellow. Panels of fake wood are set into its walls and fluorescent lights line the ceiling. Just before the doors close, a chime sounds – rather like the Avon doorbell. The advertising cards, color transparencies lit from behind, glow. These are the poshest cars to travel the subways since No. 3344, “The Mineola,” rolled through in 1904. No. 3344 was the private coach of financier and IRT organizer August Belmont. His car had real wood, mahogany, with velvet-draped picture windows so that guests could enjoy the flashing signals while white-coated stewards broiled steaks in the galley and served iced champagne. Above them, Empire ceilings arched, pale green and gilt; the washroom windows were stained glass. If one cares to make a comparison, the Mineola can be found in the Branford Trolley Museum at East Haven, Connecticut.

I am about to succumb to the quiet style of these long, air-conditioned cars, when I notice that the doors between them are kept locked. Existing subway tunnels were built for 60-foot cars, more the size, if not the décor, of the Mineola. These new, 75-foot units do not mesh properly on curves; the space between cars becomes dangerous. Motormen, conductors, and presumably transit police, have keys, but New Yorkers are naturally leery. Many feel that being trapped in one car could become a risky situation.

The IND Coney Island line becomes elevated for a brief span entering Brooklyn; the highest point in the system, 87.5 feet above street level, is at the Smith and Ninth St. Station. Here the view is open in all directions: back toward postcard Manhattan, out into the harbor. Little automobiles crawl over the arched expressway ahead; below, the Gowanus Canal and Red Hook. Too soon, we are underground.

At Church St. the line ramps upward again, joining the 1919 BMT el track at Ditmas Ave., where it emerges and begins the long approach to the ocean. Coney Island, cold and closed, decorates our passage. Orange and green spokes of the Wonder Wheel circle blue sky; flags and bits of banner blow. A deserted but honky tonk air prevails. We pass the roller coaster, webbed and delicate in the afternoon light. The air is bracing.

2:54. The Brighton Line heads back to Manhattan, for a while paralleling the sea. Short views down streets end in ocean. The pastel acres of Brighton Beach Baths stretch, patterned, toward the sand. We stop at Sheepshead Bay before heading northwest, traveling over the old ground level tracks of the 1890s Brighton Railroad, widened in 1907 to cut through the tree-hung backyards of Victorian mansions facing Buckingham Road.

3:15. At the Prospect Park Station hundreds of high school kids mill, going home. Cops range the platform and one accompanies us onto the Franklin Shuttle. The kids are wonderfully natty; boys and girls stride aboard wearing platform shoes that defy balance, pants with big bells, hats, lots of jewelry, elaborate hair-dos. While I am aware that teenagers in groups are responsible for a fair amount of subway crime, I cannot imagine this stylish group doing anything to muss their clothes. Subway history is full of accounts of rampage and vandalism. Two days after the 1904 opening, eight youths armed with buckshot blowers boarded the new subway at 145th St. and proceeded to shoot out the electric lights while doing gymnastic stunts on the straps. Two were arrested at 96th St., the rest escaped. But this was not the first subway crime. That occurred opening night. During the crowded ride north from Brooklyn Bridge Station, someone lifted the $500 diamond stickpin that had been holding down the tie of Harry Barret of W. 46th St. When he reached Grand Central, his necktie was flapping.

3:50. The return shuttle is almost empty. As it approaches Prospect Park again, we pass near Empire Blvd. In November of 1918 it was still called Malbone St. The name was changed after the Brighton Beach Special, jammed with evening rush hour passengers, failed to make a curve at the tunnel there. Five wooden cars, taken over from the old Brooklyn Union Railroad, were dashed to bits, and passengers thrown rapidly along the tunnel walls, literally had their faces rubbed away. Ninety-seven lost their lives, 150 were injured, and for days the accident drove World War I right off the front pages, When motorman Edward A. Luciano gave himself up, he was found to have had only two hours of instruction before being given the controller at Park Row in Manhattan. Earlier that morning – before motormen walked out in a dispute over unionization – Luciano had been a yard switchman. His promotion was sudden – this was his first run. He was acquitted, and the union made its point.

5:02. I am picking up a few stray miles under Rockefeller Center when evening rush hour begins. While I know the total 3.8 million daily subway riders cannot all be taking the D train tonight – it feels as if they are. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, passengers have nowhere to look but up. Above our heads, “Miss Subways” stares out of her poster, giving us a strained smile, “hoping to do some modeling.” Since 1941, when the contest began, over 200 New York working girls have become “Miss Subways.” In the early years, a new face showed up every month. Currently, two winners, out of six finalists, are chosen every eight months by passenger vote. Miss Subways receives a $40.00 charm bracelet dangling silver tokens, and her picture decorates the 6,700 subway cards for a three-month period. I ride standing all the way to 205th St., Bronx. Sheer endurance does not win a girl the title.

6:10. At 168th St. and Broadway, I change trains again, and descend into the IRT on a hot automated elevator to ride the Seventh Ave. local to Van Cortlandt Park. The ride is through the deepest section of track in the whole system: 180 feet below street level at the 191st St. and St. Nicholas Ave. station.             

7:00. Moving under Harlem on the No. 3, a rather splashy train with big graffiti – mustard yellow and pink predominate. Despite $10 million spent to remove graffiti and 1,562 arrests in 1972, the TA is losing the “spray can war.” I read off the names: Supreme King 219, Snake II, Lopez 138, and amuse myself trying to think up my own subway logo – in case graffiti should become legal. Outside the stations pass, dingy, written all over. Two Black Muslims move in and out of the strap-hangers selling Mohammed Speaks. On this line, I am a “token white” – the pun lifts my spirits.

8:02. TA police range the E. 180th St., Bronx platform where the No. 2 pauses. One boards, walkie-talkie mumbling at his waist. He will be riding until 4 a.m. Since May of 1965, a uniformed transit patrolman has been assigned to every train during these hours.

10:30. I stand in the first car, face pressed against the glass, speeding through a dark, underground world, the lighted coach behind me forgotten, as the black tunnel comes on. Tracks in perspective lines rush, disappearing under my feet, crossing, converging ahead. Signal lights change: yellow – “proceed with reduced speed,” green over yellow – “on diverging track.” Express lines mount, as local tracks sink in the dark. In the distance, tiny orange lights flicker above the tracks, then disappear where track-men carrying lanterns dive into the sidings. Now the square, metal-pillared cut rounds into a tube; we approach the old, 1908, Battery-Joralemon tunnel. Green lights signal us through. I make myself useful peering intently at the dark curved walls, checking for leaks.

1:12. The Wilson Ave. station on the Canarsie line is a narrow, double-decked curiosity: one track occupies each level – the eastbound track emerges, briefly elevated, traveling above the underground westbound span. We pass the deserted platform in half light. It faces – a single track away – the Cemetery of the Evergreens. No one in his right mind would get off at Wilson Ave. at 1:12 in the morning. No one did.

2:30. The A train heads out over the waters of Jamaica Bay, leaving behind the huge glow of JFK that arc-lights the eastern sky. I have made the Rockaway Round Robin on schedule and can relax. Only between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m. is it possible to cover the entire Rockaway peninsula on a single train. This 19th century summer beach resort was linked to the L.I.R.R. until 1956, when service was transferred to the IND. The train moves further out across the vast, dark bay. Only feet below on either side, water laps the narrow trestle. Far out, a crescent of lights veers gently inward on the long railroad stem. Beyond that brilliant curve, the ocean pounds. For miles around the night is black and cold, the water deep. A strange place for a New York subway train.

4:00. And farewell to Lefferts Blvd.

5:30. Waits are long now. The work trains move slowly underground through nearly empty stations, picking up trash and cleaning out tunnels. The New York bars have closed, and some standees on the Hoyt St. platform bear witness to this fact. A heavy black woman joins me; she walks as if her feet hurt, and I suspect she has just got off work. The trains always take a while at this hour, she tells me. We stand together on the platform, unacknowledged sisters, re-enforcing each other. In 1907, the Hudson Tubes were still running Women Only Cars with guards aboard to insure protection. I guess we have come a long way.

At 6:26 the sun rises over Greenwood Cemetery where I am passing, for the second time, over an elderly bit of track known as the Culver Shuttle; 1.1 miles still bear tribute to Andrew Culver, who built a steam railroad to Coney Island that passed over this site in the 1880s.

7:00 – Coney Island for the second time in two days! Crossing the Stillwell Terminal overpass, I go by the employees cafeteria and smell breakfast. On the Sea Beach Line, morning rush hour is just beginning. This is the third rush hour I have ridden through without leaving the subway. The poignancy of that situation might be enough to make one who has dined off Zagnut bars, peanuts, and Lucy Ellen orange slices for two days, get a cramp. I try not to think of hot coffee.

8:10. Changing trains at Union Square I am especially careful, warned by history. The first subway passenger accident occurred here Opening Day, 1904. A Miss Sadie Lawson, 26, of Jersey City, who had been riding north and south for several hours, fell getting off the southbound train and broke her hip. I grab a metal strap and hang on tightly all the way to 42nd St. 

8:25. Times Square. The 42nd St. shuttle contains 2,700 feet of original 1904 IRT track, now isolated. In 1928, the second worst accident in New York subway history happened just south of here on the Seventh Ave. line. A defective switch broke as the ninth car of a 10-car theater rush-hour train was passing over it. The rear wheels switched to a diverging track and the ninth car, running suddenly at right angles to the others, was sheared in two by the steel pillars between tracks. This mechanical “crack the whip” killed 18 passengers and injured 100.

9:30. The Lexington Ave. Express emerges into bright sunlight just before the old Yankee Stadium. Once, under a glaring blue sky, its lacy wood trim gleamed white like decorative icing – a great hollow cake with a short right field. Now, under the ungentle touch of the renovators, the place is growing unrecognizable. At the Woodlawn terminus, the leaves have lost their Fall colors, but on the golf course below, lucky men tee off across rolling fairways. It is a splendid day for riding elevated trains.

10:39. Pelham Bay Park. I have made the trip – on 67 different trains – in only 26 hours and 36 minutes. 26 hours and 36 minutes! The thought that I may be the first woman to complete the ride does not console me at all. But the sun is shining. And I have my logo: Ms. Subways 114.
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You can read this essay and other great ones just like it in How the Camp Fire Girls Won World War II by Rebecca Morris. 

Also, read more 1970s subways coverage from the Village Voice here.