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JA's JOURNALS
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Tower of Power, the great...
...horn-laced funkin' soul band of the '70's, had a hit with the song "What is Hip"....... "What is hip, tell me, tell me, do you think you know?" I am here in the meat-packing district of New York City, and the answer is, in a word, I am staying at the Gansevort Hotel, a mere Duante Culpepper-to-Randy Moss bomb from the river, 9th avenue and 13th street. Generally I have stayed at my crib, the Royalton, on 44th st and 6th ave, but this time I decided to venture into no-man's hipland, the bermuda triangle of where I gather both Mary-kate and Ashley AND Paris and Nicole want to be, the "meat-packing" district (and yes, I can affirm that after my run today, they still DO pack meat here). How do i know this is the coveted "hipzone"? F. Scott Fitzgerald had several famous quotes, one of which is "the rich are different from you and me". (I should also note that he also said "there are no second acts in american lives", which is not true and in fact wasn't true in his own tragic case--he died at age 44, before "The Great Gatsby" was recognized at all, really, certainly before it was considered to be in the top five of all novels written in the modern era). C'mon, I'm here in New York City, producing an amazing artist, wearing an offbeat collection of clothing, and coming home tired yet exhilerated from a day at the studio, but baby, I have nothing on what is happening at 1:13am out in front of the hotel, replete with shrieks, occasional hoarse shoutings reminiscent of Ragnar, the Viking mascot, (I may have even heard the Viking horn last nite--"oooh-ooh! oooooooh-oooh!"), and mid-town style traffic. I ventured into the hotel bar tonite, to scout the surroundings and try to get a bead on things. I found an open stool at the circular bar, all the help is in black, and many of the servers appear to be moonlighting from their jobs as supermodels. I, of course, am making a concerted effort to look less like Walter Matthau than I already do--I pulled my hat low over my eyes and tried to relax my jaw so that any bunching of skin on my face would retract, or at least disappear into the shadow my elongated fishing brim was casting. The chap next to me was talking into his cell phone--not in a hushed way, but openly, and he had a platter of sushi in front of him, which he ignored for several moments while he finished what i could only imagine was a deal of blockbuster proportions. He then inhaled the sushi in literally 30 seconds and motioned the bar-person over. She glided over and he ordered another platter. At this point, the manager appeared at his shoulder, garbed in black, slight pony-tail pulled back, a young Joseph Fiennes on the brink of greatness, and the manager told the man he would have "the next platter up quick". The man said, "hey, are you the guy I see when I come here on a date?" The manager concurred and produced his card, and was off to supervise the next sushi-barge. Across the bar couples gathered, hair highlighted and denim and leather perfectly annointed with the latest salves, ointments, balms, and gilleads. I made fleeting eye contact with a server who conjured up memories of a young Ashley Judd, and I could immediately sense her curiosity. "Why is he in here?" And so it goes, friend, here in the meat-packing district. I will finish my Tom Collins (at least i made the bartender look that one up, as I'm the first guy to order one since '79)and head for the hills, or at least my room. But tomorrow dawns anew, and perhaps the Abercrombie jeans, yes, the jeans that are Ripped and Frayed, yes.............perhaps that will vault me into the hipzone.......... |
