Monthly Archives: December 2013

Boids…with a “Y.”

[Photo Credit: Rob Kalmbach]

Photograph by Maurizio Di lorio.

It’s less than 24 hours since the news broke–Jacoby Ellsbury is going to be a Yankee. So: Is this a good thing or not? He’s a fine player but he’s been hurt more than somewhat. Does this mean Cano is a goner or does it mean the Yanks know that Alex is in for a long suspension and hell with it, they’re going to sign Robbie as well?

We didn’t see this one coming, that’s for sure. But back to my pernt–it’s been less than a full day since we heard about this, which is more than enough time for people to weigh in on it.

Here’s the word from:

Ben Lindbergh

Dave Cameron

Albert Chen

Tyler Kepner

Jonathan Bernhardt

Mike Axisa

Michael Eder

I’ll update this as the reviews are filed today.

[Picture by Bags]

Wow.

Paintings by Robert Roth via This Isn’t Happiness.

Damn.

I was given a book as a present last week and I’m enjoying it. It is well-written yet twice in the in the first 50 pages the author, who is otherwise careful with her prose, uses the word “literally” incorrectly. The use of this word, the improper use or the redefined horseshit use, drives me nuts.

I like what Martha Gill suggests–we should just avoid the damn word. Literally.

William Klein’s 1958 short film, Broadway By Light…

…is so worth your time.

This is cool.

[Photo Via]

Frank Rich profiles Stephen Sondheim:

here are few things that remain constant in life, but for me one of them is this: Stephen Sondheim’s work has touched me for more than half a century. It did so when I was first listening to records as a child, when I didn’t know his name or much else, and it does so right this minute, as songs of middle-aged regret like “Too Many Mornings” and “You Must Meet My Wife” are randomly shuffled into my headphones by iTunes. It’s unusual to remain so loyal to a single artist. We tend to outgrow our early tastes and heroes. It’s even more unlikely to have that artist materialize in person and play a crucial role in one’s life—as Sondheim first did when I was 21 and he was 40. Since then, with some lengthy intermissions along the way, he’s been a mentor, an occasional antagonist, a friend, and even an unwitting surrogate parent.

While it was far from the case when I first met him, Sondheim at 83 is an institution and a cottage industry. He’s received every prize an artist can in America, often multiple times. His shows are in constant revival. In November alone, he was lionized by the New York Public Library, the Museum of the City of New York, and City Center at home, even as a West End production of his 1981 Broadway failure, Merrily We Roll Along, beat out The Book of Mormon for Best Musical in London’s Evening Standard awards. At this point, so much has been written about his career that it’s hard to find much new to say about it. Besides, Sondheim often says it better than anyone else. The most transparent of artists when it comes to explicating his craft, he has given countless interviews detailing his methods and motives, meta and micro, song by song and show by show. (Much of it is codified in the essays tucked into the two juicy volumes of collected lyrics he published at the start of this decade.) But the man himself, the guy behind the work, can be harder to pin down. This is a challenge that the playwright and director James Lapine, Sondheim’s friend and longtime collaborator, and I tried to address in Six by Sondheim, our documentary debuting December 9 on HBO. I’ll let the film speak for itself, not least because almost all the speaking is done by its subject, whose on-camera interviews over 50-plus years shape a narrative built around a half-dozen of his songs. But I continue to wrestle with my own, separate Sondheim narrative: Not a day goes by when I don’t reflect on what I’ve learned from him and what he and his work have meant to me for as far back as I can remember.

A moment of silence for Junior…then:

According to Jeff Passan at Yahoo! the Yanks have no plans to give Robbie Cano a $200 million deal:

It’s not like Cano is the sort of marketing machine his team has portrayed him as in meetings with the Yankees and Mets. Beyond setting his price tag at more than $300 million in during-the-season negotiations, the biggest mistake thus far has been emphasizing the off-field exploits of Cano when reality says otherwise.

He didn’t stem hemorrhaging ticket sales or TV ratings during the Yankees’ down year. His jersey wasn’t exactly jumping off shelves; it ranked 19th in sales this season – and fifth in New York, behind Mariano Rivera, Matt Harvey, Derek Jeter and David Wright.

“We’re not the Brooklyn Nets,” one Yankees official said. “We don’t need Jay Z’s marketing expertise.”

The Yankees like to say that Dustin Pedroia re-signed with Boston for $110 million and Wright with the Mets for $138 million, but there is a difference: Cano is a free agent, and a premium exists with those free agents, even if New York is where he wants to be. And it is. Cano told friends in the Dominican Republic this season that he would re-sign with the Yankees, though perhaps he was expecting the dollar figure to be closer to the $200 million-plus that at one point the Yankees were believed to be willing to offer.

[Photo Credit: Marcus Haydock]

This was the scene just a few miles from where I live yesterday. Over at the Daily Beast, Michael Daley writes about Amazing Grace in the Bronx:

The third car had people trapped inside.

But the fourth was the most challenging to the firefighters because it was sitting at a tilt and swayed as they worked to extricate the injured.

“The car was teetering back and forth,” later said FDNY Capt. James Ellson of Rescue 3. “So the removal of those people was getting a little tricky.”

In all the cars, there were more injured people than the firefighters and cops could immediately assist in those early minutes. The rescuers, who are geared to helping whoever needs it, had to make a difficult request to the passengers who were less badly injured than others.

“It’s very hard to ask a civilian who was just involved in an accident to help us,” Ellson would recall. “They had just been involved in a very bad train accident, and now I’m saying, ‘I need your help, I need you to help people who are in worse shape.’ I asked everybody, ‘Listen, look at the people next to you, and if they need help, help them.’ And they did it.”

Flip the script.

Head on over to New York Magazine and check out Steve Fishman’s takeout piece on Alex Rodriguez:

Since his character is part of the story, Rodriguez wanted me to talk to a character witness, and his choice was an odd one: Cynthia, his ex-wife. “You’re going to love her. She’s an amazing lady. I love her to pieces,” he said, “and she’s one of my best friends.”

Cynthia met me in a café in Coconut Grove and then a second time in the elegant though hardly ostentatious home she designed on Biscayne Bay. She’s not just toned but muscular, an attractive, petite blonde with smooth skin and piercing eyes and two bright diamond earrings. She met Rodriguez when he was 21 and she was 22. She wasn’t a sports fan. He told her he played baseball. “That’s great, but what do you really do?” she’d said. Cynthia is a traditional girl from a close-knit, religious family who lived a few blocks from her parents for a time—and she was a college graduate, which impressed Rodriguez. She’d earned a master’s degree in psychology and had practiced as a therapist.

She had every reason in the world to dislike Rodriguez. He’d humiliated her in the press; there were reports of Madonna and Rodriguez together shortly after the birth of their second child. But five years later—they divorced in 2008—she simply said, “I was disappointed.” She still esteems him. In the aftermath of the separation, he was generous and thoughtful. “He really made sure that everything was taken care of,” she told me. “It was a very nurturing process.” For her, that wasn’t an exception. “I saw something in him that I still see in him, and what I see is still very good.”

But she also sees damage. She spooled out the now-familiar story as to its causes. His father left the family when Alex was 10; he lived with his mother and lost touch with his father. The absence of a father made him the man of the house, big pressure for a teenager. “I was in a full sprint to make sure my mother never worked again,” he said.

Rodriguez’s success added to the emotional distortion. “Everything was about growing him as a baseball player,” Cynthia said. “He wasn’t learning anything but how to hit the fastball.

“What happens to everything else? It’s stunted, completely.” Without an authority figure, he listened willy-nilly to the advice of whoever was with him at the time.

“I used to say to Alex, ‘Don’t you just know what to do? Don’t you just have that voice in your head that tells you?’ He said, ‘No. I don’t.’ I think, looking back, he was probably uncomfortable with his place in the world.”

Later, when their marriage was crumbling, Cynthia thought a lot about Rodriguez’s issues. One day, she ran into Cal Ripken, one of his baseball heroes and a friend.

“What is it about Alex that I’m not seeing?” she asked Ripken. “What is it that I don’t get?”

“Cynthia, let me tell you the problem,” he said, and told her a story. “I might be wearing a suit, and Alex will see me and say, ‘Cal, I love your suit. Where did you get that suit?’ Then somebody else might walk in the locker room, and they have a completely different kind of suit on. And Alex might say, ‘Hey, I love your suit.’

“Cynthia, he tries to please everyone. That’s the problem.”

Rodriguez would often be charged with insincerity, but Cynthia didn’t see it that way. “He’s trying to say the right thing, trying to fit in. I would say immature, not insincere.”

[Photo Via: USA Today]

“Number 8” By Mark Rothko (1952)

The Yanks have traded Chris Stewart to the Pirates for a player to be named later. Mike Axisa has the skinny.

Back-up catchers come and go and they tend to blur together in memory but Stewart was taut and hard–a prototype. Couldn’t hit but then again if he could he’d be a starting catcher. I enjoyed watching him work behind the plate. He has the GRRRRR that you want from a veteran catcher. Wish him well in Pittsburgh.

[Photo Credit: AP]

This 1981 photograph by Irving Penn makes me hungry.

Hey all, welcome back to another edition of Where & When.  I have a pretty easy one for you this time, one with a view you’ve possibly seen before.  Imagining the scale of this edifice is to imagine a vast repository of natural effects; or at least the end game for the run-off…

This reminds me of one of my favorite towns that I lived in when I was growing up.  I’m making a gallery of pictures I took on a trip up there this summer, in fact; anyone whose interested should just click on my screen name for updates.  In the meantime, why don’t you dive into this challenge and seek out the name of this structure, the year it was built and when it was taken down (for whatever stands in it’s place today).  Knowing that much will give you a good idea of the actual size of this structure.  Bonus if you know of a similar structure that currently resides within city limits and can provide a link to a picture.

A truckload of Old Colony for the first person with the right answers and a Spring Grove for the rest of us who follow.  Leave your answers and recollections in the comments and we’ll talk again in the afternoon.  Happy Trails!

[Photo credit: syscosteve]

This was a defining question for many years. By nature, I’m a Stones person. But I also love the Beatles. And I’m too grown to pick one over the other. They’re both great for very different reasons.