Carrie Bradshaw’s Apartment Drives Me Nuts

Is it just me, or is Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment the lava lamp of TV dives?

Sex and the City” is on all the time and, like a lot of idiots, I still watch it. The characters are ridiculous — basically, they’re female gay men. And their intensely scrutinized fashions are interesting, I suppose, in a hookery kind of way, but they’re mostly not clothes real New York women ever wore (except hookers). Officially my excuse for watching is how much I love seeing pre-9/11 New York (ie, my New York). That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway, it’s amazing all the extra SATC details you notice when you already know what’s going to happen and can ignore the clothes and plot, such as it is.

Yes, I’m talking about Carrie’s Tardis-like apartment. First of all, it makes me crazy that it’s ten feet wider inside than outside. And the entry is in a place where a stairway to connect it to the street entrance would result in eight-foot-wide apartments. As you can see in the totally unauthorized schematic below, the stairway (A) is on the right side (technically, it’s in another building according to this). Tragically, the ground floor entrance (B) is all the way on the diagonally opposed corner of the building.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

apartment layout

Wait, don’t go away! There’s more:

The hall outside the apartment. When Carrie’s apartment door is open, the landing (A) is visible from inside; sometimes it runs to the right, sometimes to the left (TV show). Sometimes it runs both ways (first movie; refer to the party scene, dig the coat check). Sometimes there’s a second door on the landing (another apartment? a janitor’s closet? below, left). Sometimes a bicycle is crashed into it (below, right).

outer hallway 2 views with bike

Sometimes there’s a table in the hall, blocking the second door. Sometimes the table is down the hall, with a lamp illuminating the stairs in the building next door (below, left). Sometimes the hall has a window (below, right). So is that an exterior wall (making the building 28 feet deep — btw, not gonna happen in a NYC brownstone) or an interior wall with an apartment window overlooking a hallway (and if so, dear god why?)?

Carrie's hallway

And why is Carrie’s door on that side of the apartment to begin with? Has the designer ever even BEEN inside a New York City brownstone? Does Carrie walk through other peoples’ apartments to get to hers, or go up the fire escape, or what?

The kitchen. To the left of the refrigerator are wall shelves. Sometimes. Sometimes, no shelves. Sometimes there’s a wine rack, or a microwave, or both. Sometimes, just a bigass blank wall over the counter. Occasional kitchen shots were made by a camera in that space — remember when Aidan cooked fajitas, or Aleksandr pulverized a mouse? — so it’s really a giant hole covered with a movable wall to allow shooting from the bathroom.

Aleksandr kills a mouse

That solves one mystery, yay. But it doesn’t explain all the other shit in that kitchen that keeps changing for no reason. Like the incredible retracting wall (below):

entry hall magic wall

The bathroom. Sometimes there’s a window over the bath. Sometimes nope. Sometimes it’s big, sometimes itty bitty. And FFS why is there any window in a masonry wall between two buildings? Sometimes there’s an air shaft window (anyway, I think it’s an air shaft, which actually makes sense, see photo below, right) on the other side of the room. But sometimes not. Sometimes the door on the air shaft side of the bathroom opens on the right, other times on the left. Sometimes the bathtub has a shower and a curtain (S3, E2). Sometimes it’s just a tub with a curtain (S3, E6). Or no curtain. And then goes back to being a shower (S4, E1 and E15).

3 windows in the bath

Fun fact! The window over the tub doubles as a peephole for a camera to capture waterlogged drama like this:

Bonus Bathroom WTF! Carrie’s bathroom is also Miranda’s bathroom (S4, E7 and below). HBO didn’t have enough budget for a different bathroom? I can’t even.

Miranda's bathroom

The bedroom. Sometime between the TV show and the first movie, the headboard wall shrunk four feet. Originally there was a radiator there, too, then no radiator. You’re saying Carrie just moved it, right? Seriously? Have you ever TRIED moving a cast iron steam radiator, you ignorant naïf?

Um where the radiator yo?

That pass-through closet. Sometimes it’s eight feet long. Sometimes it’s fifteen. I’m not making this up. LOOK AT IT, DAMMIT!

The addition. What’s up with that? When Carrie’s building went co-op, she and Aidan bought her apartment plus the adjoining one to make one giganto love pad (S4, E16). If Carrie’s building was a standard NYC brownstone, it would be 50 feet deep and could accommodate two Carrie-sized apartments per floor, in a front-to-back direction. But the second apartment Carrie acquired adjoined her bedroom wall (see the architecturally sketchy floor plan above — sorry, it’s the best one I found), effectively putting it in the building next door — not in Carrie’s building, even though Aidan and Carrie and Mrs. Cohen, the vacating tenant, all used the same street entrance.

After Aidan casually busted open a structural masonry wall (a NYC building code and zoning violation, btw), he busted up with Carrie. She bought out his ownership share in the property, and then poof! Where did the addition go?

Aidan busts a move

The wall paint. It’s a different color every episode. Pink, mint, yellow, grey, beige, turquoise, lavender. No contextual explanations, ever, except the one time Carrie painted the place (S1, E 11). The color was an off-white she called eggshell (which is a gloss level, not a color, but whatever). After she finished, the apartment resumed being every color on Home Depot’s oops paint shelf.

Fun Fact! Look at the colors in the photo, above left. Green walls, blue bedskirt, brown curtains, red rug. The bedspread (not shown) is purple. Only someone who’s color blind would decorate that way.

The windows. Sometimes, on the inside, they’re grand mansionesque things. Sometimes they’re tenement-sized double-hung jobs. Outside they have elegant curved tops and mullions, and are just wide enough to hold a window air conditioner. Inside: flat tops, no mullions, no AC. What the hell kind of set designer thinks: The windows are 24″x48″ so I’ll make them 48″x72″!? Yeesh. Outside the windows are two feet apart. Inside, eight feet, give or take; it varies. Sometimes the apartment has three windows inside, sometimes only two. Seriously, how many damned sets were there?

interior versus exterior windows

Fun Fact! As bad as all this is, the first Carrie’s Apartment (only shown in the series pilot, and below) looked like the inside of a self-storage unit.

Carrie's first apartment

Huh? Just because the exterior of Carrie’s building was in the West Village and the inside was a traveling circus, that’s no excuse. I read that the Carrie’s Apartment set was on a sound stage in Los Angeles. I also read that it was in Long Island City. I also dimly recall reading that the original LIC set was struck and rebuilt, maybe when production moved into, or out of, the bread factory. I also understand how Carrie’s Apartment may well have comprised several separate sets at any given time, to better accommodate filming. All of which explains a lot, if not everything. But still, WTF?

Carrie and Big

Text Copyright © 2018 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All Rights Reserved
Photos Copyright © 2018 HBO/Warner Bros. Television/Darren Star Productions except where otherwise noted.

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

Dead SpotSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

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Celebs Behaving Badly: Random Artsy Fartsies Edition

Lucky you! Here’s another entry in the gossip marathon I call a memoir, Celebs Behaving Badly. Be sure to see Celebs Behaving Badly, Celebs Behaving Badly: New York City Edition, and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.

Copyright © 2018 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

 

The Fabulous Stains

I went to California Institute of the Arts. It’s an experience I can’t believe I survived. They really didn’t care what anyone did as long as no one got killed.

My dorm suitemate was Megan Anderson, an actor (I think). Megan was constantly screaming at someone, “Don’t call me Meg-un! It’s Meeg-an!”

Don’t-Call-Me-Meg-un had a large collection of Jacques Brel records (quel bore) and a best friend, Randall Edwards (she’s a girl). Randall’s very good friend was Ed Harris (definitely not a girl).

Randall was a crazed Bruce Lee fan. She would frequently explode into my room, ranting passionate declarations of love for Bruce, who alas was unavailable. She was inconsolable when he died without her permission. I finally had to move out of the dorm. Randall became a soap star. Megan’s probably on a street corner, yelling at people.

But back to Ed. He and Randall had no place to go to run lines or whatever, so they often used Megan’s room that adjoined my bathroom, a raging vortex of inappropriate sounds. Ed was no Bruce Lee, but he was certainly one superfine hunk of manflesh. There must’ve been some chopsocky cosplay going on. A lot of weird noises emanated from that place. Also a lot of used condoms.

Ed Harris. Photo Copyright © 2018 WallpapersDSC.net

Ed Harris. Photo Copyright © 2018 WallpapersDSC.net

 

Illya-cracy

CalArts rents itself out to a lot of TV shows and movies as a set. Officially the reason is to impart firsthand knowledge to students about TV/film production, but really the school just wants money. One of the shows that shot there was “The Invisible Man” starring David McCallum.

Let me just say this: I adore David McCallum. “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” is one of my all-time favorite TV shows (I own the entire boxed set), and I never miss  “NCIS.” I watch The Great Escape every time it’s on TV. I’ll even watch that one “Sex And The City” with him in it. Love love loves me some David McCallum!

Photo copyright © Sydney Schuster

Photo copyright © 2018 Sydney Schuster

But back to CalArts. While the alleged purpose of whoring itself out to Hollywood is to provide students with filmcraft knowledge, we were nevertheless banned from “Invisible Man” sets. I guess they were trying to protect their super secret technology from people who were about to make Star Wars: Episode IV and “Star Trek: TNG.” Or maybe McCallum had suffered more than enough frothing teens during his U.N.C.L.E. tenure. Whatever. We never even saw him just walking around the place. I mean, everybody goes to the can sometime, right?

Anyway, one day I learned McCallum was secretly stashed in an empty conference room, secretly waiting to go onto his secret set.

A guerrilla paparazza even back then, I barged in with my Instamatic.

I was shocked to find McCallum alone in the room, sitting quietly in an old lounge chair, wearing the show’s “secret technology” — a Chromakey mummy suit. Basically the same “secret technology” that suffocated original Invisible Man Claude Rains in 1933.

I clicked away at my hapless idol. And then my mummy spoke to me.

“Your pictures won’t come out without a flash.”

I was ecstatic! And then I fled before someone could throw me out. (And yes, my pictures came out black.)

Bonus points: I also got to meet the legendary Jackie Cooper, who was just walking around the place like a regular person. He played Walter Carlson on the show before Peter Gunn took over the role. Cooper was very kind and nice, although he did have a deer-in-the-headlights look, probably because everyone else wanted to meet him, too, all at the same time. Who wouldn’t?

David McCallum in “The Invisible Man.” Copyright © 1975 Dynamite Magazine

David McCallum in “The Invisible Man.” Copyright © 1975 Dynamite Magazine

Illya Kuryakin on a mission.

Illya Kuryakin on a mission.

 

Training Wheels for Harleys

A while back I posted a 1991 piece I wrote for Spy Magazine, “Doesn’t Harley-Davidson Make Training Wheels?” It’s about celebs who own bikes and could benefit from some technical support.

For everyone wrapped in the cozy delusion that Harleys do not, in fact, come with training wheels, boy are you wrong.

The rig pictured here was designed and executed by Chas Smith, Welder to the Stars. He builds musical instruments, movie sets, recording studios, and massive sculptures for superstar artists (Paul McCarthy, Nancy Rubins, Mike Kelley, Chris Burden). He also masterminded the learner’s aid for the birotationally challenged that’s pictured below.

In the Not For Nothing Department: Yes, Harley training wheels do exist!

In the Not For Nothing Department: Yes, Harley training wheels do exist!

Photo Copyright © 2018 Chas Smith

Photo Copyright © 2018 Chas Smith

Chas explains: “Years ago I made these for a Levi’s commercial directed by Ridley Scott, where the lead had to ride a Harley and had never done so. He was going to ride the bike out of an elevator, onto Wall Street, and across a bridge with a babe on the back, and they had to be capable of doing 35 mph.”

Why didn’t Ridley Scott just hire an actor who could drive a motorcycle, you may well wonder. I sure as heck did.

So did Chas. “My first question was: ‘Why not get someone who can ride?’ And the answer was: ‘This is the guy who’s going to sell the product.'” The product being, I guess, pants for losers.

On the bright side, Chas says, “Easyriders was going to do an April Fools article on this, but it was too contrary to the Harley image.”

Below is the TV commercial. Enjoy!

PS — Chas’s own ride is a Moto Guzzi, with just the two wheels.

Photos Copyright © 2018 Chas Smith

 

Summer Exchange

Back when I was 17 I spent a summer in San Diego that I’m still trying to forget.

San Diego had a new nightclub called Earth. (No, really, just “Earth.” And had they known how hard it would one day be to google that, they’d have named it anything else.) Earth was short on emergency exits but had many enormous custom fish tanks and live-edge wood tables with embedded art under 87 coats of polyurethane. Ah, the ’70s!

The people I was staying with knew the people who were doing Earth’s light shows (remember those? lol), so we got in for free the night Ry Cooder performed. Opening for him was Elvin Bishop. That is, Bishop was supposed to open for Cooder, if he ever showed up. Dude was late late late.

No one knew why. The place was jammed with customers, all of them pissed. Not a good look for a new club. I don’t think there was even canned music playing while they waited and waited, drunk and confused.

Eventually Elvin blew in with his retinue like he was Elvis. Someone thought this a good time for him to meet the hot jailbait who somehow managed to sneak in, I guess because he wasn’t late enough already.

Next thing you know, people are pushing me at him and buzzing around excitedly, and he drools toward me and goes “Blah blah blah!” I wiped everyone off me and I sez to him, “Jeez, where the heck were you?”

Good show though. Late, but good.

Elvin Bishop. Photo Copyright © 2018 Raymond Boyd/Getty Images

Elvin Bishop. Photo Copyright © 2018 Raymond Boyd/Getty Images

 

All Kindsa Rolling

In the ’80s I hung out at the most fly bicycle store in New York City (or anywhere), Conrad’s Bike Shop. Back then it was owned by Conrad and Sarah Weiss, who were rock stars in the bikie world. It’s still there, in Tudor City, selling great bikes. The tech wiz who built everyone’s bikes, John Tsang, owns it now. Stop by sometime.

Back when Sarah was still the overlord, everyone knew her. She introduced me to Tour de France champ Eddy Merckx like they were old beer buds. She was equally chill around showbiz royalty. “Bob Weir was here today,” she announced drolly as I stumbled in, sweaty and traffic-addled. “You just missed him.”

So I was shocked the day she greeted me with something disquietingly unSarah-like. Not the usual “You again?” or “Don’t lean your bike on that!”

“Tell her,” is what she said.

Huh? Tell who what? I looked around.

Lurking nearby was Rolling Stone‘s photographer Annie Leibovitz. “Tell her what a good bike she got,” Sarah begged me.

Annie was there to pick up the high-end ride she’d ordered. It had a hand-built Italian frame, if memory serves, magnificently assembled with top-shelf components. That’s what Conrad’s does and why Sarah is famous. Annie was having second thoughts about it.

Apparently she was unconvinced it was something that should cost thousands of dollars. And Sarah, she was quietly panicking. A custom bike wasn’t something you returned to the manufacturer for a refund on account of buyer’s remorse. So she drafted an expert explainer. Me, the gonzo columnist for Bicycle Guide magazine.

I assured Annie it was indeed a splendid bike, which it absolutely was — certainly way better than I could ever afford or I would’ve yelled DAMN, GIRL, IF YOU DON’T WANT THAT I’LL TAKE IT! — and worth every dime Sarah was wringing out of her.

Annie left happy and Sarah seemed as cheerful as was possible for Sarah, being relieved that she wouldn’t have to part out Annie Leibovitz’s dream bike.

Copyright © 2018 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Dead Spot: The Author Interview

It must be karma. As a lifelong half-assed celebrity, I’ve been asked for interviews. And I always just kinda went “Gah!” because I never wanted to be at the mercy of someone like me. Then in 2011 I published a bangin’ rock’n’roll mystery novel called Dead Spot, which somebody should’ve interviewed me about by now but hasn’t. Screw ’em, um doing it my damn self. Here ya go!

As a lifelong half-assed celebrity, I've been asked for interviews. And I always just kinda went "Gah!" because I never wanted to be at the mercy of someone like me. Then in 2011 I published a bangin' mystery rock'n'roll novel called Dead Spot, which somebody should've interviewed me about by now but they haven't. Screw 'em, um doing it my damn self. Here ya go! Dead Spot: The Author Interview Q Is Dead Spot a roman a clef? A Hahaha! No. But the Nona character is kind of a worst-case-scenario me. I'd personally never murder anyone, but Nona would if I could've worked it into the storyline. Q So, no chicken bombs for you? Hoses through mailslots? A No, sorry. Although back when you could mail stuff COD without a return address, I did send an asshole a brick. Q Your characters are ... quite realistic, and shady as hell. What fundamentally motivates them? A It changed over time. This book reads like a romp but actually took ten years to write. During the first draft, I was reading Margaret Atwood and it showed. My characters were moribund. I decided Nona would be way more fun and lovable if her actions were driven by amorality rather than self-righteousness. So I fixed her in the rewrite. Q When you were a kid, did you ever go on fun road trips with your dad, like Nona did? A Nah. My father was a small business owner. He didn't have time for crap like that. He was pretty cool, though. His mostest prized possession was a cherrypicker. I wanted to drive it but he wouldn't let me. Q Are any of Dead Spot's other characters based on real people? A Let's put it this way: Most of my friends have been musicians. My first and last boyfriends were musicians. I went to a college for musicians. I wrote about wedding bands for magazines, and nightclubs for newspapers. I've hung around musicians my whole life. Today I have two kinds of friends: musicians who're mad at me because they think they're in Dead Spot, and musicians who're mad because they aren't. Q Play any musical instruments yourself? A I used to. Guitar, clarinet, piano, gangsa, and gong, when gangsa didn't work out. As a kid I was in the all-city orchestra, and assorted school bands, and a gamelan. I actually used to could read and write music, but mostly I butchered it. Q What about singing? A Lol. I was in school choirs and stuff. And briefly in a pop duo with a friend who was good enough to become a professional opera singer. I was good enough to become a pulp fiction writer. Although this one time at karaoke I hit a note only dogs could hear, and some drunks in the back went nuts. Not sure that counts. Q Ever get into a slam at a Ramones show? A Maybe. Q A running theme in Dead Spot is vintage guitars. You seem to know a lot about them. Do you got any? A Nah. I had a lot of help with that. A couple of guys I know are into collecting, big league. They're really incapable of talking about anything else. Q What about vintage motorcycles? A Thems I know. I used to write about vintage bikes for magazines. Old Bike Journal, Classic Cycle Review. Q Do you ride motorcycles? A Yup. Q Wrench them? A Yup. Q Ever get a speeding ticket? A Duh Q What was your inspiration for Dead Spot's epic vehicular chase? A I've carried many annoying passengers. Plus I was followed and threatened a lot. See, if you have a bike, you make a lot of friends. My scoot got pushed over and set on fire. I've been front ended, rear ended, and doored. One time I hopped a curb to avoid a traffic jam and got chased by the international police, because it turned out the sidewalk I was driving on was the UN's. Put them all together, they spell mofo. Q Nice. So what's your journalism background? A I started out writing features on culture and sports for Spy, the Village Voice, Bicycle Guide, and a gazillion other magazines. Then I did a handbrake turn into medical writing and editing in the fields of radiology, pharma, and sports medicine. I was also a business editor at Harvard. And an algebra books editor. Don't even ask. Q Did you ever do any of the wild stuff Nona does to get a story? A Ermagerd, no! I never secretly stalked people or hid in anyone's bushes or broke into houses. Not that I didn't want to. I always boringly went through proper channels and requested interviews, or my editors set them up. When I got the interview, great; when I didn't, screw 'em. Nona, she snapped. Me, I just moved along. Q What was the sketchiest journalism thing you ever did? A Faked my way into a sold-out Meat Loaf concert in the 1970s. I told his publicity office I wanted to cover it for a music magazine. The magazine belonged to a friend of mine in California. It was about electronic music and they didn't give two poops about Meat Loaf, plus this was five years before I wrote for magazines for real. My friend covered for me, though; he's a sweetie pie. In the end I did do a write-up that I submitted over the transom to some other mags, but they didn't want it, either. Anyway, Loaf sent a messenger to my apartment with two tickets to his sold-out show. Then he overnighted two more tickets for another show that I didn't even ask for. This was when Karla DeVito worked with him; I would've paid double just to see her. Great shows. Madison Square Garden and Nassau Coliseum, oxygen tanks and all. Q So, did you get to meet Mr. Loaf? A Honestly, it was too big of a clusterfuck even for me. Huge venues, hundreds of people fighting for his attention, long lines, explanations, etc. He lived in New York at the time and if I really wanted to meet him, it was easier to just pick up a box of Twinkies and ring his doorbell. Q What was different in the last millennium about investigative reporting? A Before cell phones, if you had to reach anyone in a big stinkin' hurry, first you had to find a pay phone that wasn't broken. Then you had to wait on a line to use it. Then you needed change, sometimes LOTS of change. It often ended badly. The other thing was availability of information. In 1990, when Dead Spot takes place, there was no internet, or electronic information databases accessible from your TRS-80. Like, if you wanted to know who owned a property or business, you had to go to the city buildings department or call the secretary of state's office. You couldn't search criminal records from your couch. People didn't have websites. You couldn't just fire off an email to someone you wanted to talk to. You had to get their phone number or snailmail addy somehow. I had bookshelves full of dead trees reference books, a closet full of phone books from everywhere, a Rolodex the size of Queens. Q How about sports? In Dead Spot, Nona participates in the New York City Marathon. On her bike. Ever involved in any sports yourself, beyond armchair coaching? A Yeah. I was a bicycle racing official for two wild, twisted decades. It's more corrupt than you can possibly imagine. The US cycling federation had institutionalized doping programs, rigged drug testing, an inscrutable ranking system, pandemic cheating, payola scandals, and a pedophile CEO. Oh, and they were ginormous misogynists. Good times! Q If you hadn't become a writer, what would you be now? A A courtroom artist. Or a bookie. Or a barfly. Q Do you drink tequila? A Depends. You buying?

Q Great book! Is Dead Spot a roman à clef?
A Hahaha! No. But the Nona character is kind of a worst-case-scenario me. I’d personally never murder anyone, but Nona would if I could’ve worked it into the story line.

Q So, no chicken bombs for you? Hoses through mail slots?
A No, sorry. Although back when you could mail stuff COD without a return address, I did send an asshole a brick.

Q Your characters are … quite realistic, and shady as hell. What fundamentally motivates them?
A It changed over time. This book reads like a romp but actually took ten years to write. When I began I was reading Margaret Atwood and it showed. My characters were moribund. I decided Nona would be way more fun and lovable if her actions were driven by amorality rather than self-righteousness. So I fixed her in the rewrite.

Q Are any of Dead Spot‘s other characters based on real people?
A Let’s put it this way: Most of my friends have been musicians. My first and last boyfriends were musicians. I went to a college for musicians. I wrote about wedding bands for magazines, and nightclubs for newspapers. I’ve hung around musicians my whole life. Today I have two kinds of friends: musicians who’re mad at me because they think they’re in Dead Spot, and musicians who’re mad because they aren’t.

Q Play any musical instruments yourself?
A I used to. Guitar, clarinet, piano, gangsa, and gong, when gangsa didn’t work out. As a kid I was in the all-city orchestra, and assorted school bands, and a gamelan. I actually used to could read and write music, but mostly I butchered it.

Q What about singing?
A Lol. I was in school choirs and stuff. And briefly in a pop duo with a friend who was good enough to become a professional opera singer. I was good enough to become a pulp fiction writer. Although this one time at karaoke I hit a note only dogs could hear, and some drunks in the back went nuts. Not sure that counts.

Q Ever do any songwriting?
A Only the songs in Dead Spot. Originally I wanted to use snippets of famous songs, but it cost too much so I wrote my own. They’re kind of “Rocky Horror Show”-ish. You can blame Bruce Springsteen for that. I had contacted his rep about quoting half of one verse from “Darkness on the Edge of Town.” The rep said, “Okay, we charge a per-run fee based on the number of copies. How many are you printing?”
Me: “None. It’s an ebook.”
Him: “Well, how many will you sell?”
Me: “If I’m lucky, five.”
Seriously, I don’t know which is more pathetic — being a twenty-first century publishing lawyer who doesn’t know about electronic publishing, or being hosed by one. In the end I used the lyric anyway and dodged the fee by… Oh, just read the book.

Q Ever get into a slam at a Ramones show?
A Maybe.

Q A running theme in Dead Spot is vintage guitars. You seem to know a lot about them. Do you got any?
A Nah. I had a lot of help with that. A couple of guys I know are into collecting, big time. They’re really incapable of talking about anything else.

Q What about vintage motorcycles? There are lots of those in Dead Spot, too.
A Thems I know. I used to write about vintage bikes for magazines. Old Bike Journal, Classic Cycle Review. They’re out of business now, but not because of me.

Q Do you ride motorcycles?
A Yup.

Q Wrench them?
A Yup.

Q Ever get a speeding ticket?
A Duh.

Q What was your inspiration for Dead Spot‘s epic vehicular chase?
A I’ve carried many annoying passengers. Plus I was followed and threatened a lot. See, if you have a bike, you make a lot of friends. My scoot got pushed over and set on fire. I’ve been front ended, rear ended, sideswiped, doored, and maced. One time I hopped a curb to avoid a traffic jam and got chased by international police, because it turned out the sidewalk I was driving on was the UN’s. I was never shot at, but there’s still time.

Q When you were a kid, did you ever go on fun road trips with your dad, like Nona did?
A Nah. My father was a small business owner. He didn’t have time for crap like that. He was pretty cool, though. He restored a Hudson Hornet and built motorized model planes. The planes took up a lot of his time because they crashed a lot. His mostest prized possession was a bucket truck. I wanted to drive it but he wouldn’t let me.

Q Bummer. So what’s your journalism background?
A I started out writing features on culture and sports for Spy, the Village Voice, Bicycle Guide, and a gazillion other magazines. Then I did a handbrake turn into medical writing and editing in the fields of radiology, pharma, and sports medicine. I was also a business editor at Harvard. And an algebra books editor. Don’t even ask.

Q Did you ever do any of the wild stuff Nona does to get a story?
A Ermagerd, no! I never secretly stalked people or hid in anyone’s bushes or broke into houses. Not that I didn’t want to. I always boringly went through proper channels and requested interviews, or my editors set them up. When I got the interview, great; when I didn’t, screw ’em, I just called someone else.

Q What was the sketchiest journalism thing you ever did?
A Faked my way into a sold-out Meat Loaf concert in the 1970s. I told his publicity office I wanted to cover it for a music magazine. The magazine belonged to a friend of mine in California. It was about electronic music and they didn’t give two poops about Meat Loaf, plus this was years before I wrote for magazines for real. My friend covered for me, though; he’s a sweetie pie. In the end I did do a write-up and submitted it over the transom to some other mags that didn’t want it, either. Anyway, Loaf sent a messenger to my apartment with two tickets to his sold-out show. Then he overnighted two more tickets for another show that I didn’t even ask for. This was when Karla DeVito worked with him. I would’ve paid double just to see her. Great shows. Madison Square Garden and Nassau Coliseum, oxygen tanks and all.

Q So, did you get to meet Mr. Loaf?
A Honestly, it was too big of a cl∪sterf∪ck even for me. Huge venues, hundreds of people fighting for his attention, long lines, spurious explanations, etc. He lived in New York at the time and so did I; if I really wanted to meet him, it was easier to just pick up a box of Twinkies and go ring his doorbell.

Q What was different in the last millennium about investigative reporting?
A Before cell phones, if you had to reach anyone in a big stinkin’ hurry, first you had to find a pay phone that wasn’t broken and wait on a line to use it. The phone books were always stolen or ripped up. And you needed change, sometimes LOTS of change. It often ended badly. Fortunately lead times were months then, not minutes like today. The other thing was availability of information. In 1990, when Dead Spot takes place, there was no internet, or electronic information databases accessible from your TRS-80. Like, if you wanted to know who owned a property or business, you had to go to the city buildings department or call the secretary of state’s office. If you needed old magazine articles or out-of-town newspapers, you went to the library. You couldn’t search criminal records from your couch. People didn’t have websites. You couldn’t just fire off an email to someone you wanted to talk to. You had to get their phone number or snailmail addy somehow. I had mountains of dead-trees phone books from everywhere and a Rolodex the size of Queens.

Q How about sports? In Dead Spot, Nona participates in the New York City Marathon. On her bike. Ever involved in any sports yourself, beyond armchair coaching?
A Yeah. I was a bicycle racing official for two wild, twisted decades. It’s more corrupt than you can possibly imagine. The US cycling federation had institutionalized doping programs, rigged drug testing, an inscrutable ranking system, pandemic cheating, payola scandals, and a pedophile CEO. Oh, and they were ginormous misogynists. Good times!

Q If you hadn’t become a writer, what would you be now?
A A courtroom artist. Or a bookie. Or a barfly.

Q Do you drink tequila?
A Depends. You buying?

Copyright © 2018 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.
DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

 

 

 

 

The Assassination of Gianni Versace — American Crime Story on FX | My Review

A prime time product placement bonanza.

Are you watching American Crime Story‘s The Assassination of Gianni Versace on FX?

Okay, this thing is, like, nonstop advertising in nine 76-minute parts. Holy shit! I clocked a gratuitous product pitch for branded consumables — cars, clothes, jewelry, food, drugs, booze, duct tape, tchotchkes — every 37 seconds. It makes Sex and the City look subtle. I was so exhausted by the end of Episode 2, I couldn’t watch any more. I hope everything turned out okay.

Also, does it bother anyone else that three quarters of the main characters (Gianni, Donatella, Antonio), all Italians, are played by a Venezuelan, a Spaniard, and a Puerto Rican (respectively Edgar Ramírez, Penélope Cruz, and Ricky Martin)? I mean, they’re great performances as these things go, but really? No actual Italians were available? Or even Maya Rudolph? They were able to find plenty of Italians to play Puerto Ricans in West Side Story. What the AF?

And seriously, the psychology of this thing is so whack, no wonder Versace’s family is pissed off. Serial killer Andy Cunanan is portrayed (by Darren Criss, exquisitely) as a shallow, ingenuous, flaky, lying, penniless, druggie, murdery, wife-beater-shirtey psycho gigolo, which he maybe was. But Versace — savvy enough to build a giant luxury fashion empire, handsome and rich enough to have any man he wanted — he found that irresistible? Computer says no. (Maureen Orth, author of the source book for the show, says they met once, briefly, in a San Francisco club in 1990. Antonio D’Amico claims Versace and Cunanan never met at all. Well, except the one time.)

Also, every time the action slows down, the show cuts to an insert of Cunanan running up to Versace’s bordello — oops, I mean villa — with a gun. Every time. Relevant or not. C’mon. That’s all’s they got?

Plus one more thing: This allegedly classy Miami Beach villa (in fact, the one where Versace actually lived and arguably the biggest product plug of all, after the shmatahs) is a Disneyesque McMansion snuggled between two fleabag hotels and Lummus Park, the site of countless perp tackles on Miami Vice. Quel trashy!

It reminds me of the 16th century travesty built by Henry VIII, Nonsuch Palace,  a rich boor’s interpretation of Florentine Renaissance architecture. It was offloaded by Henry’s heirs in a fire sale to the first sucker who came along, and eventually dismantled and sold for parts.

Fun Facts!
● In 2013 Villa Versace was sold at a bankruptcy auction for $41.5 million, after failing to sell on FSBO.com or wherever for the original asking price of $125 million.
● The second-highest bidder was Donald Trump. If you think it’s bad now, imagine what might have been.
● According to Vanity Fair, the garish interiors I just complained about aren’t in the actual villa but are “meticulous re-creations” on a Los Angeles soundstage. Gack!
● The villa’s a hotel today. Yelp reviewers say the restaurant’s staff is rude and the food rivals the decor in tastelessness. Pretty much tells you everything you need to know.

Anyway, ACS is framing Versace as a world-class arbiter of taste who was attracted to mindless users and lived in this tacky crapfest. Give me a break.

Versace mansion. Photo © Night Fine Art Miami Beach

Versace mansion. Photo © Night Fine Art Miami Beach

 

The Versace curve: Safety-pinned dress on Liz Hurley in the Gianni era, 1994 (left). Assortment of scarves and glue on J-Lo in the Donatella era, 2000 (right).

The Versace curve: Potholders safety-pinned onto Liz Hurley in the Gianni era, 1994 (left). Assortment of scarves glued onto J-Lo in the Donatella era, 2000 (right).

I watched this show because 2016’s Emmy-winning The People V. O.J. Simpson by the same folks was da bomb. I wanted desperately to love this one, too. You know what? I’m genuinely sorry about what happened to Versace; his stuff was okay enough, certainly not deserving of getting his head blown off. But that being said, I always considered him the poor man’s Armani. And if that needs an explanation, then The Assassination of Gianni Versace is perfect.

Gross A Goofy Movie GIF

 

Copyright © 2018 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.
DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Gotham’s Dynamic Duo | Al Toefield, Lou Maltese, and New York City Bike Racing

Originally I wrote this for the July 1986 issue of Bicycle Guide Magazine. This version is slightly different. It’s shorter. And better. You’re welcome.

I have not updated any time references. “Last year” means 1985, “four years ago” means 1982, etc. There was no internet or cable then, and the only bike racing on TV was the Tour de France. This story is based on personal interviews with Al Toefield and Lou Maltese conducted in 1986. They died in 1989 and never, ever got enough credit for what they contributed to the sport of bicycle racing. That’s why I’m posting this. Thank you, Lou Maltese and Al Toefield.

Copyright ©2017 ©1986 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

New York is a city of five boroughs and two cycling czars. In the battle of nerves that is Big Apple bicycle racing, Lou Maltese and Al Toefield never blink.

Lou Maltese and Al Toefield each have respected racing clubs in New York City. Both were track racing fiends in their youth, and both love to organize big-time racing events. Before there was ever a Coors Classic, before the Colorado World’s Championship was even a gleam in the USCF’s eye, Maltese and Toefield were showing Americans what a real race is all about. There the resemblance ends and the fireworks begin.

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Depending on whom you ask, the reputation of Lou Maltese’s Century Road Club (CRC) Association ranges from Olympic cadet school to marauding band of rowdies. You can’t be the oldest and perhaps largest racing club in the country without developing a certain cachet. The CRC has been raising dust and more since it was founded in 1898 by Charles P. Staubach.

Central Park is the domain of Lou Maltese and the CRC, as it has been since 1963. Before that he ruled Grand Concourse in the Bronx and Harlem Speedway. When he set his sights on Central Park, it was a rough start.

His storied nemesis was legendary civic builder Robert Moses. A colossal asshole with an ego to match, Moses was the State Council of Parks chairman, Long Island State Parks Commission president, NYC Parks Commissioner, New York State Power Authority chairman, Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority chairman, president of — well, you get the picture. Moses championed a lot of causes. Bicycle racing wasn’t among them.

Says Maltese about Moses’ Central Park welcome wagon: “I used to run like an outlaw. Every once in a while the officials would catch up to us and chase us out of the park.” With time came shifts in city politics. Moses died in 1981 and Maltese holds court every Saturday at the Central Park Boathouse, the de facto CRC headquarters.

Maltese was born in 1907. In his halcyon days he was a record-breaker in 3-mile, 25-mile, and century time trials, holding the 100-mile record for more than 30 years. He first joined a club himself in 1922, qualified for the Olympics but missed selection by a hair, and turned pro in 1928. His specialty was motorpace racing, pedaling 55 mph behind motorcycles on board tracks.

The Great Depression and World War II caused the tracks to fold, and many pros returned to the amateur ranks. Maltese didn’t need to. He took up race promotion, developing a talent that served him as well as his racing skills had.

For 27 years he was Director of National Championships for the Amateur Bicycle League of America (ABLA was renamed the U.S. Cycling Federation in 1975, and USACycling in 1995), organizing thousands of races all over the country. He was responsible for the 1955 National Championships and Olympic qualification trials in 1960, 1964, 1968, and 1972, all held in New York. He ran the monthly races at Astoria Park for years. In the 1930s he joined CRC and now runs the club’s weekly races in Central Park, as well as the annual Memorial Races and Mengoni Grand Prix.

While Central Park is certainly glamorous, he’ll be the first to tell you it’s no picnic running a sane event there. Educating parkgoers is about equivalent to informing a zombie horde they’re about to be flattened by a rabid pack of bombers. “They run down the middle of the road,” says Maltese in despair, “even with baby carriages! You learn how to ride your bike like a cat walks.”

Public use hours of the park are posted on signs all over. But problems exist despite a raft of precautions that include advance cars with loudspeakers, race marshals, road restrictions, and suspension of riders who drift out of the designated race path. And that’s just for training races.

To make things more lively, the southernmost end of the 6.25-mile race circuit is carpeted with emissions from police horses, carriage horses, and the riding academy horses. The racers call it Marlboro Country. And yet a CRC membership card is still the hot ticket in town. Maltese expects to log over 400 members this year.

Most CRC members are male. Female riders are especially difficult to attract to a club, and the CRC’s few are a point of pride for him. He has but one complaint. “Our women get better, then the other clubs steal them away.”

By “other clubs,” he could mean the Nassau Wheelmen way out on Long Island, or maybe Westchester Velo up north, or perhaps the Century Road Club of America over in Jersey (no relation, he’s quick to add). But all of them are virtually inaccessible to people who spend all their money on bikes instead of cars. What he probably means is the only other club whose races you can get to by bike: Kissena.

The monarch of that Queens domain is, of course, Al Toefield, who has a reputation for never forgetting a name, and for dispensing the same quality of advice to geeks as to stars.

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

From where Toefield stands, Maltese’s Central Park operation is more flash than substance, and the CRC serves but one useful purpose: prescreening.

“We turn down an awful lot of people,” he says, referring to CRC defectors. “We’ve found through experience that if they’re frustrated in that club, it means they’re looking for something unrealistic. Eventually they’ll be frustrated with us. We don’t want them.”

In a town where talk is cheap and poseurs are the rule, Toefield has become something of an icon to kids with a dream. His Kissena Cycling Club has a stellar rep for mentoring juniors, and the Kissena Bicycle Shop that he owns is about the only one where a serious racer of modest means can get a competitive bike. It also serves as executive HQ for the 200-member KCC.

A night person, Toefield can be found most evenings fielding phone calls in this tiny place that somehow holds a vast jungle of racing equipment. In a corner hangs one of his old wood-rimmed tires with “Toefield 1972” painted on it in script. It was a good-luck gift the year he went to Munich as chairman of the U.S. Olympic Committee and manager of the Olympic cycling team.

Before that he was the ABLA’s president (1967-1971), and now is the USCF’s first vice president. For the last 12 years he’s been New York State and New York City regional chairman of cycling events for the prestigious Empire State Games. He also ran the Pepsi-Cola Marathon for 12 years, the 1985 Tour of Long Island, and the 1980s Lowenbrau Grand Prix cycling series.

Toefield was born in 1921. He scored his foundational chops during the Great Depression, working as a bicycle messenger for 15 cents an hour and joining school teams. All of them.

“I learned fund raising early by playing as many school sports as possible,” he says of his high school years. “Each coach dispensed lunch on practice days and 25 cents for car fare,” which Toefield squireled away for bicycle equipment purchases. It was a brilliant plan, he says, “except when different teams practiced on the same day.”

By World War II Toefield was burning up the board tracks at the Coney Island Velodrome, the old Madison Square Garden, and the velodrome in Nutley, New Jersey. He joined CRC in the 1950s. His last sprint was in the 1953 Race of Champions at the now-defunct Flushing Meadow track, a six-tenths-mile oval in Queens.

In 1958 he became president of the Eastern Cycling Federation. Now he runs his track races at the Kissena Velodrome in Queens and his road races in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park.

In the battle of nerves, Toefield is a front-liner and beloved folk hero. It serves him well in Prospect Park, a scaled-down version of Central Park bordered by rough neighborhoods and frequented by airheads shambling and biking where they shouldn’t. But it also has a world-class art museum, fine botanical gardens, a big zoo, a skating rink, and a famous ampitheater. Its picturesque race circuit measures three miles and change. Vehicles are prohibited all weekend, and from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily in the summer. But that doesn’t stop some folks.

There’s an oft-told anecdote about a car parked in the middle of the road during one of Toefield’s races. The driver had wormed past a police barricade, then proceeded to ignore warnings from club marshals to leave the park. Toefield, a retired police sergeant with 38 years on the force, approached the party pooper himself. Failing to persuade him to go home by being nice, Toefield produced a revolver. The pooper scrammed.

[Author’s note: Toefield famously tolerated no poopage of any kind in his races. Before motorcycles were commonplace in cycling events, he recruited me to run interference for him on mine. I was impressed at how effective it was to sneak up on hosers and bark in their faces, “Al says get out!” The one time it didn’t work, the perp (an unregistered rider who shouldn’t have been racing) threatened to kill me, which I duly reported. Toefield tore off after the f∪cker in his van. That guy never tried it again.]

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of NY

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of New York

The Kissena Velodrome saga

One of the few things on which the two kingpins agree is the circus surrounding construction of the Kissena Velodrome in Queens.

It was intended to replace the old flat track at Flushing Meadow, the one where Toefield rode his last Race of Champions in 1953. Maltese’s eternal nemesis Robert Moses, who demolished a children’s park to build a parking lot for Tavern on the Green and tried to demolish Greenwich Village to build a highway, now wanted to raze the Flushing track to build the 1964 World’s Fair.

“Many good events, starting in ’55 with the National Championships, were held there,” says Peter Senia Sr., a longtime partner of Toefield and Maltese, former USCF board director, and U.S. team coach for the Pan Am Games and Olympics.

National champion Jack Simes III beat former Olympian Ed Lynch at the Flushing Meadow track for a 1960 US Olympic team spot. Photo Copyright © Jack Simes / Peloton Magazine

National champion Jack Simes III beat former Olympian Ed Lynch at the Flushing Meadow track for a 1960 US Olympic team spot. Photo Copyright © Jack Simes / Peloton Magazine

So while the city was still feeling guilty about depriving the racers of their last velodrome, a deal was struck for a new one. The cycling clubs would raise enough cash to surface it and the city would donate building funds and land — if Toefield and Maltese came back with the money.

And raise cash they did — $10,000. And the Parks Department, who’d expected never to see them again, granted $90,000 and a site for the project after a lot of arm-twisting.

The Parks staff had never seen a banked track, so Maltese had to design the 400-meter Kissena Velodrome himself. The groundbreaking was delayed, however, by bureaucratic red tape; construction prices rose, and with them the cost projections. The city refused to allocate additional funds to meet rising estimates.

[Author’s note: Robert Moses had already built a world-class multi-sports venue on Randall’s Island, Downing Stadium, where he hoped to host Olympics and held bike races in the 1950s. Kissena Velodrome’s construction was likely delayed personally by Moses, who couldn’t have been happy about a rival facility being built.]

According to Toefield, Maltese, and Senia, the city forbade them from privately negotiating with the union contractors who originally bid for the job, and those contractors in turn leaned on other contractors to scare them away.

After years of government sidestepping and relentless perseverance by Toefield and Maltese, the asphalt arena finally got built in 1963 — over a sewer pipeline in a swamp, thanks to the choice parcel donated by the city. Every year the track sinks a bit, requiring extensive repairs. Local racers affectionately call it The Track With A Hill.

To the surprise of no one, Robert Moses took credit for building Kissena Velodrome. It rests but three blocks away from the Kissena Bicycle Shop, and so Toefield assumed maintenance of it (helped by Senia, with the two often paying for and doing repairs themselves) after a falling-out with Maltese that led to the founding of KCC.

That spat started a few years earlier, driven by differences of opinion regarding CRC policy. U.S. junior national champion Perry Metzler, a racer from Brooklyn, was a CRC rider Maltese wouldn’t help. Toefield personally drove Metzler to the 1957 senior nats in Wisconsin, a trip Metzler couldn’t afford to make on his own. Metzler won, becoming the first African-American U.S. amateur national champion.

Rather than abandon CRC’s 1898 charter declaring it a club exclusively for white men, Maltese reportedly told everyone Metzler was a Mexican, a Puerto Rican, or an Indian. By 1963 Toefield had had enough. He started his own club in Queens, KCC, to develop talented young riders of all skintones while Maltese headed to Central Park to get pounded some more by Robert Moses.

Despite the city’s bad behavior and Maltese’s departure, Kissena Velodrome’s season still creaks to life every May, with the faithful arriving on Wednesday nights for racing at dusk.

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Above: Kissena Velodrome in 1975, © Paul Sery. The “hill” is clearly visible at 0:55.

New York City club wars

Club membership in New York City is a microcosm of the general population: You’ve got your schoolkids, your banshees on gaspipe bikes, your affluent Baby Boomers scrounging around for lost youth, your Gen X-ers who are “serious,” at least until they acquire mortgages. The common fabric is racing fever and a unilateral resentment of joggers who think $150 shoes make them athletes.

The mere mention of the New York Road Runners Club is enough to foment a cyclist shitstorm. Founded in 1958 with 47 members, NYRR now has 25,000 members who also have races in Central Park on Saturday mornings, effectively inflating the club’s influence there as well as its sense of property rights.

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

It didn’t take long for the rift between runners and riders to become the biggest undeclared war since Vietnam.

Maltese and Toefield were excited to be awarded the 1960 Olympic cycling trials, scheduled to be held in Central Park. They were unhappy when it took six months to get consent to close the park to cars for four hours. So they organized a coalition of clubs that lobbied the city into closing all parks to cars every weekend. What they had in mind was more bike races. What they got was quite different.

After the weekend car bans began in the late sixties, the Road Runners overran both Central Park and the city’s major events calendar. Says Senia, “They’re allowed to use the park as much as they want. We’re not allowed a permit except once a year” (for the Mengoni race).

[Author’s note: The CRCA was unable for years to obtain city permits for its Saturday morning races, which were held anyway. Maltese called them “training rides with a sprint finish.”]

The NYRR got pretty much the whole city shut down for the 1976 New York City Marathon, while the CRC was ordered to hold their weekend Central Park races at dawn, so as not to inconvenience any runners training for it.

Ask Toefield about the park wars, and he’ll tell you an epic combat story. “A certain corporate mogul and major political contributor likes to run off his hangovers in Central Park. He gets the finger from cyclists. He gets four-letter words shouted at him. They run him off the path — aim at him! And he calls up Eddie [Koch, the mayor]. He calls up Henry [Stern, the Parks Commissioner]. How are you going to fight that?”

Cyclist-versus-runner turf wars rage nonstop. The clubs hate each other, but Maltese denies it. “It’s not the Road Runners Club that gives us any problem. It’s the general public. The runners have one inside lane, and the riders have two outside lanes. The [rest of the] public thinks they own the park.”

Bill Noël, Executive Director of the Road Runners, agrees, explaining how a coalition of eight civic groups is trying to draft ceasefire guidelines and failing utterly. “It’s extremely slow going. It’s very complex. Things that are not very practical are being tossed out on the table.”

Meanwhile, during one particular CRC race, an errant yuppie was plodding in the cyclists’ lane instead of the runners’. The pack saw the jogger and parted like the Red Sea, all except for one novice at the back who did the unthinkable: He creamed what turned out to be a lawyer. The case went to court. The CRC won.

Politics & payola

Everyone agrees racing costs money, lots of it. It will always live in a financial Twilight Zone between municipal and corporate dependency.

For those who promote it, American bicycle racing at its best is a nightmare of permit applications, insurance hassles, and scheduling conflicts. Arguably the toughest problem is how to simultaneously satisfy sponsors, who mostly want love, and politicians, who mostly want… well, something else.

Sponsors, they’re easy. Anyone asks them for a donation, they’ll ask what they’re getting for it. Fair enough. Mainly they want uncritical publicity. If they’re into bike racing, they’re often good with whatever ya got for ’em.

Politicians, they’re different.

Witness the Apple Lap, an ambitious plan by Maltese and Toefield for a 75-mile race in which 300 riders would cut through all five boroughs. New York City initially said yes, due to the success of the first all-borough NYC Marathon that year. Also thanks to the Marathon, the city insisted on not 300 riders, but thousands.

Toefield says, “I finally convinced city fathers that there would be a massacre with 10,000 riders racing.” So it was on, again. But then the police didn’t like the idea of 600 cops guarding 300 riders. And with that, the 1976 Apple Lap was history before it even began.

[Author’s note: When Toefield and Maltese originally proposed the Apple Lap, the city rejected it. But there were in fact two successful Apple Lap races, in 1978 and 1979. Not for nothing are these guys legends; they managed to get nine highways and the Verrazano and Throgs Neck bridges closed to motor traffic. The Apple Laps were among the earliest, if not first, cycling events of this scope conducted in a major US metropolitan area.]

Given the logistics, it’s not hard to understand why corporate sponsors are more willing to commit time and money to lesser events in remote places; it’s just easier and cheaper. But Toefield believes big cities like his have unlimited superior talent reserves begging to be showcased.

“You could sell horseshit in New York City if you package it right,” he says, quoting his ad exec friend on Madison Avenue. “Why should they create markets when they’re already here?”

It’s a good question. And the answer is kind of sad. Access to Central Park — what little of it there is — goes mostly to Maltese, possession being nine-tenths of the law. The outer boroughs have many fine venues, but they suffer from a lack of recognition as commercial race sites for much the same reasons that cycling itself is slow to be recognized as national sport: They have a reputation of being dull, dangerous, and small-time.

Even though Brooklyn’s Prospect Park was designed by Central Park architects Olmsted and Vaux (and is widely considered more beautiful), racing sponsors always demand Central Park. Toefield says, “I forfeited a blank check from Cinzano because I couldn’t deliver Central Park for a Sunday afternoon race.”

Then there’s the other spoiler, which is way thornier.

According to Toefield, Bloomingdale’s agreed to sponsor a race four years ago. The bill from the Parks Department was $25,000 for the use of Central Park. That’s in addition to, you understand, salaries, security, equipment, insurance, prize money — the race itself. Bloomie’s was horrified. They coughed up the dough, but backed off from race sponsorship for the next three years.

“Anybody comes up with $100,000 for me to run a race, I’d gladly give Central Park $10,000,” maintains Toefield. “But if Central Park knew I had a $100,000 budget, they’d want $50,000.”

Toefield is one of the few promoters who will talk about payola. It isn’t pretty. [Read my story from Spy Magazine about the 1989 Tour de Trump, which also addresses this subject. — ss]

A few years ago he provided cyclists and technical advice for the film Key Exchange, which features footage of racers in Central Park. The producer agreed as payment to sponsor another, real race in Central Park. When Toefield filed the permit applications, the Parks Department discovered the film’s backer was Manufacturer Hanover’s Trust. They had a question. Just how generous a contribution to the Central Park Cultural Foundation were Kissena Cycling Club and the fourth largest bank in the country prepared to make?

MHT threatened to back out, but the movie did get made. And eventually Toefield had his real race, but in Prospect Park rather than Central Park. And MHT never sponsored a cycling event again.

It’s easy to argue that until cycling is considered mainstream in the U.S., getting sponsorship will be difficult. Getting sponsorship requires a guarantee of publicity, and getting publicity requires the guarantee of sponsorship. Cycling will never become mainstream without them. This is the Catch 22 of the sport’s future.

That said, it’s worth noting that when the Europeans showed up in Colorado last year for the Coors Classic and this year for the UCI World Championships, the national media lapped it up. And with Greg LeMond, Steve Bauer, and Andy Hampsten proving to the world that North Americans are fierce contenders, the international focus may shift as well. Whenever that happens, America is ready because Toefield and Maltese showed us just what to do. Catch 22 just slipped a toestrap.

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

Author’s note: Shortly after this piece was written in 1986, Century Road Club management was taken over by the membership. They created a board of directors, wrote new bylaws, officially renamed the club CRCA, and became the inclusive organization they are today. Lou Maltese remained CRCA chairman until his death in 1989. Al Toefield remained the head of KCC until his death in 1989. KCC incorporated as a nonprofit that year and is ongoing today. The club still manages the operation and maintenance of Kissena Velodrome.

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.

 

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Terry, Bro — This One’s For Youse!

Back in second grade I had a crush on a kid named Terry. Amazingly, Terry ignored me.

I obsessed about ways to win his attention, none of which ever worked but did result in a novella (yes, when I was 8) about heroically saving Terry after he faceplants into Niagara Falls. Anyway, Dead Spot is a grownass reworking of it, wherein the heroine’s got a motorbike instead of a Radio Flyer, and dark proclivities, and no moral compass.

Yo Terry, if you’re out there, read Dead Spot. Ebook $5, dead trees $12. You owe me, pal.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonCopyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Celebs Behaving Badly: New York City Edition

This is the latest in an ongoing gossip marathon but I’m calling it a memoir, so bite me. Be sure to see Celebs Behaving Badly, Celebs Behaving Badly: CalArts Edition, and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Glorious Pile of Rubell

I used to go to Studio 54 with my pal David, the handsomest gay man in the world. (Sorry, also-rans. Is what it is.)

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Co-owner Steve Rubell was always out front, personally cherry picking who could go in. He’d be all “You, you, and you but not you.”

David and I breezed past the eternal line of bridge-and-tunnel losers. Well actually, David breezed by them and I got in too, because Date of Handsomest Gay Man. He coulda breezed into Fort Knox.

One night David and I spilled out of a cab in front of Studio and scrambled straight for the front door. Rubell stopped us.

Well actually, he stopped me. My outfit was something best described as Raquel Welch’s costume in One Million Years B.C. Or as David put it, “Ohmygod you’re not wearing anything!”

He got over it. But Steve, he no likey.

“C’mon!” I said to him. “You always let me in!” which he had no reason to remember. He was totally blasted on … something. He looked me up and down, all bug-eyed and weaving (him, not me). Finally he said okay because a fight was breaking out that he had to go supervise. I think that was the night David and I shared a couch with Lee Radziwill and Jay North.

West Side doorman Steve Rubell - Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

West Side doorman Steve Rubell – Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

Lifecycle A-Go-Go

Way back when, I used to write for cycling magazines. They made me attend the annual ritual of mass consumption, Boogerbike or whatever it was called. It was a trade show held at a venue nobody misses now, the New York Coliseum. The Coliseum was less like a place where gladiators would’ve hung out and more like a dirigible hangar. (Later Biketastic moved to the Javits Center, then to Philly, then I stopped going.)

Tedious as these shows were, they did have their moments. I met his highness Eddy Merckx and the delightful Georgena Terry, from whom I bought a delicious custom frame. But mostly Bikegasm was endless displays of fredware and birdseed energy bars. One magazine I worked for wanted me to write up the launch of a stationary bike called Sit-N-Spin. I am not making this up.

As you might imagine, the swag in the vast crapscape that was Bikerteria generally sucked. So I was thrilled the time I scored a huge poster of Connie Carpenter.

She was all kinds of hot that year, having just won the Coors Classic and Nats, and gold medals at the Olympics and World Championships. She was a force of nature, that girl. Also really cute. (You young’uns might know her better as the mom of three-time national champ Taylor Phinney, a 2017 Tour de France rider for Cannondale.) Someone I knew who raced her told me, “When Connie makes up her mind to win, everyone else may as well go home because what the hell’s the point?”

Anyway, I was so excited to get this great poster with her on it that I had to pee. I ducked into the Bikerama can, and holy macaroni — there’s Connie Carpenter herself! In the flesh! By which I mean buck nekkid!

She’d been biking around town and was changing into street clothes, so she’d look less smelly at the booth of the company she repped. We’re not supposed to see superheroes out of costume. But sh!t happens, especially to me. I was so embarrassed, I spun outta there like a motorized dreidl.

Everything worked out okay, though. A little later I found her at the Cannondale booth, where she graciously autographed my poster and laughed at me for running away. She was adorable! And I still have her poster.

The magnificent Connie Carpenter - Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

The magnificent Connie Carpenter – Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

Haute Cloture

I used to design artsy fartsy fashions. (See Celebs Behaving Badly for a brutal play-by-play.) One of the first places I tried to sell them in New York was Julie: Artisans’ Gallery.

There really was a Julie — Julie Schafler — and there really was a colon in her store’s name. It was on Madison Avenue in the 60s. I don’t think it’s there anymore, but here’s a Groupon. Let me know.

Julie Artisans' Gallery - Photo Copyright Julie Artisan's Gallery

Julie: Artisans’ Gallery – Photo Copyright Julie: Artisans’ Gallery

The store was famous for wild one-of-a-kind artisanal clothes and accessories. I introduced Julie to my already-made stuff, which she liked but not enough to buy any. Instead, she wanted me to custom-make something just for her: patchwork leather gloves slathered with beads. Like an idiot I said okay.

Meanwhile, the only customer in Julie’s store did want to buy something I’d brought in: the fancy leather suit bag I’d made to transport samples to buyer meetings. I was happy to sell it to her. I was happy to sell anything.

I really wanted into this store. It got lots of publicity and the prices were crazy stupid high. Assuming Julie would double my wholesale price for her hapless customer as is customary in retail, I asked her for an economical $700. “That’s not enough,” Julie said and marched away.

Not enough? What the actual f⊔⊏k?

While she was off doing who knows what, I met the customer she’d been yapping at  through a curtain about her “jet-setting husband,” as if she had no money or identity of her own. Not that there weren’t shoppers like that in Manhattan. But blow me down! Out of the dressing room stepped Ann Turkel, one of the hotter-than-a-rope-burn supermodels of the late 1960s.

She was on the cover of every magazine I ever loved. She’d just begun acting (soon to star in one of my fave guilty pleasures, Humanoids from the Deep). And only tangentially interesting (to me, anyway) was that she’d recently married Richard Burton’s beer bro Richard Harris, who’d just won a Grammy and a Golden Globe.

Ann Turkel - photo Copyright © Conde Nast

Ann Turkel – photo Copyright © Conde Nast

I’ve seen lots of models in person, and way too many are totes skanky. Not Turkel. OMG, so gorgeous! And funny. And so not snobby. She said she had to attend a stuffy, old-money formal event for which she needed suitable attire. She wanted to look special, she said, “not like all those old ladies in their crappy chiffons.”

She tried on a boho frock that was… interesting, I guess. But in the end she left with nothing. As did I, with the exception of my assignment from Julie that I should’ve gotten a contract for but didn’t.

A month later I returned with exactly the unique, labor-intensive creation she’d requested. She greeted it with “No! Needs more beads! And feathers! And fringe! Go crazy with it!” Stylewise, she was still shaking off the brown acid at Woodstock.

I left with my gloves and never went back.

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Steal This Suit

Back when Barney’s New York had just the one extraordinary store on 7th Avenue, I practically lived there. This was before it became McBarneys, moved uptown, and morphed into the Men’s Whorehouse franchise that went bankrupt.

Barney’s men’s suit department was the bomb. I got a lot of stuff there, because a) it fit me better than women’s clothes, b) Barney’s tailors were aces, and c) they never gave me any crap about being a girl and/or using the men’s dressing room. They were so utterly cool!

One day as I rapturously rifled Barney’s suit racks, a great commotion arose from the dressing room. I hadn’t gone in yet, so it wasn’t my fault this time.

Presently a disheveled old fart shambled out, ranting and confused, wearing a fine Italian suit with a hopelessly rumpled shirt and the pants around his ankles. A coterie of handlers hustled him off the sales floor, but not before the whole store recognized him. Even with the plastic surgery you could tell it was acquitted Chicago Seven superstar Abbie Hoffman.

Hoffman needed elegant attire for his upcoming coke trafficking trial. He was convicted for that one, but received a commuted sentence. See? Barney’s rules!

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney's finery. Copyright © 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney’s finery. Copyright 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

 

Another Kind of Suit

There was a club on Fifth Avenue at 13th Street that I liked a lot, the Lone Star Cafe. It hosted a steady parade of unrepentant Stetson-wearers and big music stars (Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, Albert Collins, The Blues Brothers), plus a 40-foot iguana. The humans worked the inside; the lizard had the roof.

The Lone Star Cafe

The Lone Star Cafe

I once saw a performance there by The Suits, a rock band fronted by New York City slumlord Jay Weiss. Weiss owned the Happy Land Social Club, a Bronx venue burned down by an arsonist while 87 people were inside. In case you’re wondering: Yes, Weiss was as good a musician as he was a landlord.

Happy Land Social Club - copyright New York Daily News

Happy Land Social Club – copyright New York Daily News

Anyway, pre-show I ducked into the can. I was shocked to be competing for the vanity with Kathleen Turner. Yes, that Kathleen Turner.

Turned out she was The Suits’ singer. Also Weiss’s wife. Yes, she acts better than she sings. No, she wasn’t really bad, it’s just that I wouldn’t have paid to hear that. The Suits were the opening act for the band I actually did pay to see. The Suits probably got the gig because Weiss owned the building.

I was pretty sure the Lone Star had private facilities for the talent. Whatever. Dressed in her best rock chick outfit, Turner bounced off every hard bathroom surface — people included — while emitting a nonstop look-at-me rap. I fled the restroom mid-plea.

Sadly, the Lone Star burned down in 2006. Probably just a coincidence.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

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