When the Upper West Side Was King

Sometime around 2015, I saw a movie called The Intern starring Robert DeNiro and Anne Hathaway. I don't know what genre of movie it was. It had the feel of a rom-com, but the love between the two stars was not romantic. That has nothing to do with my point. 

My point is when the movie was over, I felt old and out-of-touch. Not because the film involved a man not much older than I was trying to fit it at a fashion start-up, but because the entire movie was set in Brooklyn. Every scene. Brooklyn. I knew nothing of Brooklyn beyond Brooklyn Heights and the River Cafe. To me, Brooklyn was somewhere you didn't want to live because it was hard to get a cab to take you there late at night.

When I lived in New York, I lived on Manhattan's Upper West Side. It was at the time very in. How did I know that? Because I could not step out of my apartment without running into a film crew. There were always production trucks parked somewhere in the neighborhood. Often they were from Law & Order. If as many dead bodies showed up in my neighborhood in real life as they did on Law & Order, rents would have plummeted. Well, probably not. Rents never plummet in New York. Let's just say it wouldn't have been good.

More often the filming was for movies about young professionals. Green Card. Baby Boom. You've Got Mail. When Harry Met Sally. Even the Ghostbusters were, in their own minds at least, professionals. Certainly, Sigourney Weaver's character was. All these successful fictional characters were my neighbors. Three Men and a Baby filmed a short walk down Central Park West from my apartment. I remember running into the twins who played the baby on the street and all the male stars in the park. A lot of the other movies were shot much closer. I was annoyed to find out while I was on an all-day conference call in my apartment Jack Nicolson had been filming Wolf on my corner. The Upper West Side was a cool place to be.

At the movies, I got used to recognizing not just streets but restaurants. All these shiny characters would sit at the same table where I sat. The Upper West Side may not have been the hippest place to live but it had a certain cachet, a certain style. I loved it.

I had not lived in New York for many years when I saw The Intern. I had heard about the move to Brooklyn. As a matter of fact, I made a business call to the only partially renovated building in Williamsburg in the early 1990s. The guy who lived on top of the mostly empty building where he ran his business told me to buy a building. What happened to Soho is about to happen to Williamsburg. I ignored his advice. I missed the boom. I have never actually been to the hip Williamsburg. For all I know, Williamsburg may have become somewhat passe. There might be a more hip Brooklyn neighborhood. I wouldn’t be the right person to ask.

So watching The Intern brought home to me that my time had passed. Sometimes, I like to revisit the restaurants I loved in the eighties and nineties when they were the hot spots in town, but my enjoyment is always tinged with a little sadness. My favorite restaurant and I are both a hold-over from the past. Ironically, it is owned by Robert DeNiro.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

My Time with the Mob

I don’t really know very much about the Mob with a capital M. My philosophy is that the less you know about the Mob the better. I still haven’t seen every episode of The Sopranos.

However, unlike Justice Potter who remarked about obscenity—“I know it when I see it”—I, apparently, don’t know the Mob when I see it. At least I didn’t back in the 80s and 90s an era of New York Mob superstars: Carlo Gambini, Paul Castellano and John Gotti. They were all over the news even after death. I’d seen the stories but really hadn’t paid any attention. As for the New Jersey mob? I knew it existed but wouldn’t recognize a name or a face if I walked onto a room full of Jersey mobsters. 

Which brings me to . . . 

Late one Sunday afternoon a couple of friends and I arrived in a northern New Jersey town too early to show up at a party. Eating was always a good way to kill time. Starbucks was not yet an option in New Jersey so we looked around for a restaurant. Pre-Internet that meant driving around searching for one. Let’s call the one we found Ristorante Italiano because it’s generic and that was not its name.

In retrospect, the first sign that the place we selected was unusual? We could not even get a glimpse of the interior. The windows were covered and if the door had a window it was small, placed high and filled with tinted glass. The details are gone from my memory but the general impression is clear. We had no idea what we were walking into.

As we stepped through the entrance, everyone, and I do mean everyone, in the restaurant turned to look at us. They continued to watch as a very pleasant maitre d’ rushed forward not so much to greet us as to stop us. It was a small place with a dozen tables or so and we could see that just about all of them were occupied. So, we didn’t question him when he said they were full. Maybe we looked as if we were starving, harmless, and clueless. We weren’t really starving but his other two assessments were dead on. He relented and told us the owner wasn’t there that evening. We could sit at his table. 

He led us past the other diners to a round table at the rear of the restaurant not far from the door to the kitchen. Not a traditionally good table but ideally situated for a quick getaway should an undesirable type such as a law officer with a warrant or a mob enforcer with a gun come through the front door. 

We may have noticed the clientele was predominantly Italian but if we did we would have seen that as a positive. Where better to eat Italian food than at a place where well-heeled Italians ate?

The table was too big for a party of three but we settled around one side of the table that we were lucky to get. The food was delicious and the conversation, lively. We laughed a lot—about what I have no idea. I don’t recall if we ever questioned the professional affiliations of the other diners but if we did we knew enough not to laugh about that.

After a great meal, we moved on to the party that had brought us to town. Except for the red sauce (or gravy if you prefer), we didn’t think much about the experience.

Until . . . 

Within weeks or maybe months of our visit to Ristorante Italiano, the New York Times noted that several high-ranking members of the leading New Jersey crime family had been arrested. Where did the feds get the evidence for the indictments? Wiretaps especially the one that had been in place for many months at the owner’s table at the Ristorante Italiano.

My friends and I were not included in the indictments. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Hanging with Stalkers

Tony Bennett died a few weeks ago. I had never seen him perform. The only encounter we ever had was in the basement of 30 Rock. I noticed him but didn’t pay too much attention because I had just discovered that I was sitting at a table with two lovely and intelligent women who had, on that day and that day only, elected to become stalkers. 

Who were they stalking? Arthur Kent, NBC international correspondent and over night sensation dubbed the Scud Stud. At least the two made a good choice when deciding whom to stalk. Did I mention he was very handsome and exceedingly sexy in his brown leather bomber jacket? He also had great hair. I was happy to watch him give me the news from the Middle East during the Gulf War.  That was enough for me.

Apparently not enough for my two co-workers. A friend and I had run into our colleagues, aka the potential stalkers, when headed for an after-work drink. They were on their way to the same bar because, as I would soon discover, Arthur Kent had just gone in there. 

We joined them and noticed they had picked a table with a good view of - you guessed it - Arthur Kent. Okay. Not a problem. I assumed they simply wanted a look at him. I assumed wrong. I discovered that when they brought out pictures showing pretty much everything Arthur had done that day. (How I now wonder since this was before we had cameras on our phones? But they had photos. One hour film developing? Must have been.)

Anyway, they had shots of Arthur Kent walking up and down the street (Madison Avenue as I recall) and going in and out of his hotel (completely forget which one). All the photos were taken as they shadowed him from across the street. I assured myself that they were being discreet. 

Or so I thought. While we were looking at the photos, we failed to notice that Stalker 1 (no names) had sent a drink to Arthur Kent. This was a bridge too far for me. Somehow, I came up with an excuse to get my friend alone outside the bar. “They’re stalking him! What do we do?” What could we do? We returned to the table and finished our drinks. I tried not to notice that Arthur Kent was ten feet away. 

But it was kind of hard to ignore him. That guy was really hot.  I’m not a stalker and don’t anticipate becoming one. However, I had to admit that by choosing Arthur Kent as the object of their affection, my stalker/colleagues did show good taste.

Arthur threw a smile our way as he passed our table on his way out. The stalkers did not follow. Maybe they were done for the day. Then again, maybe not. They knew where to find him. 

NOTE: Kent often reported standing beside Mile Boettcher a competent reporter who did not have stud qualities. Years later, I got on a flight from New York to London with him. He looked neat and well-groomed. He wore a great looking camel hair coat, Oddly enough, he was also on my return flight a week or so later. He looked beat. Whatever he’d been doing, grooming wasn’t a high priority. His beautiful coat appeared to have been through a lot. He might not have been glamorous - at least compared to Arthur Kent - but, if one can judge by experiences, he certainly worked hard. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

A Baseball Memory

Baseball posts tonight reminded me of what I was doing during the 10th inning of Game 6 in the 1986 World Series: flying into LaGuardia (neighbor to Shea Stadium) where the Mets were hosting Game 6. 

New Yorkers watching on the plane were feeling sad when the pilot turned off the screens for landing. The end of the game was a forgone conclusion. Boston would win. Not just the game, the Series. So, I was surprised to deplane into a concourse filled with jubilant New Yorkers. 

Why? Two words: Bill Buckner. He didn’t make the play Boston needed to clinch the series. There would be a Game 7 which New York would win.

The other day I saw an article “celebrating” the occasion. I still feel sad that flubbing one play at first base was the defining moment of Buckner’s career. 

I could never be an athlete. I could not have shown up on the field again. I lack the mental stamina. And, I have no talent.

© 2023 Jane Kelly

Gary Oldman Was Nice

“Are you a big Sean Penn fan?”

I liked the actor just fine but not enough to stand in an empty lot waiting for a glimpse of him. I explained to the man who asked that I was waiting for a friend. I did not know that the Old Town Bar and Grill (actually Restaurant not Grill but I don’t care - it feels like a bar and grill) was closed for filming (State of Grace 1990). This was pre-cell phone so my only choice was to wait in the adjoining empty lot for her to arrive. 

I was alone on the lot when Gary Oldman came out to have a cigarette. At that point I assumed that the actor could feel free to walk the streets of the US uninterrupted. I, however, recognized him right away. I had seen and admired him in Sid and Nancy. You would think I might want to tell him that. But, I didn’t. I, who loved to talking to strangers and would talk to a street lamp if I found myself standing next to one, did not say a thing. I never speak to a celebrity. 

How would the conversation go anyway? So, tell me Mr. Springsteen, what do you do for a living? What brought you to New York, Mr. Jeter? So, Mrs. Onassis, have you always lived in New York? The usual conversation starters just don’t seem to work.

So, as is my custom, after we acknowledged each other (maybe a nod) I ignored Gary Oldman. Little by little, he moved closer to me and glanced over. Not crowding me. Just making himself available. I got the impression that he was sending a message that if I wanted to ask him any questions, he would be happy to answer. But I lived by my rules. No talking to celebrities. 

Maybe I misread him completely but I got a very friendly vibe. Maybe he liked to talk to strangers and I was a stranger to him. Maybe he wanted to tell me to get lost, but I don’t think so.

I realize this isn’t much of a story but whenever I see the actor e.g. winning an Oscar or hear about him e.g. people love Slow Horses, I want to say that I think he is very nice or, at least, I suspect he is. I don’t really know. I don’t speak to celebrities.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Letterman at the DMV

I was only David Letterman’s neighbor for a year.  When I say neighbor I mean we lived in the same corner of the same small town. We lived on different roads.  Mine hit a dead-end at his. His house was a couple of miles from mine but to get from mine to his you passed at most two dozen houses. If that. So, I called him neighbor. Well, only to others. I never spoke to him.

During the time I lived in New Canaan, Connecticut, David Letterman was plagued by an uninvited guest on several occasions. I am fairly sure I spotted the woman walking down my road probably the best route from the train station to his house. It was rare for anyone but a jogger to pass by my house on foot, so I recall seeing a lone woman charging up the country road on a lovely Saturday. But, I didn’t think too much about her that morning, Later that day, she would appear on most US new outlets. In the meantime, I had to go to the DMV. Turns out David Letterman did too.

Letterman often drove up and down my road going to and from town. In town, I saw him at the Mobile station or, most frequently and most ironically, at the Post Office. (Reminder, his name was Letterman.)  His everyday car appeared to be a midnight blue Porsche 911, but I confirmed at the DMV that he also had two Ferraris. Different models I am told. I just knew they were both red. And to think I worried that I was extravagant buying duplicate t-shirts. 

To understand what happened next, you’ll need an idea of what my car looked like. I had moved from New York City bringing with me a car that was appropriate for parking overnight on an Upper West Side street. Read appropriate as old and scratched with fading paint and a missing left rear window. If I had felt any embarrassment about driving it in Connecticut, I could have passed the old Datsun off as my station car. That never became necessary only because I don’t embarrass easily. 

Back in the 1980s the nearest DMV to New Canaan was located in an old house in Norwalk. There was no parking lot, so I found a spot on the street. I was in line in the DMV when David Letterman came in with his assistant. I noticed, finished up whatever I was doing and left.

Back on the street, I was surprised to see that my car was parked between two Ferraris. A red Ferrari in front. A red Ferrari in back. We had four Ferraris in our town. One yellow. One blue. Two red. I’d been told the red ones belonged to Letterman. That was verified when he came out right behind me. 

I didn’t notice him until he was standing by the car in front of mine looking at paperwork that I guessed he pulled from the glove compartment. Or, wanted me to think he pulled from the glove compartment. He made quite a show of checking out some documents. 

My thought? He was keeping an eye on his cars and the owner of the disreputable vehicle that threatened them. I guess if I’d parked half a million dollars worth of powerful Italian driving machinery on the street, I would have done the same thing. 

While it’s good to have a neighbor with his own talk show (they keep you up-to-date on what’s going on in the neighborhood), there is a downside. You never know exactly whom in the neighborhood - or what local car - they might want to discuss. 

But it turned out I didn’t have to worry. I am pretty sure the memory faded quickly when he returned home and found a stranger hiding there.  Fearing for your life trumps fearing for your Ferrari.

© 2023 Jane Kelly

Times I wrote my own obituary

The other day a friend sent me an article about a mother who expressed her concerns about her daughter’s safety by drafting possible obituaries for her. This reminded me that I used to create headlines about unlikely death scenarios for myself. Not full obituaries. I am not morbid. Usually.

So on 2/6/2023 I checked to see if I had recorded any of my proposed headlines for a possible blog entry. I discovered that I had. On 2/6/2018. Do I see any significance that I opened the file exactly five years to the day since I created it? Only an indication that I really should start working on these entries a little more regularly. I have close to 200 to work my way through. 

Anyway. . .

I started doing this many years - actually many decades - ago when I saw a headline in my hometown newspaper:

Local Girl Killed in Car Crash in Remote Chinese Province.

 

This was before travel to even the easily accessible Chinese locations was at all common. I was fascinated. I wanted to know why was she there and how did she end up dying in such an unlikely manner. Then, I realized I was in that position on occasion. Not that often. Nonetheless there could be obit headlines for me that might raise some questions. One of them was even on a Chinese road.

Local Woman Killed in Crash on Chinese Highway 

Three Chinese Nationals Also Perish

I don’t know how the Chinese drive these days but in 1986 when I was lucky enough to go to China on business they drove like maniacs - at least on the two-lane roads my party used from Shenzhen to Guangzhou. If there was a speed limit, I was not aware of it. Every time we passed a car, we appeared to be in a game of chicken. Spoiler Alert: we always won.

Local Woman Trampled by Mob in Spanish Political Demonstration

I couldn’t have seen it coming. I was strolling down a street in Barcelona when an angry mob turned the corner no more than thirty yards ahead of me. They were carrying signs and, as the years go by I would swear, pitchforks but that was probably a memory from a Frankenstein movie. I had been chatting with a tourist from Florida who grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway. The mob went by chanting something. I have no idea what. I would never have known why I died. 

Local Woman Dies in Overturned Irish Army Van

Three Members of West German Equestrian Team Also Killed

How long ago did this happen, you ask. It was the WEST German Equestrian Team. After the Dublin Horse Show, I got to ride back to the stables with my brother’s sister-in-law whose horse, if I recall correctly, had just won. The memory of the actual show was eclipsed by the memory of the ride. At least the part of the ride when the van in which we were riding ran onto a curb, a very high curb. Three very large, very loud German riders were tossed around in the back seat. Any one of them could have crushed me to death. The driver quickly regained control, but I couldn’t help thinking the headline announcing my death would have been thought-provoking.

Local Woman Killed in Crash of Mexican Laundry Truck

I didn’t actually know why I was traveling in the back of a laundry truck in Mexico City. I later found out I was being smuggled across a picket line at the University of Mexico. All I knew is that a coworker and I were being transported in an empty panel truck while holding onto poles in an effort to stay upright. It took a lot of effort. It was probably best we couldn’t see the driver or the route he was taking. My memory says it was a bumpy one. 
 

Yoko Ono Killed in Runway Crash at Heathrow

380 Others Also Perish

This headline would have just been annoying. Who wants to be reduced to a number. I didn’t see Yoko. She was in First Class. But I knew how the headline would read. I was happy when they delayed the fog-plagued flight until morning. 

All of these unused obits are old. I don’t know if that should make me happy or sad. My life is much simpler now.

Local Woman Killed Rolling Off Couch While Reaching for Dropped Remote

Victim Unable to Find Phone to Call for Help

Woman Unable to Open Food Packaging Starves to Death

No one would stop to read that article.

© 2023 Jane Kelly