It was perfectly predictable that in the aftermath of terror attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the search for political scapegoats would be as intense as the hunt for Osama bin Laden. It was just as obvious that Bill Clinton would quickly become the favorite quarry of this quest–particularly among the former President's old adversaries in the national media and the Republican Party (two entities which often seem to be locked in a mind-meld these days).
There's another convenient place where these worthies might look for culprits but never do: the mirror. Whatever the various failures and flaws of Mr. Clinton's tenure may have been, his efforts against terrorism compare favorably with the frivolous preoccupations of his critics.
As articulated by America's foremost analysts, the general complaint is that the Clinton administration "didn't do enough" to forestall the atrocities of Sept. 11. This deep insight is a truism: Al Qaeda's suicide operatives achieved their mission despite any and all measures taken by the government to frustrate and destroy the bin Laden network. Those measures, which were hardly insignificant, were by definition not "enough."
That simple notion was at the heart of The New York Times' Dec. 30 investigative report, a long disquisition whose front-page headline conveyed its slant: "Planning for Terror But Failing to Act." The facts and quotes accumulated by reporters Judith Miller, Don Van Natta Jr. and Jeff Gerth didn't quite justify that damning summary.
The Times reporters appeared to be laboring under the assumption that Mr. Clinton could have mustered a full-scale unilateral invasion of Afghanistan to capture the Al Qaeda leadership–at a time when the Congressional majority was seeking to impeach him. But if that naïve fantasy is discounted, it is clear even in The Times ' account that the Clinton administration made many attempts to strike lethally at Mr. bin Laden. And the fact that Mr. Clinton took terrorism very seriously would have been clearer still if The Times had mentioned the enormous increases he approved in counterterrorism spending by the F.B.I. and other federal agencies.
Speaking of the F.B.I., the Times story neglected another prominent name that scarcely passes the lips of those seeking to apportion blame. That would the bureau's former director Louis Freeh, a bungler who has become virtually invisible since September. In an article that highlighted several paragraphs of preening recollection from Dick Morris, that's an odd omission.
The indefatigable consultant evidently convinced the Times reporters that, based on polling done in 1996, he strenuously urged his Presidential client to federalize airport security and prosecute a "broader war on terrorism." Mr. Morris didn't reveal this prescient proposal anywhere in the 340-plus pages of Behind the Oval Office , his memoir of his years advising Mr. Clinton, which scarcely mentions terrorism at all.
If Mr. Morris did foresee the horrors to come five years ago, he was quite alone in his clairvoyance. More likely he is rewriting history to denigrate his old boss and inflate himself, an important duty of his current career. In truth, he has been heavily preoccupied during the past several years by smut and petty scandal, not by the looming "terrorist threat." And in those obsessions, he wasn't alone at all.
The pundits and personalities who now assign responsibility to Mr. Clinton might as well interrogate themselves about the failure of news organizations to focus on the problem of terror (and, for that matter, on broader international issues); that is a subject, after all, about which they know a lot.
Not all are equally culpable. Several reporters on the Times staff, for example, did outstanding work long before Sept. 11. But as independent broadcaster Simon Marks recalls in Quill , the journal of the Society of Professional Journalists, the failure was general. Most American reporters and commentators were far more interested in Chandra Levy than Osama bin Laden.
In a remarkable passage, Mr. Marks notes that both Reuters and United Press International ran dispatches last June about Al Qaeda plans to attack the United States. Hard to believe, but true–and wholly ignored by every significant news outlet in the country. Most of them were too busy frying Gary Condit to notice.
Harold Evans makes a similar argument in the November/December issue of the Columbia Journalism Review, in which he examines the decision by the major media to ignore repeated warnings from the U.S. Commission on National Security of a terrorist assault on American shores. The former Senators who chaired the commission, Gary Hart and Warren Rudman, were stunned when only a handful of newspapers bothered to feature their findings.
"The Hart-Rudman Report is the kind that required elite opinion to engage in a sustained dialogue to probe, improve, explain, and then press for action. None of the network talk shows took it up," laments Mr. Evans. "But the commissioners were particularly bewildered by the blackout at The New York Times ."
Proud owner of an UES project.
It's not exactly a fixer-upper, but at least the three-bedroom co-op at 115 East 67th Street is old. And there are plenty of charming pre-war details, like a wood-burning fireplace, that could conceivably require some expertise from new owner Bob Vila. We just hope the co-op doesn't have summer work rules!
That is, if Mr. Vila ever even moves in. The most famous toolbelt-wearer in the country has a track record of flipping Manhattan properties, although not always profitably. There was a townhouse on the West Side, a condo in Tribeca (shockingly, the place was move-in ready when he bought it) and now he's moving in on Lenox Hill. Could the man of a million houses finally be looking to settle down in a pied-a-terre?
It looks move-in ready. What a disappointment!
Mr. Vila and wife Diana Barrett paid $2.46 million for the sunlit spread, a little under the $2.99 million ask. Not bad considering that it offers eight rooms on a high floor of the Millan House, a swanky co-op built by the Rockefellers in 1931 for Standard Oil execs. Of course, we all know that the Rockefellers themselves preferred the far tonier private elevator landings of 740 Park.
Still, this is about as close to blue blood as the blue collar hero moved in Manhattan. Not only does the apartment come with a small staff wing—two staff rooms, a private bathroom and separate laundry facilities, but buyers can also purchase lobby level staff rooms with separate baths. Although we can't imagine the king of D.I.Y. will take advantage of such offerings.
The apartment was sold by the estate of Norma and Richard Flender, a banker at JP Morgan who divided his time between East Hampton and Manhattan.
Besides a little refinishing here and there, what can the bearded home improvement guru look forward to? The co-op listed with Brown Harris Stevens brokers Burt Savitsky and Elayne Roskin, has some awfully nice touches, like a 30-foot-long living room, that make it feel more like a Massachusetts Victorian than a box in the city. And we bet the co-op board interview was a breeze for Mr. Vila. After all, how many millionaire residents can fix their own leaky faucets?
In the category of strange, random things that come to our attention:
State Senator Ruben Diaz and City Councilman Hiram Monserrate - who is running for State Senate against incumbent John Sabini - somehow found their way into this video promotion for Dr. Jaerock Lee's appearance last month at Madison Square Garden.
And we somehow missed it.
Jaerock Lee - also known as Lee Jae-Rock - is a faith healer who made into the local news recently when an embarrassed David Wright appeared, then renounced his appearance, in a promotional ad for the event. (Mariano Rivera, Bernie Williams and Manny Ramirez also took part in the promotional campaign.)
In addition to the individual testimonials, the ad for the MSG event features a narrator saying this sort of thing: "In the name of Jesus Christ, the blind have come to see, the mute speak, the lame stand up from wheelchairs and all kind of incurable diseases, included AIDS, have been healed."
Monserrate, in his brief appearance, said that he would "help get the word out to the people."
-- Josh Benson
In conjunction with the release of Noah, Darren Aronofsky’s ecclesiastical tentpole starring Russell Crowe, the Brooklyn-born director adds a different kind of spectacle to his repertoire. Fountains of the Deep: Visions of Noah and the Flood, an exhibition featuring 50 artists handpicked by Aronofsky, opens this week and runs through March 29. The artists include photographer Nan Goldin, comic book illustrator Jim Lee and graffiti duo Faile. Get a sneak peek by following @darrenaronofsky on Twitter.
462 West Broadway, 718-388-5280, 10 a.m.-6 p.m., free
Mayor Bill de Blasio today named Meera Joshi, the former general counsel at the city’s Taxi and Limousine Commission (TLC), as his pick to lead the agency.
Industry City. (h-bomb, flickr)
It's an old dance, and a rather tired one—artists move into new neighborhoods, get priced out, move, get priced out—a seemingly endless repetition of advance and retreat. But there are only so many steps that artists can take in a finite amount of space, only so many neighborhoods that they can flee to when their studios are converted into luxury condos. And now, The New York Times reports, the dance may be nearing its end. In a city as expensive as New York is, there just aren't that many places left to go.
While artists are accustomed to being priced out of neighborhoods as they gentrify, being priced out of a gritty one is still relatively rare. Though it may not be for long. Today The Times profiled the artists who were recently pushed out of Industry City, the Sunset Park complex that was bought last year by a partnership that included Jamestown Properties (owners of Chelsea Market) by rising rents. Though some artists do remain in the complex, studios rents, particularly in the ground floor spaces, went up hundreds of dollars a month—an often unworkable increase for artists who are already paying New York rents on another apartment. (Industry City was not a live/work space.)
Approximately 50 artists left the complex after the rent hike, according to The Times, many of whom have failed to find another studio space. Instead, they have holed up with other artists or annexed sections of their already small apartments to work in. Those that had found new studios have almost invariably moved into smaller ones. The size of their art, along with their dreams of a long-term future working in New York, has diminished.
Having been priced out of an isolated industrial complex in a neighborhood that is still less up than coming, there are few options to chose from; even places like Mott Haven and Ridgewood are not very affordable anymore, nor do they have abundant studio options. And landlords are wary of signing all but the shortest of leases, knowing that they will likely be able to charge much more a few years hence. Meaning that a 10- or 20-year cycle of displacement has accelerated to a 2- to 4-year cycle, part of the process of hyper-gentrification that has made an always-difficult existence in New York nearly impossible.
“All I can see is going further out, then having to move again,” one painter who has moved roughly every four years of his long career told The Times. “I just can’t take it anymore.”
And with fewer and fewer places for artists to relocate to, and less time in-between moves, communities are being dispersed. Artists are isolated from one another, studio visits difficult—the very things that made living in New York worthwhile in the first place fading away. After all, if the physical space to produce art were all that was needed, one could always move to rural Ohio. For some artists it is, but most require some dialogue with the larger art world, a conversation that has helped to make New York relevant for centuries. But might not for very much longer. Sometimes a place can be too popular for its own good.
Maybe it's time that artists finally took Patti Smith recommendation and move to Detroit: “New York City has been taken away from you … So my advice is: Find a new city.”
Plácido Domingo stars in'The Enchanted Island.'
Broadly speaking, there are two types of New Yorkers: the ones who say “I’m going to the Met” meaning “I’m going to see an opera” and the ones to whom the phrase means “I’m finally going to see those Piero della Francescas everyone has been talking about.” Recently, though, opera showed up at both Mets, the Metropolitan Opera and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
At Lincoln Center Feb. 26, the Met brought back its production of The Enchanted Island, which premiered in 2011. Two seasons ago, it was not just a new production but the first-ever performance of a new work cobbled together from bits and pieces of 18th-century operas and oratorios, fitted to a libretto concocted by British writer and director Jeremy Sams.
In other words, it’s a classical jukebox musical: a baroque Mamma Mia! Or to put it in more scholarly terms, it is what was known in the 1700s as a pasticcio. The demand for fresh operas back then was so intense that even so important a composer as Handel might recycle a dozen or so of his lesser-known arias, adapt a few bits by other composers, then commission a new libretto to fit the existing tunes. Voilà, a “new” opera!
This modern pasticcio, The Enchanted Island, is comprised primarily of music by Handel and Vivaldi—so far so good. Though each of these composers had his own distinctive manner, they used similar musical forms such as the da capo aria, and so the transition from one to the other is reasonably smooth. But the score also includes several important numbers adapted from Rameau and other French composers of the period, written in a radically different style from Handel’s and Vivaldi’s opera seria. This is where things go askew. The sudden stylistic lurches back and forth are as jarring as if you sneaked a couple of Andrew Lloyd Webber songs into the score of Sweeney Todd.
What’s worse, Mr. Sams’ libretto combines trivial drama with clunky poetic diction. The plot is a mishmash of two Shakespeare comedies, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest. The newly married Athenians from the former play are shipwrecked on the magical island of Prospero; meanwhile, the sorcerer’s spurned lover, Sycorax, and her monstrous son, Caliban, plot to regain control of the island. Eventually, King Neptune (Placido Domingo) has to intervene, and presumably he ordains a happy ending—though with the veteran tenor mangling Mr. Sams’ jaw-breaking lyrics, it’s anyone’s guess how the show really finishes.
The cast includes some fine artists with strong résumés in baroque opera: countertenor David Daniels as Prospero, bass-baritone Luca Pisaroni as Caliban and Danielle de Niese as Ariel. Curiously, in a theater piece crafted to their particular talents, none comes off well. They are saddled with music that is alternately too high, too low and too fast moving.
A major newcomer to the revival is mezzo-soprano Susan Graham, taking on the part of Sycorax created by Joyce DiDonato back in 2011 and making it her own with a witty comic performance. Her one misstep is the interpolation of an aria from Handel’s Alcina, “Sta nell’Ircana,” as her star turn. This heroic call to arms was a superb vehicle for Ms. Graham 15 years ago when she sang the original opera, but now, the piece’s thrilling back-and-forth of fanfares between voice and orchestral horns left the veteran artist short of breath. She suffered, too, by comparison with Elizabeth DeShong, also a mezzo, who only minutes before ripped through a similarly bombastic aria with dazzling bravura.
Yet even the gifted Ms. DeShong made only a pretty good impression with an aria that should have brought down the house. Again, the fault is Mr. Sams’. In its original form, the aria is called “Where shall I fly?” from Handel’s Hercules, in which the jealous queen, Dejanira, goes mad with shame at her complicity in the murder of her husband, the titular hero. At the climax of a high tragedy, the guilty wife’s whirling vocal lines call upon the Furies to punish her for her crime. In the context of The Enchanted Island, though, the piece accompanies the ingenue Hermia’s hissy fit at a temporary separation from her hubby. Grisliest of all, Mr. Sams’ forgettable lyric rhymes “together” with “forever” like a bad 1970s pop song.
Still, the whimsical picture-book sets by Julian Crouch are fun to look at, and the costumes by Kevin Pollard include a regal russet-gold gown for Ms. Graham suitable for a coronation. If your idea of a good time is people in fancy outfits warbling “Rejoice! The day of gladness is here at last!” while mermaids scatter gold glitter from the heavens, by all means, visit The Enchanted Island.
It’s a little harder to figure out who the target audience was for Gotham Chamber Opera’s presentation at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which perhaps explains why the audience on Thursday night numbered no more than a couple hundred. Then again, the $175 ticket price—for a show lasting barely an hour—may have scared off the some of the hoi polloi.
They missed a modest but polished program. First up was Monteverdi’s 1624 dramatic cantata Il Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda, which tells of a duel to the death between two lovers. This piece was staged arena style in the museum’s Emma and Georgina Bloomberg Arms and Armor Court, with the audience standing in a circle around the performers.
Maybe my experience wasn’t typical—I arrived just a few minutes before the announced performance time—but what I saw was mostly backs of heads and what I heard varied wildly depending on which direction the singers were facing. When they turned away, the high vaulted ceiling of the space distorted the sound with blurry reverb. Even under these adverse conditions, though, the crisp, eloquent diction of tenor Samuel Levine made his Narrator a standout.
We then processed through the museum’s gloomy Medieval Sculpture Hall to discover what looked like a rust-colored skateboarding ramp set in the middle of the room. Perched atop the structure was Mr. Levine, now dressed in army fatigues, rolling a joint and listening to electronic music on a jambox.
This was the prologue, we discovered, to I Have No Stories to Tell You with music by Lembit Beecher and libretto by Hannah Moscovitch. Like Il Combattimento, this was also a war story; in fact, this was the third new opera on the subject of post-traumatic stress disorder I’ve seen in a little over a year.
I’m beginning to think PTSD isn’t a good operatic subject. I Have No Stories is a psychological study of Sorrel, a former army medic haunted by combat memories. Mezzo-soprano Beth Clayton was vocally and dramatically gripping in the lead role, scoring particularly with low, soft singing that bordered on speech. But she was undercut by a libretto that attempted to put on stage the acts of horrific violence that traumatized her character. Sitting only a few feet from the stage, we could easily see that the wounded Noah (Mr. Levine) wasn’t, as the text insists, bleeding uncontrollably.
Craig Verm brought a richly textured baritone to the thankless role of Sorrel’s sympathetic partner, Daniel. A trio of “memory” voices headed by the lush-sounding mezzo-soprano Abigail Fischer was one of a variety of interesting effects the composer used to set this unconvincing text; even more striking was the orchestral sound that combined period instruments with electronic noise. Conductor Neal Goren’s leadership of both operas was notable for sensitive attention to the singers’ declamation.
So I’m eager to hear more operas from Mr. Beecher, and I’m looking forward to the next Gotham Chamber Opera presentation, but, please, can it be in a more conventional theater?
Steven Boyer stars in 'Hand to God.'
Hand to God, a regional euphemism for “I swear,” turns out to be the perfect handle for this tall and demented Texas tale of a boy and his sock puppet. What seems to be arriving March 10 at the Lucille Lortel is the age-old contest between good and evil. Jason is a diffident lad of 15 who is coping with the recent death of his father. Jason’s alter ego is a malevolent sock puppet named Tyrone that has gone into takeover mode.
From this kinky Jekyll-and-Hyde Jr. premise, it’s reasonable to suspect playwright Robert Askins was at an impressionable age when he saw either A) Dead of Night, the creepy British classic where ventriloquist Michael Redgrave is dominated by his wooden dummy or B) Magic, William Goldman’s latter-day rip-off in which another ventriloquist, played by Anthony Hopkins, goes mad for the same reason—on a bigger budget.
Instead, Mr. Askins was influenced by Sam Shepard. “The direct thematic antecedent to this play is actually True West,” he said in a recent interview. “When I saw it, I got the impression Mr. Shepard was talking to himself—that it’s not two brothers but a divided individual.” (There’s actually sense in this: In True West’s Broadway revival in 2000, director Matthew Warchus had John C. Reilly and Philip Seymour Hoffman constantly switching roles.)
From that, Mr. Askins took his theory a few more loops. “I thought: Wouldn’t it be great if we had a sort of theatrical convention that would let us acknowledge two voices are part of one body? And then: Wouldn’t it be cute if they were puppets?”
This was an easy reach for him. His mother was a puppet minister at St. John Lutheran Church in Cypress, Texas, a suburb of northwest Houston, and he assisted, picking up the rudiments of hand puppetry by acting out Bible stories in Sunday school class.
Jason and his mom, Margery, are in exactly the same fix as Hand to God begins. Then comes Mr. Askins’ darkness: Meek and mild Jason proves no match for the vulgar, demonic Tyrone, and Margery becomes sexually involved with a teen in her puppet ministry.
“As both lose control of the situation, things get funnier and more dangerous,” Mr. Askins said. “Not knowing what’ll happen next was one of the great joys of writing this play. I had a basic idea what I wanted, but at every point, the characters surprised me. I’d be writing and writing, and it was like, ‘Oh, God! You’re going to do that?’ To be continually delighted by people who inhabit a world you’ve created is thrilling.”
The play’s edgy eccentricities surprised not a few critics, too, and earned extra innings during its initial 2011 run at the Ensemble Studio Theater. There was talk at the time of moving it, but this has only come to pass now, courtesy of MCC Theater.
“I thought the reviews sensitive and well realized,” said Mr. Askins. “But audience response was what we really went for. People coming out of the show were positive. We only had one walkout in the EST run, and there’s intense stuff in this show, but it’s all balanced by the humor and heart. It’s definitely not shock for shock’s sake.”
The centerpiece of the show is an Obie-winning, star-making turn by Steven Boyer, giving the devil his full due as the viciously raucous Tyrone while clinging to Jason’s innocence. ”Just the fact that I get to play two characters simultaneously and that they’re in dialogue with each other the whole time—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever done before or probably will ever do again,” he said. “I can’t imagine playing a role that would come close to how this feels. It’s really two roles at the same time, so the amount of concentration is incredible.”
Director Moritz von Stuelpnagel’s proudest moments come when Mr. Boyer is in full flight as Jason/Tyrone. “I pretty much love anytime Steve is just talking with the puppet, having a one on one,” he said. “You forget he’s doing a monologue. He is playing both roles and really talking to himself, and you forget the puppet isn’t alive. It’s one performer playing both roles. Then, you remember all at once, and there’s this rush of what you’re really seeing. The level of theatricality to it is riveting.”
It hasn’t been an easy show to pull off. “You have to marry a lot of technical elements. There are tons of fight choreography and blood effects. Puppetry requires a lot of choreography, and there are plenty of technical challenges that go into it.”
Mr. Boyer’s dexterity in the puppet scenes came naturally to him, according to the director. “Steve doesn’t have any formal puppet training, but he has done a couple of shows before involving puppets—notably, Nick Jones’ Jollyship the Whiz-Bang, which was done at Ars Nova—and I’ve done a few puppet shows myself, so between the two of us, we came up with a vocabulary for Tyrone.”
The only other original EST cast member returning to Hand to God is Geneva Carr, who plays Mr. Boyer’s mother. They have subsequently co-starred twice, both times as lovers—in a recent reading of a new play called Van Gogh and the Hipsters and last spring at Theater for the New City in another Nick Jones play staged by Mr. von Stuelpnagel, Trevor, about a violent chimpanzee.
Psychologically, the weirdo world of Hand to God is not far down the dirt road from Greater Tuna. “America’s a pretty strange place, and a lot of times, that doesn’t get acknowledged in theater,” said Mr. Askins. “We see a lot of stuff about upper-middle-class people in Brooklyn and L.A., but there are some really strange sorts of social cul-de-sacs in America, and they’re just beginning to be explored. Now, we’ve got people from stranger places getting access to New York City.”
His own access to New York City came via Youngblood, EST’s collective for emerging playwrights under 30. It ushered Mr. Askins into the local spotlight first in 2010 with Princes of Waco and recently delivered to EST another bizarre Texas comedy, Year of the Rooster. According to its author, “Waco was about a kid whose father just died, encountering on his way out of town a petty thief and a drunk in a cruddy bar and entering a life of trouble in an attempt to rebuild himself as a human being.”
Next up is another twisted religious sex farce that will definitely inflame the fundamentalists. “There’s a weird subsect of Christian relationships that takes a passage from Ephesians literally—‘Wives submit to your husbands as if he were the Lord, your God,’ Ephesians 25:5—so this husband and wife set rules, and when the wife breaks the rules, he spanks her. I call it C.D.D. (Christian domestic discipline).”
Unlike his first two plays, it won’t feature a vulnerable, fatherless youth finding his place in the world. “My father died when I was 16,” said Mr. Askins. “Losing your father at the age I lost mine opens you up to radical reinvention. There’s a real rudderlessness to your life. Searching for identity takes you down lots of rabbit holes. My plays are usually about rabbit holes I tried to crawl down to find myself.”
Cast-iron in Flatiron.
On one of many recent frigid days, Prime Manhattan broker Robert Danker had more than wet feet and windburn to complain about. Having scheduled a viewing for a full-floor unit listed for $12.5 million at the tony One Madison, Mr. Danker became victim to last-minute cancellation when a client begged off—citing inclement conditions and confirming the broker’s hunch that his “buyer” was less than serious. Fortunately, Mike Pardee, executive producer at The Mission—a California-based visual effects studio—waited in the wings. Though Mr. Pardee planned to see a more humble unit at 7 East 17th Street, asking $3.5 million and in need of serious work, he arrived that day equipped, Mr. Danker told us, with both enthusiasm and imagination, entering contract the very next day on the live-work space.
Mr. Danker called the deal—which came in a bit shy of ask but close enough to make everyone happy—a perfect storm. "Everyone is smiling," he said. (That includes Mr. Danker, whom we reached by phone in Colorado, where, he said, "The snow is cleaner.")
So, anyone want to watch "Boogie Nights"?
Mr. Pardee, whose company will be expanding East Coast operations, intends to use the 2,678 square-foot space as a home base when he's in New York, and as a studio with a full-time staff and multiple editing suites. (The Mission specializes in high-end effects and post-production commercial work for the likes of Samsung, Nike, Chevy and Squarespace.) Dominated by full-floor, owner-occupied units, the 1903 cast-iron building lends itself to the company's work, which demands both intense focus and limited background noise. "It's a very quiet building," Mr. Danker said. "That was one of the things that attracted them." The third-floor loft also features a keyed elevator, ceilings nearly 13 feet high and enormous arched windows.
"The original architecture is very well preserved," Mr. Danker said. But other, less-desirable traits have been saved for posterity, too: "It's a lot on the dated side." Indeed, one very nearly expects men in leisure suits to waltz through the listing photos. "It needs a complete overhaul. [The buyer] was very savvy to recognize the potential of the space." (The seller's brokers—Corcoran's Dalia Newman and Sharone Shatz—were savvy, too, Mr. Danker said, showing the good sense to drop the ask nearly a half-million dollars in May, after just fifteen days on the market.)
Or perhaps tuna casserole is more your speed.
"In the live-work loft world," the broker told us, referring to non-ARI units, "I can probably count only one or two options—that are good options. This is a tremendous value. Their use, relative to what the building was looking for, is perfect." The Flatiron location? Perfect, too, Mr. Pardee told the Observer. "We looked at about maybe five or six different spaces, and this one felt like it was just the right for us." The renovation, he acknowledged, will be huge. "But we hope to be up and running within 12 months."
Mayor de Blasio took his pre-K campaign to the blogosphere this afternoon, inviting a group of parent bloggers to City Hall for a discussion on preschool and after-school programs, which he is fighting to expand.
“We need Albany to hear concerns of parents in our city and provide the resources,” said Mr. de Blasio, who has launched a massive push to try to convince lawmakers in Albany to approve a tax on the city’s richest residents to fund the programs.
Bow before Dominique Ansel's latest dessert creation, New York.
The baked goods equivalent of Dr. Frankenstein and creator of the CroNut unveiled his latest creation at Austin's South by Southwest -- the chocolate-chip-cookie milk shot. And it is coming to Mr. Ansel's New York bakery.
To be clear, these are shot glasses made of cookie, filled with organic milk. Just look at them. Look at them and despair for your waistline.
"In France, we don't naturally think about drinking milk with cookies," Mr. Ansel told Fast Company. "We don't eat very many cookies at all. So the first time someone told me milk and cookies are a 'thing,' I was very fascinated by it. And that's what inspired the creation."
The cookie-cup hybrid has already caused the internet to explode, as expected.
Finally someone who understands me.. Chocolate cookie milk shots: milk tumblers made from chocolate chip cookies - http://t.co/AXXf7QYBkt
— jon housman (@jonhousman) March 7, 2014
Finally someone who understands me.. Chocolate cookie milk shots: milk tumblers made from chocolate chip cookies - http://t.co/AXXf7QYBkt
— jon housman (@jonhousman) March 7, 2014
This is the last thing I'll ever need to be happy http://t.co/TOXmwyB7DO
— Alex Douglas (@Alexwsu10) March 7, 2014
This is the last thing I'll ever need to be happy http://t.co/TOXmwyB7DO
— Alex Douglas (@Alexwsu10) March 7, 2014
Where will the Franken-Foods end? What is next for New York after the Cronut, the vegan Donart and now this? What happens if you put a Cronut on top of a Donart and dip it into a cookie shot glass?
Try not to think about it.