John Jay on TV (Anonymously)?

CUNY's well-regarded John Jay College of Criminal Justice recently added an impressive new structure on Eleventh Avenue (which subsequently becomes West End Avenue) as an addition to its campus. Passing by it frequently on the M57 bus, I have become aware that it does double duty on more than one occasion. From time to time, the building has its name changed. A couple of weeks back, in large, neat, permanent-appearing letters, it was called "ALL SAINTS HOSPITAL." And just today, its name had been changed to "BOOKER UNIVERSITY." Underneath the Booker name was "University Hospital." Most intriguing. A quick check on Google (delightfully, the relatively new voice-activated Google app on my iPhone), showed that, apparently, there is no such university. And there doesn't seem to be an All Saints Hospital in New York City, either.

My keen intelligence, honed by endless viewings of the now-defunct, but still ubiquitous, Law and Order (where Lt. Van Buren and others were John Jay alumni), allowed me to posit that they are using John Jay's handsome western façade as a location indicator for one or another TV shows, most probably police and/or medical dramas. I'll have to look sharp to see if I can catch it on the small screen one of these days.

Update! Further research reveals that "All Saints Hospital" is the workplace of Edie Falco, the eponymous protagonist of the show Nurse Jackie on Showtime. O.K., that mystery solved. Now, where is "Booker University"?

Sometimes Music Hath No Charms At All

The music that one will hear inside this "hallowed" place is always appropriate to the impressive setting. BUT....!

Friends and I have enjoyed Aquavit's Christmas Eve julbord for the past several years. We went again last night and found the quality and atmosphere had been maintained EXCEPT for one glaring fact. There was almost-too-loud background music playing that would have been suitable for a shopping mall, a Denny's or an Olive Garden, e.g., but not for a presumably sophisticated Manhattan top-class restaurant. This type of "Jingle Bells," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" background might go in Omaha, but not in NYC, and not at these prices. TACKY is the only way to describe it, and I can only hope that this was a one-time failing; we never experienced it (or, as I dimly recall, any other obtrusive background music) at Christmases past. Soft, high-level jazz would be best. Music is the bane of many otherwise fine dining establishments.

Sweet Spot

Diabetics everywhere: Beware! There are now three stores of the It'Sugar chain in the New York area. Passed this one on Broadway in the Lincoln Center area yesterday. One must admit that the colorful display of all manner of candies and related sweets makes an attractive picture. I stayed just outside the entrance myself, not being attracted to anything but top-of-the-line Belgian or French chocolates. Thus I was saved from the alluring fantasy of this emporium. Small children may lose their minds here.

MTA Musings, or, "Mama Don't 'Low"

Ever since the "NO littering, smoking, spitting, radio playing" notices have been up on NYC public transportation, I have, with my usual tendency to free-associate, been reminded of the following terrific American folksong:

           Mama Don't 'Low 

Mama don't 'low no banjo playing round here
Mama don't 'low no banjo playing round here
Well, I don't care what Mama don't 'low
Gonna play my banjo anyhow
Mama don't 'low no banjo playing round here

Mama don't 'low no guitar playing round here
Mama don't 'low no guitar playing round here
Well, I don't care what Mama don't 'low
Gonna play my guitar anyhow
Mama don't 'low no guitar playing round here

Mama don't 'low no talking round here
Mama don't 'low no talking round here
Well, I don't care what Mama don't 'low
Gonna shoot my mouth off anyhow
Mama don't 'low no talking round here

Mama don't 'low no singing round here
Mama don't 'low no singing round here
Well, I don't care what Mama don't 'low
Gonna sing my head off anyhow
Mama don't 'low no singing round here 

I just want to replace "banjo playing" with "littering," guitar playing" with "smoking," "talking" with "spitting," and "singing" with "radio playing." This is what I hear in my head when riding on an MTA bus or subway. I have a few more items that Mama shouldn't 'low, but it would make this entry too long.

Art on Park

Les Baigneuses, above, a sculpture by Niki de Saint Phalle, is currently reposing on the traffic island at 57th Street and Park Avenue. It's one of the reasons why a stroll up or down Park can be so pleasant. Other reasons that walking on Park can be a good experience include much wider sidewalks and some really high-end shops. (O.K., there's a Staples too, and, farther up, a Duane Reade among other interlopers.) The sculptures displayed on Park over the past few years have included the giant roses, which I commented on a while back, and even some Boteros, favorites of mine. Those giant plastic or acrylic or whatever-they-were roses looked especially nice when they had snow on them. Wonder if we'll ever see real snow in NYC again.

Here's another one, by Niki—a Totem to something or other. The other attraction on the traffic islands is the lovely floral display, donated by affluent civic-minded people. Right now it's miniature begonias.

And, finally, here's what's in front of the Seagram Building, one of my favorite edifices. Didn't get the artist or the title. Maybe it's more Niki. You tell me.

Santa Fe Dispatch

Dr. Johnson, who in his Dictionary famously defined opera as "an exotic and irrational entertainment," might still have enjoyed himself at the renowned Santa Fe Opera this (nearly) past summer. Everything there conspires to the enjoyment of the art, including the setting, as the view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the background to the far left confirms. Sometimes the effects of the excellent performances are enhanced by non-musical meteorological contributions such as thunder, lightning, and winds during a battle scene in Rossini's monumental Maometto II, a rediscovered masterwork.

The well-behaved and appreciative audiences are another Santa Fe advantage. Heard no cell phones go off, and very few excessive program rustlers. It helps that the beautiful program book is on heavy, rustle-proof stock. Also, we don't have early departures rushing to catch the commuter train to Westchester dashing up the aisles or, as was the case with the final performance of Billy Budd at the Met last spring, getting out of a row, stepping on feet, and ruining the last moments of Captain Vere's moving final monologue at the very end. I'm still angry about that!

Another oft-quoted opera description is by the late Ed Gardner on his hilarious 1940s radio program Duffy's Tavern ("where da elite meet to eat"): "Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back and, instead of bleeding, he sings." In Tosca, of course, Scarpia gets stabbed in the chest and is only able to croak out, "Soccorso—muoio," etc. (In Santa Fe's production he was then dragged through a doorway and you could just see his feet sticking out to indicate that there was a body lying there.) On the other hand, Rodrigo in Don Carlo does fulfill Gardner's description quite well, though we wouldn't want to miss his gorgeous aria.

Backing Into Pushkin

Planning to attend American Ballet Theatre's new production of John Cranko's ballet Onegin in a couple of days got me to thinking that I've never read Pushkin's Byronic verse novel Eugene Onegin, though I've read much about it and am a devotee of Tchaikovsky's actually perfect opera despite my failure to have learned more than a few words of Russian. In fact, the only Pushkin I've read, in translation of course, is his short story "The Queen of Spades" ("Pikvaya Dama") also because of an almost-as-wonderful Tchaikovsky opera.

The above portrait from Moscow's Pushkin Museum doesn't show any indication of Pushkin's partial noble African ancestry. Some sources indicate that this was a source of pride, while others maintain that there was some prejudice against him because of it.  Here are statues of Alexander and Natasha Pushkin in Moscow. A duel with a would-be admirer of his beautiful wife brought about the revered poet's death at age 38. Took this photo a few years ago when a tourist there.

And here is Pushkin himself—did his friends call him Sasha?—sitting at a table in what purports to be his old Moscow hangout. Eat your heart out, Madame Tussaud!

Couldn't resist snapping this on my way out of the restaurant. Anyway, at last I'm going to go at least part way to the source. Since I can't read Russian, I've just downloaded an Onegin translation on my Kindle and will read at least some of it before the ballet. Even though I know what's in Tatiana's letter and how it all ends (sniff!).

In Pushkin’s footsteps | Russia Beyond The Headlines