We had breakfast in a little diner on 9th Avenue this morning. It was the usual fodder. Pancakes. Waffles. Omelettes. Sam tried grits, an anaemic looking, corn-based mush, which look like porridge and are apparently fairly tasteless. I don't actually know whether to talk about grits as a plural or a singular.
The diner had English football matches playing on its television screens. Newcastle were playing West Ham at one point. English soccer is massive news over here, as it is all over the world. I am eternally astonished that we can't seem to put together a decent national team. Not that I remotely care about football. I find the game faffy and feminine and the fans are crude and aggressive.
We walked the length of the incomparable High Line this morning, which follows the length of a raised railway track, which fell into disrepair in the second half of the 20th Century. It reopened as a walk in 2009, and every time I come here, they've extended it a little bit further. It now stretches all the way from 34th Street down to Gansevoort Street in the Meat Packing District, which is over 20 blocks away. It's a very special resource. The raised walkway has some stunning views over the city, but it's also been really carefully planned with places to sit, paddle, look at art work, eat, play, meet people and contemplate. The trees they planted when they landscaped the walk are now looking established. I remember coming here some years ago and thinking how lovely it would all be when the trees were tall. I had no idea that this moment would arrive so speedily. The place keeps developing. There's always something exciting and new to look at. My favourite spot has always been the giant glass window from where you can look all the way up Tenth Avenue.
From the end of the High Line, we walked through that uniquely treacle-like New York Village light to Christoper Street, which is, of course, home to the infamous Stonewall Bar where, 49 years ago, rioting helped to put gay rights firmly on the agenda. The riots kicked off the day that Judy Garland died when police raided the bar and made a number of totally spurious arrests. I'm not sure there's any real connection with Judy Garland's death, beyond coincidence, but perhaps the people in the bar were in a state of shock after the death of their icon, and the raids simply tipped them over the edge. The romantic in me likes to think that this was the case.
The bars in the West Village were displaying a riot of different flags including the flag for men who like leather, the trans flag and the bear flag. Yes, there is a flag for hairy gay men! They've also started resurrecting the eight-colour rainbow flag in honour of Gilbert Baker, who died earlier this year. Baker designed the rainbow flag initially with extra turquoise and pink stripes, but this proved to be too expensive. From that point onwards, the pride flag was six-coloured. It was really rather lovely to see it as Baker originally desired. Around the village we saw a number of pictures of Donald Trump which had had their faces scratched out! Trump might love New York, but the feeling is certainly not mutual.
We dropped Sam and Matt off at Washington Square Gardens. It was boiling hot, so Nathan stuck his head in the fountain and got soaking wet. We then took the subway up to Midtown to discover that the whole of Eighth Avenue had been pedestrianised and turned into a giant street market as far as Central Park. We ate arepas. We'd never had them before. They're little sweetcorn fritters with mozzarella inside. The people selling them are all Latino. The women I bought mine from only spoke Spanish.
We went to see a matinee of Groundhog Day this afternoon, which was a show we both missed during its all-too-short run in London. It's playing here at the August Wilson theatre. Broadway theatres change their names so regularly that I have no idea if I've seen something in that particular theatre before. I've seen a lot of Broadway shows, so it's a strong possibility. We went with our friend Cindy and all three of us enjoyed the show immensely. The second half, in particular, really touched me, and got right under my skin. I guess I've felt rather trapped in my own life of late: slogging away at my career with absolutely zero financial reward and, as such, felt like I've been going round in ever decreasing circles. A piece about a day which repeats and repeats was always going to hit me hard.
I think the show must be appealing to men. I have never in my life seen such a queue for the gents loo during an interval. I think there were more than 100 men in a line which stretched up two flights of stairs. A bemused front of house staff member was standing at the top of the steps barking, "this is the end of the line for the men's bathroom."
After the show we went to a dive on Nine where we ate salad and I had a Gin and Tonic which made me a little squidgy. I've had two more since! Jem and Ian joined us between shows, and it was like old times again. God I've missed those two.
This evening we headed back down to the West Village. First stop was Duplex, a piano bar, two doors along from Stonewall, but it was incredibly loud to the extent that I had to put tissue paper in my ears! After a quick drink, we crossed the road to Monster Bar and propped up the piano in the corner, where a delightful pianist (an entertainment lawyer by day) was playing songs from the shows. We covered pretty much every major show in about two hours. I led the group in a rendition of Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Funny what you end up singing. The pianist explained to me that cabaret and open mic pianists used to refuse to play music by Lloyd-Webber because they didn't consider it to be proper musical theatre. I don't know whether that was more an anti British thing, or a stance against the perceived simplicity of his music. Anyway, apparently things changed when Sunset Boulevard came out. Pianists considered this show to be more worthy of their fingers!
The last time I propped up the piano in this bar was probably in about 2007. I was with Nathan and Matt Lucas and we were singing the whole of Little Shop Of Horrors. As we indulged our musical theatre whims, we became aware of quite a major commotion, and realised one of the queens in the bar had glassed another. There was blood literally everywhere. It looked like someone had dipped the poor bloke in red paint. After a while we continued to sing... the show must go on!
I was very moved when the whole bar broke into Somewhere Over the Rainbow. When you're sitting opposite Stonewall, that song has a deeper significance. We left the bar and sang a glorious rendition of Sweet Dreams on the street outside with a beautiful black drag queen.
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