Tomorrow is a big day. So big that they moved up that CPA ceremony– okay that joke only runs so far, and we didn’t even think it up. So banish that, since yesterday presages only more strife and discontent elsewhere. Here, we have much smaller fish to fry. Before we get to that, let’s touch briefly on the state of service journalism in the city. I, like, I am sure, many provinical hopefuls, used to read the Village Voice (even before I got here) as some bellwether of a place we all hoped the world could become. And we looked those who deigned to speak negatively of it as outlanders, all simply frustrated at the margins. I have lived here long enough that I can remember when the release of the Voice was a physical event. The newsstand in front of the Astor Place Starbucks used to be the newsstand in front of an really mediocre diner. Each Tuesday, people would begin to line up in the late afternoon, since the very first editions would be delivered sometime between 7 and 9 to that newsstand, and the phones would begin to light up immediately. I haven’t lived here so long that cell phones weren’t always first mover advantages, but close. See, before the Internet, getting an apartment hinged getting Voice, as soon as possible. That wasn’t online listings updated daily, but physically putting your hands on a copy the moment it was available. Sure, it was a bit of an overrated myth, but it was a good trial by fire for all the recent converts. And it was fun to watch, once you were ensconced in your rent stabilized closet. It made the Voice essential, for those few hours Tuesday night. The other thing that made the Voice required reading was the best two goddamned pages of sports reporting in this city. Allen St. John, Allen Barra, these were folks who loved sports and who had politics that didn’t make you wince. Hell, sometimes they did, but they wrote, they wrote like madmen, stuffing everything they could into the slim allotment they had, facing a welter of sex ads (who remembers their fake sex ads delivered as a homage to Marv Albert?). And now they are gone again. And I’m creeping towards middle age and look derisively on the Voice like every other posturing old crank.
In its place we have the New York Sports Express. Led by the able hand of Matt Tiabbi, forget any animosity you might have towards that Russ fella, sent back to Balitmore, where he belongs, the NYSX is the blast of inspired sports writing you seek. The Blotter, a listing of the criminal ways of sports figures, is priceless. And they track the maundering of NY sports owners in The Biz. This week, they point out that the future of Atlantic Yards hinges on the (likely rubber stamp) vote on June 30 by the NBA Board of Governors of Bruce Ratner’s purchase of the NJ Nets. If you have any smoldering ill will, and photos of Mark Cuban in compromising positions, you have about 24 hours to make your opposition known. Otherwise, consign yourself to hopeless lefty chanting in front of cyclone fencing on Flatbush Avenue for the next five years.
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The day the Atlantic Center died.
Tomorrow is a big day. So big that they moved up that CPA ceremony– okay that joke only runs so far, and we didn’t even think it up. So banish that, since yesterday presages only more strife and discontent elsewhere. Here, we have much smaller fish to fry. Before we get to that, let’s touch briefly on the state of service journalism in the city. I, like, I am sure, many provinical hopefuls, used to read the Village Voice (even before I got here) as some bellwether of a place we all hoped the world could become. And we looked those who deigned to speak negatively of it as outlanders, all simply frustrated at the margins. I have lived here long enough that I can remember when the release of the Voice was a physical event. The newsstand in front of the Astor Place Starbucks used to be the newsstand in front of an really mediocre diner. Each Tuesday, people would begin to line up in the late afternoon, since the very first editions would be delivered sometime between 7 and 9 to that newsstand, and the phones would begin to light up immediately. I haven’t lived here so long that cell phones weren’t always first mover advantages, but close. See, before the Internet, getting an apartment hinged getting Voice, as soon as possible. That wasn’t online listings updated daily, but physically putting your hands on a copy the moment it was available. Sure, it was a bit of an overrated myth, but it was a good trial by fire for all the recent converts. And it was fun to watch, once you were ensconced in your rent stabilized closet. It made the Voice essential, for those few hours Tuesday night. The other thing that made the Voice required reading was the best two goddamned pages of sports reporting in this city. Allen St. John, Allen Barra, these were folks who loved sports and who had politics that didn’t make you wince. Hell, sometimes they did, but they wrote, they wrote like madmen, stuffing everything they could into the slim allotment they had, facing a welter of sex ads (who remembers their fake sex ads delivered as a homage to Marv Albert?). And now they are gone again. And I’m creeping towards middle age and look derisively on the Voice like every other posturing old crank.
In its place we have the New York Sports Express. Led by the able hand of Matt Tiabbi, forget any animosity you might have towards that Russ fella, sent back to Balitmore, where he belongs, the NYSX is the blast of inspired sports writing you seek. The Blotter, a listing of the criminal ways of sports figures, is priceless. And they track the maundering of NY sports owners in The Biz. This week, they point out that the future of Atlantic Yards hinges on the (likely rubber stamp) vote on June 30 by the NBA Board of Governors of Bruce Ratner’s purchase of the NJ Nets. If you have any smoldering ill will, and photos of Mark Cuban in compromising positions, you have about 24 hours to make your opposition known. Otherwise, consign yourself to hopeless lefty chanting in front of cyclone fencing on Flatbush Avenue for the next five years.