A mega-wealthy couple tore down the ugly, non-historically interesting buildings on a full block of Greenwich Street; they’d purchased the property in 2001 for 7.5 milion dollars. They proceeded to build a single family, three story, 12,000 square foot home which filled the block and resembles a fortress, or a sewage treatment plant. The couple never moved in, and listed the building for 25 million dollars. It just sold for 42.5 million dollars. Here’s the tragedy of this story: because the sale was never listed online, there haven’t been any photos of the interior for the rest of us to critique.
Yesterday I got into a cab. As he drove, the cabbie continued speaking very loudly into his cellphone. Even talking on a Bluetooth while driving is illegal, and all cabdrivers know this, so I politely asked the driver not to use the phone. He looked at me incredulously and said, “No, I need a few minutes, this is an international call.” So I assumed that he wasn’t a cabdriver but a CAA agent, and I got out of the cab.
They’ve opened the first NYC Denny’s, in Tribeca. The great thing isn’t just that they hired a mixologist to create artisanal cocktails, it’s that the place is designed to look like an industrial loft, circa 1988, with embossed tin ceilings and decorative bits of non-specific machinery. It’s as if Disneyworld now includes a Soholand,
Whenever someone builds a mansion like the one described and pictured above, everyone in the neighborhood always gossips that the owners are either Russian oligarchs or Israeli businessmen. Anything slightly less expensive and invasive, but still grotesque, is considered to be the home of a Hedge Fund manager. All of these people would make suitable Bond villains.
Interestingly, the sellers of the property above are actually a Texas oil heiress and her screenwriter spouse. Who would still make suitable Bond villains.
The Sunday morning line for the grungy bagel store on Hudson Street snakes onto the street. I join this single-file line. A dude in full $5000-bicycle spandex approaches me and asks, “You waitin’?”
Pushing the stroller, carrying another child on your chest in a Snugli, talking on the phone, walking the dog, wearing your sunglasses on the top of your head: you’re only allowed to do, at most, three of these things at the same time. Choose.
When I see a young, attractive, in-shape couple, usually wearing coordinated workout gear, strolling and discussing their brunch options, I always want to ask them: haven’t you read Gone Girl?
