Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself

All my hip-hop heads have a conditioned response to the title.  But this isn’t a post about Jay-Z.

I went home to New York City for the second time in the last three months.  I love being there.  Every time I am, I rediscover parts of my city (and ostensibly, parts of myself) that I simply adore.  The subway, Times Square, Union Square, Downtown Brooklyn, all of these places and many more have played essential parts in my development.

I go back to New York to reconnect with parts of myself that don’t go over as well in smaller venues.  Qualities like brashness and a high-strung nature don’t necessarily play so well in other cities, and it’s a shame.

It’s a common saying that you can’t go home again. There’s a degree of truth to that, I guess, if you’re referring to home as a building of apartment.  Eventually, the people that made your house a home leave, your neighborhood changes, and that part of your life fades into memory.  But home is more than just a place, home is a feeling, a sense of being in the right place.  And every time I come home I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s for a weekend.

Now, if only I could afford it for longer than that.

In the meantime, I reintroduce myself to the city, and by proxy, myself. I can see all the ways I have changed for being away, good and bad.  I may not be as impatient or excitable anymore, I may not have as much direct access to stimulus anymore, but I can appreciate clean air now, and even quiet to a degree (in small amounts). 

Unfortunately for the people in the much smaller town in which I currently reside, though, I now have a six-month supply of being a New Yorker in my system.  Please forgive me.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 -- Your Earliest

Last month I did a 30-day writing challenge.  I posted about it in my last post.  Writing prompts were given and it made me think of writing in ways I hadn't before.  Some of it was good, some of it not.  Some of it was deeply personal.  I'm going to share some of my favorites.

#2: My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory comes from July of 1983.  I was four and change.  I sat in the bedroom that was partitioned off for my brothers.  We lived in a pre-war apartment building in Brooklyn, so we had the space to cram four boys into half a bedroom.

I was watching WPIX 11, New York's local independent station at the time, and home of the New York Yankees.  Stuff happened that I didn't understand until much later in life.  The game was honestly boring to me.  Then this happened:

 

 

 

 

 

It was weird, like a light went on in my still forming head.  This game was cool. Anything that could make grownups act like this was beyond cool.  And that day, I became a Yankee fan.

 

 

The Billion-Dollar (Day)Dream

Powerball is at $1.3 billion for Wednesday's drawing, and if you're like me, you've got most of it spent already,  what with the homes you would buy and friends and family you would help or avoid.  Some would see the world, others would invest in a solid gold bathtub (because, you know, gold is a stable investment).  And I would love for you all to comment on what you would do in the comments section down below.

Personally, I would send all my inner circle an email to go to the airport at a specific time.  There would be a ticket waiting for them.  And we would go on one EPIC adventure.  After that was done, though, it would be time to make that money work for me.  I may be crazy, and I'm definitely not a finance guy, but here's what I would do.

First, I would move my family (brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces) to one place, where we would own a block off homes, or a cul-de-sac or something.  Thomas Town would be born.

Next, I would set up my nephews and nieces with independent million dollar trust funds, untouchable until they turn 21.

I would section off an enormous amount to simply accrue interest.

I would then start Thomas Holdings, Ltd as a way to allot the money in a manner that it would never be completely depleted.  This company would be the way I did real estate back home (more on that later), do an entertainment startup, or any number of ventures that two or three hundred million would allow.  I would have the holding company pay me and my family a salary (to at least give the illusion that there should be some degree of responsibility for one's own money) and live.

The real estate thing is a big deal to me, as it would be my way of giving back to my hometown.  I'm from Brooklyn, NY (as most of you know), and grew up in Flatbush, one of the neighborhood that is at the center of the big gentrification issues going on back home.  While it may be all Starbucks and hipster now, when I was there it was affordable, low-to-middle income housing (the 'hood).  Some of my greatest friendships were forged there, some of my best memories happened there, and some of the best stories that can't be told start and end there.  If you go to my closest circle of friends and say the words "Silencio del Gato," they will smile, laugh... and bite the cyanide pill in their teeth to avoid revealing secrets (we take that seriously).  But I digress.

New York as a whole, Brooklyn in particular, has become inaccessible for the most part to the low-to-middle income citizen, despite that being the vast majority of the city.  Ask any one of the five co-workers sharing a two-bedroom, 950 sq. ft. apartment in Bed-Stuy or Sunset Park, and paying a grand.  Each.  What I would do is, starting with the block I grew up on, buy some of the older buildings, renovate them, and rent them out to low-to-middle income families.  Not the projects, but actual livable apartments.  With reasonable square footage.  That didn't demand 75% of your earnings to simply keep a roof over your head.  There are some that would regard this as a bleeding-heart fantasy devoid of any business sense, but I disagree.  Yes, can cater to the high-end and make large sums of money, but there are more people two or three tiers down than there are at the top, and that is a huge market in NYC.  With a little less than a billion dollars in the bank, profit wouldn't be my primary motivation, but it would generate income nonetheless.

It's a billion-dollar fantasy that makes me smile.  And if my $20 pulls that in and makes that fantasy a reality, how cool would that be?

But hey, it's the lottery.  I might as well ask Santa Claus to make that happen.

Feel free to comment with your daydreams and money wishes.  Cheers!

Side note:  I'd be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to the late David Bowie.  Along with Madonna, he was the master of innovation and reinvention, both stylistically and musically.  You've gotta hand it to a man who managed to stay relevant since the mid-70s.  RIP, Mr. Bowie.

Not These Fools Again, Part 1 (Vacation, Day four part 2: Park Slope, Brooklyn, NYC)

Nyilah and I were running late.

We were supposed to meet up with my friend Kevin at a bar called Dram Shop.  I had put out a blast on Facebook, signaling people he and I both knew to join us there.  Unfortunately, due to the last minute nature of the activity, no one he and I used to work with were able to make it.  And because of my aging phone's declining battery, I was unable to keep up on Facebook with whomever could.  I knew Kev would be there though, it was his idea.  Kevin is one of the people that inspired my first novel, The Fab 5.  We had known each other a good 22 years, had worked together at various places.  He is one of the absolute funniest people I've ever met, and easily a highly ranked person on my bullet list.

The train from Coney Island had a few delays, adding 30 minutes to a 40 minute trip.  When we finally got to the bar, Kevin was nowhere to be found.  He elected to wait for us at another bar, but joined us fairly quickly once we arrived.  We picked out a booth and ordered our drinks.  Nyilah had a vodka tonic, and I only remember that because I had never been in a bar with my niece before.  So strange, having a drink with this girl I watched grow up.  Kev thought so too; it was evident when the two of them got into discussion on a topic of shared interest: music.  My niece went to school for music management, and Kev is a drummer in a band that's about to release their first studio album, as well as a producer.  I observed and intermittently participated in this conversation for the better part of an hour over drinks and appetizers.  By the way, if you're ever in Park Slope, Dram Shop has amazing wings and burgers.

After an hour we were joined by Eric, who's tangentially related to me.  He's the younger brother of my oldest nephew by my oldest sister, though neither of them has the same mother.  Through the family connection alone, he's on the bullet list, but even without that he's one of the most stand-up people I've known.  If you're in with him, everyone you know is in with him.  He's loud and brash and quick-witted, and VERY New York.  I say that as one of the highest compliments.  Eric was at my dad's funeral, which says a lot as to how close he is with my family.  Once he joined our table, it was a party.  After E got over the initial shock of Nyilah being 24 and able to drink, he treated her like part of the group, that is to say totally indifferent to the fact that she was a she.  Ah, the stories we told.

We talked a lot about playing football in the park, especially about two games in particular (more on that later).  We talked a lot about prank wars.  We talked a lot about being in my old apartment and playing cards or dominoes throughout the night.  And a lot about old girlfriends.  Periodically I would look up at my niece and realize that, holy crap, she shouldn't be hearing this, only to find her cracking up at the stories we told.  And we were loud enough that the wait staff couldn't help but laugh at our stories.

A giant shadow passed over our table and said "wassup, fellas" in a voice that was familiar, but deepened by age.  I looked up to see Vachel, a guy I literally watched grow up.  His sister went to Erasmus Hall High School with my brother, and we became friends through that, even though he was several years younger than me.  He's always been a big kid, built like an offensive lineman.  We hadn't spoken in quite some time as life gets in the way occasionally, but he had gotten married a few years back and had his first child late last year.  Both situations agreed with him.

When he got to our table the stories only got raunchier.  We again referenced football.  Two games in particular -- the game where I got hurt (where, as Kevin put it, the group tried to carry my big ass to the hospital) and the legendary "Ninja Please" game, where after some trash talking by a friend in absentia, my normally mild-mannered self responded with a high-pitched "What?! Ninja Please!"

I didn't say "ninja."

We drank for a few hours, remembering our childhoods and the time we spent together in those formative years.  We reflected on the people who couldn't make it out that night, and definitely agreed we needed to make an effort to get together more frequently.  However, responsibility crept up on my friends as time went on and while they didn't want to leave, they weren't on vacation.  We got outside and puttered around a bit before Vachel had to get back to his family, Kevin had work to do and Eric had to return the car he borrowed.  We agreed to barbecue at Vachel's place when I came back to town in a week.  After all, I had a plane to catch the next day.

It Went Straight. Up. (Vacation, Day four part 1: Coney Island, Brooklyn, NYC)

Another day in Brooklyn started with the gym and no other particular agenda.  Ahh, that is the life.  I knew I wanted to hang with my niece, and that I wanted to go to Coney Island.  She, however, wanted to get a pedicure first.  I sometimes forget that she's 24 now, and the condition of her hands and feet are important tools in attracting men that my brothers and I would later intimidate.  Recalling that I very recently (and accidentally) shredded my girlfriend's sheets with my feet, I elected to join her.  It was relaxing, and right after we made our way to the train to Coney Island.

My niece and I went to the same high school, twelve or so years apart.  As we passed it on the train, we both fondly remembered some of the neighborhood's food options, largely consisting of bagels and pizza that I can confirm are simply much better in Brooklyn than anywhere else.  It's the tap water.  After that, we watched as the Q train pulled up past Brighton Beach and the iconic Parachute Jump came into view at Stillwell Avenue.  Welcome to Coney Island.

I hadn't been to Coney Island since 2008.  Know what?  That's too far to start in the story.

I'm a contradiction: I'm terrified of heights, but I love roller coasters.  I grew up with one of the most famous ones in the world in my own backyard, so to speak.  I last went to Coney Island in 2008 with a good friend of mine, and while the rides mostly sucked, the corn dogs were tasty and the log flume ride wasn't so bad (okay, okay, I screamed like a little girl and it was caught on camera).  But it was Coney Island, Astroland as it was called then, and it's heyday was well, well past.  Before that afternoon, I hadn't been to a real theme park, on a real roller coaster since 2004 or so.

A couple of years ago, Astroland closed and the area was almost completely razed except for the three landmarked spots: the Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, and the world-famous Cyclone.  In its place was Luna Park, with upgraded and updated rides and attractions.  There were two that caught my eye: the Soarin' Eagle ride, and the New Thunderbolt.

My niece accompanied me to Luna Park, and it's nice to hang out with her as an adult. She had been like a little sister for so long, it was interesting and refreshing to finally interact with her as an adult and a peer instead of as a really smart kid.  I kept that in mind as I watched her descend into a terrified mess on the Wonder Wheel.  To be fair I wasn't much better.  It's a 94 year-old Ferris Wheel with selected cars that swing on a track.  We were on a swinging car.  I won't pretend like I was brave, but I couldn't panic the way I wanted because my niece was freaking out (Jesus, take the wheel, and such).

So after five minutes of protracted circular terror, I decided to venture on to the Thunderbolt.  Coney Island was going to be an abbreviated visit this time as we were meeting friends for drinks later that evening.  I had to decide between the Thunderbolt and the Soarin' Eagle, and the Thunderbolt looked interesting.  To me, at least; my niece decided that she would sit this one out.

Remember what I said about her being really smart?

From a distance, the Thunderbolt looked interesting.  It had a 90 degree initial ascent and a 90 degree initial descent, and loops and twists and the like.  There had been a couple of steel coasters in Coney Island's past, but they were mostly designed to scare seven year-olds.  I assumed the Thunderbolt was just a cool-looking continuation of this design sensibility.

Then I got up close and saw the thing got up to about 120 feet.  And it moved along at a pretty good clip.

Still though, I thought, this is New York City, where in the past a coaster of sufficient size and speed to actually be a thrill ride couldn't exist alongside the Cyclone, simply for reasons of not enough real estate.  How bad could it possibly be?

Spoiler alert: bad. Very, very bad.

The thing about a 90 degree ascent is that the car pointed straight up.  You were basically on your back, looking straight up.  The chain pulley towed the car straight up.  Most roller coasters drag out the terror with a gradual incline.  Even the legendary Cyclone, whose terror is based in its age and its composition (90+ years, made of wood, I believe it's the oldest wooden coaster still standing in the US) only had an initial drop of  58.1 degrees, and that drop was 85 feet. Not this nightmare.  Nope, the Thunderbolt would not delay gratification.  It went. Straight. Up.  After the hump, it went straight down.

Allegedly.  I had my eyes closed on the drop.

There were twists and turns and zero gravity sensations abound, and when it was over, all I could muster were a vacant stare and a constant drone of "Oh $#!7.  It went straight up." My niece, the smart one, laughed.

Afterward, we grabbed a quick bite to eat.  Neither of us had much in the way of food, and it was a long train ride to Park Slope, where we would meet old friends of mine for food and drink.  She had a knish, and I had a funnel cake.  Bits of happy all around.