From My Heart In Bed-Stuy
The breeze feels cool again. It’ll breathe a few more breaths before I finish this sentence. I look up, and see nothing but a sea of green. The sky is clear, and the sunset glows dimly. If I were to close my eyes, only to open them up again, it would not matter where the sun is setting on. It really could be anywhere, and to me, it’s everywhere.
If hipster is the new choch, and choch is the new guido, then does being normal also mean being the outcast? Or are we just tourists?
It’s been 15 days since I saw the fog overtake Lake Michigan. Rob and Kathy had trusted my up to minute weather forecast. We ventured out of the gloomy city to find a sunny sky over the beaten highway. As we approached the beach, it became prevalent that there was a sudden lack of visibility. The fog engulfed our Saturday afternoon sandy fun for the duration of our trip. Without further traveling, we were the only things that we could see, and judging from the smooth surf music periodically emitting from a cell phone speaker, we were the only things that mattered. As we left, the fog started to disappear. We came to the conclusion that the fog was either moving slower than us, centralized in one location, or simply a metaphor to cover up what we were all really thinking about. I now know the answer. The fog was traveling east at a slow rate. It took 5 days for it to reach Pennsylvania. I encountered it near the Jersey border, somewhere deep in the Poconos. I couldn’t see anything. The wipers were fucked. Other cars, semis and horses flew by me as if there was no hazard at all. I knew that this was my impending doom. This pseudo-vacation was becoming a crash course in reality. At around 3:30 AM, I encountered a rest stop. I needed to calm down, to relax, to do…something. Looking out into the distance, there was nothing to see but white. I called Rob in desperation, just to see how the weather was in New Jersey. According to his internets, the fog never existed. He talked me down, and I got the courage to start the truck back up. As I pulled back onto the expressway, I found that the fog was gone. Nothing but a focused road. I may never know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found the rest stop. All I know is that on a hazy morning, on a rooftop in Bushwick, I saw a fog on the horizon. But it never came my way…
I was hoping that the Big Apple would lack Mosquitoes. Fuck, was I wrong.
There’s a girl I always see when I pass through Williamsburgh. Actually, I may have only seen her once, but I may have seen her a million times. Regardless, I saw her at a bar on a later date, and knew that I had seen her a million times, or only once. I spent the whole night trying to gain the courage to express this to her. When I finally did, she was nowhere to be found. As I was leaving, I locked eyes with a girl sitting at a table. She had her hair up, which made her loo entirely different than before. It was then that I realized that it had been a million times. So I left.
Top 3 albums to listen to on the subway: Madvillainy 2, Stop Making Sense, and Kicking & Sleeping.
I wish I could say that Bed-Stuy makes the best fried chicken in New York without sounding racist. It’s just simply the truth. I crave Kennedy’s Fried Chicken on a bi-daily basis. On the other days, I crave Crown’s Fried Chicken. The dilemma? It’s the same fucking chicken! This is somewhat ingenious, as the proprietor of Kennedy/Crown has singlehandedly put a stranglehold on the fried chicken market in Bed-Stuy. This is accomplished by fooling the customer into thinking that they are 2 separate companies competing. On Nostrand Ave, you have Crown Fried Chicken. Across the street and one building over is Kennedy’s. They have seperate logos, and personalized packaging, but have the same exact menus with the same exact food. However, the places have slightly different policies. For example, the Crown on Nostrand and Lafayette automatically dish out dinner rolls with every order, but the Kennedy on Franklin and Fulton do not. However, the Kennedy on Nostrand gives out dinner rolls, but the Crown across the street doesn’t. Confused? Of course you are! Fried chicken is a confusing business! You think this is a game? You think you can have some old geezer advertise chicken and you’ll make millions? Fuck that! You have to confuse everyone else! On a side note, a lot of people complain that the sidewalks of Bed-Stuy are littered with chicken bones. Of course they are! The shit is delicious! On the other hand, I saw a discarded 5 lb ham sitting on a sidewalk in Bushwick. What does that say about Bushwick? Fuck if I know!
Spike Lee “made” a vodka based on Brooklyn, in conjunction with Absolut. Instead, I wish he would’ve joined forces with Miller to make Miller Brooklyn Life. Or maybe just not sell out at all…
As I left Michigan, I was listening to She & Him’s album, “Volume 2”. It felt different than it did today, as I listened to it while staring out the window of the A Train. Today, I actually felt the romantic longing that the album was originally supposed to invoke. Grand adventures always tend to skew the tone and purpose of music. Once the adventure is over, or settled, the music is still there to invoke a meaning in life, and a possible adventure in the future.
As the sun goes down, it becomes harder to write in a hammock. However, I do love the idea that I have a large stomping ground at my disposal once I am done.
I am starting to romaticize with the idea of spending my off days as one of those guys that stand out in front of Fat Beats trying to sell indie hip-hop demos. I feel that if I believe enough in the music, then perhaps I could persuade at least a couple of people to do the same. After all, who doesn’t like supporting the little guy, or discovering new music? Losers, that’s who.
Park Slope is cool if you are talented, wealthy, and make your wealth from talent. I am none of these things, so Park Slope blows. Sorry, Chris.
I wonder if Chinatown has the same smell as China itself. This is because every Asian Market I’ve visited in Michigan has the same smell as Chinatown. Either the market is meant to smell like Chinatown, or Chinatown is supposed to smell like China, or this is what you really get when you combine old imported foods and excessive amounts of garbage. I wonder what Little China smells like…besides trouble…
As a resident of New York, I must express that Times Square is lame. As Troy Turnwald, I must express that the pretty lights are a guilty pleasure of mine, and I sometimes go there just to wander around aimlessly.
My newspaper conundrum continues. It took me 4 days to find a conveniently located bodega in Bed-Stuy that sells The Times. This means that I spent 4 days settling on The Post, which is actually leagues better than USA Today. When I finally found a nearby place with the Times, I bought one to find that half of the business section was missing. So then, I started getting off on random subway stops on my commute to find the nearest newsstand, buy the Times, and then get back on the next train. It was a fruitless endeavor. So I get home delivery set up. It was supposed to start today. It never showed up. Once again fearing that my new address is unroutable, I call them, only to find out that I was actually supposed to get it. They credit my account, no big deal, whatever. But then, hours later, I get a call from an unknown number. Thinking that it’s a callback on a job, I jump for joy an jubilantly answer the phone. It’s the Times, making sure that I didn’t get my paper. Of course I didn’t get my paper. Stop calling me, and give me my paper. Or a job…
Around these parts, light beer is more expensive than regular. This is probably because water is such a scarce resource. Wait a minute…
During the gloomiest day in town yet, we went down to a Sea Port. On top of a balcony, we looked down into the vacant water. I knew that although we were all there, we were thinking different things. Because we are all different people. Different, but yet, the same. We are all part of the same wave, moving forward, forever and ever. And as I stared deeper into the wave, I thought I saw a reflection of myself. It turned out to be a reflection of everything. A reflection of my past. A reflection of my future. A reflection of nothing at all. But I will ride, and ride I will. Until this wave crashes over this whole damn city, and washes us all. Forever…
And when I look at the sky, I still see the same stars as everyone else. And I see a plane flying overhead, and I know that others see it too. It’s exactly how I thought it’d be.
In my experience, China Town smells remarkable like China.. except, China Town, for the most part, tends to smell worse. And there is less chicken blood running through the gutters.
Welcome back, Coze.
If you still do not receive any NY Times, you’ll find plenty of shops to pick them up in Soho. I know you’ll be frequenting there starting Monday. Ride on Coze!