Well, even the big city’s got this special brand of blues, as evidenced by the petition to have the St. Mark Bookshop’s rent lowered from its previously agreed to price they signed off on in a lease agreement with their landlord. More from Choire Sicha (who is seriously one of my favorite people that I don’t know personally) of The Awl:

“I encourage you petition-signers to go to your own landlords—during the first quarter of the lease that you just signed—and ask for a rent reduction. See how that goes. Yeah. If the bookstore wants to become a non-profit bookstore, let’s file that paperwork and do this thing. (I’ll help!) But this odd public-private partnership “public good” conception of a commercial business is giving me the willies a little.”

Agreed. It’s nice and sweet to get all wistful about stuff like books, but business is still business.

Though I will say that all this is not nearly as frustrating and unintentionally hilarious as all the pining for Border’s, the big corporate chain that shuttered more local businesses than it opened and then became a victim of its own mismanagement.

RELATED: AOA recently had an interesting interview with Susan Novotny, owner of The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza and Market Block Books in downtown Troy, about what local indie book stores could, should, and/or aren’t doing to survive.

No idea where this originated, but it’s been floating around my Facebook feed over the last twelve hours. Note – according to reader Henri, it looks like it originated from Fark.com.

Other notes:

• I didn’t feel a thing because of something about the building I work in and SCIENCE.
• Toby Keith has already written a song where he beats up Earthquakes.
• Some buildings were evacuated, but many office workers claimed to have felt their building Sway (from MTV News?) and left out of concern for their own safety. Thankfully, most were state workers, so productivity didn’t take a hit.
• Some legislators and their staffers left work due to concerns about surrounding gas mains and hit the bars. Some say because they’re a fun loving bunch, but I like to think the Earthquake shook them in the moral sense, reminding them of the ethical compromises they made to become Kings of S*** Mountain.
• My mother felt it down in Virginia. She’s fine.
• Please use this time to donate to the Special Olympics of NY. Donate to Megan and she’ll make you cookies, cupcakes, and/or an assortment of other goodies. Donate to Phil and he’ll do tons of stuff…including WRITING A SONG ABOUT YOU for a mere $25 donation.

It seemed like we spent an hour just staring at the Manhattan skyline, which from the New Jersey Turnpike is so close yet because of the geographical layout of the surrounding area is always further off than it seems. When I’m first arriving for a trip, the delay builds a delightful tinge of anticipation. Now it was just aggravating. I was exhausted, felt fat, and wanted to be in bed as soon as possible.

I woke up around 11:30am, showered and took my leave from Brian and Marla, who it seems I never get to spend enough time with even when I’m staying with them. It’s people like that which make me realize that geographical cures are a fool’s errand. It’s the people and connections you make, not where they are, that should entice you to stay or go.

I ventured out into the street, bags in tow, and took the 6 an Q trains to Park Slope. On the 6, I struck up a very brief conversation with a young couple whose young baby kept staring at me and laughing. On the Q, I kept avoiding eye contact with a young pretty brunette who, thankfully, did not laugh while she stared at me. I got off the train at 7th and Flatbush Avenues then walked South to a place recommended by a Trojan transplant originally from the other side of Prospect Park in Brooklyn. We had arranged to meet at 2:00pm.

I was a little over 45 minutes early, because I’m a big weirdo and do that sort of thing. Besides, I wanted to get a feel of the Tea Room before I met with Vic Christopher.

The Team Room is a large space with couches, chairs, and various furniture items that look like they were stolen from your first apartment. Nothing matched but everything fit. The thing that struck me the most though was that just as he had told me, this place was super comfortable and a conducive working environment in spite of the fact that it was packed. There isn’t really a spot like this anywhere in Troy or even really in the area, and boy, wouldn’t it would be great to have one like it here?

After I got settled, Vic arrived with his wife Heather. He was about a half-hour early, which he told me he almost always was. In that, we share something, though I felt that day that I had attained a small victory in our mutual neurosis via beating him there by fifteen minutes. After I adjusted to seeing him wearing something other than a suit, the three of us discussed Park Slope and Troy.

A couple years ago, All Over Albany made mention of a blurb that referred to Troy as “the new Brooklyn.” Nobody seemed to know what it meant, and it seemed pretentious to me, so I openly and publicly disavowed it. The region had enough downstate envy as it was, particularly with the crowd at Bomber’s on Lark Street at any given night (which I used to joke was in danger of losing its customer base because according to them they were all moving down to Williamsburgh in two weeks). I had eagerly wanted the region to work on establishing its own identity and criteria for development and gentrification before trying to ape other places by forcing a square block into a round hole.

I realize now that my dismissal of the notion was rooted more in arrogance than in any real desire to have Troy be its own place. Walking around Park Slope and having a discussion with Vic, I saw not only the similarities but the potential in taking inspiration from the area. I saw it and I felt it when I walked the streets and admired the brownstones, which I as a lifelong resident of Troy I had always taken for granted. I heard it in the way people talked, the walkability of the area, the street layouts, and the seamless integration of the residential and commercial.

Troy could be something. Vic saw this when he moved to the area years ago, and he still sees it now. I’d always wondered what it was that so endeared the area to him, and now I had finally figured it out. He fel in love with Troy because it’s his home. In a lot of ways, Troy is Brooklyn and vice-versa. More than just because of the reasons I’ve already mentioned, which are merely superficial criteria. Rather, it was the people, the diversity, and the feeling you got walking around that something great could come of all this. I can’t help but think my brother must have felt this too when he and his wife were looking for a new neighborhood.

Vic sees that potential and has done a great deal in helping to fulfill it. When I call myself a “local treasure,” it’s obviously in jest. Because who the Hell would call anyone that? Thing is, though, there is value that should be prescribed to people like Vic: a transplants who become permanent residents through equal parts comfort, familiarity, and vision. It’s my hope, and I expressed this to him, that whatever administration takes over in 2012 will keep that in mind. This city has suffered for thirty years under senseless partisan hackery and misplaced ambition that has seen blood shed, laws broken, and democracy compromised all for want of being able to lay claim to the title of King of S*** Mountain. It would be laughable if it didn’t cost the city so much and didn’t destroy so many lives in its wake.

In a very real way, there is blood on the hands of Troy politicos. There is a chance now, though, for us to overcome decades of sabotage and neglect for the sake of the ego of small men and women. But it lies with whoever becomes Mayor and whoever gets in the Council and for them to not only reform the city, but be willing to call out obstructionists whenever they stand in the way of change. More importantly, they need to want to do their job, not want the job to do something else. There’s a big difference there, and while there’s some good talkers in advance of this coming November, I’m not yet convinced that there’s anyone that has the gumption to brush off the hackery and actually make decisions in the best interests of the city.

But hey, if you’re reading this: change my mind. I dare you .

——————-

Tell 'em, Pop Tart. Tell 'em.

After departing the Tea Room, I arrived at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Naturally, the dogs greeted me first. Then there was Caden.

We played, laughed, and bonded. We went to the park and watched the dogs play on Prospect Park’s dog beach, with little Pop Tart acting like Queen Bitch and trying to herd all the larger animals. We walked over the greenery, with young people and families all around. Caden was eager to lead the way, having found a new freedom and exhilaration through this new trick he had picked up called walking.

It was hot as blazes and the park was crowded, but it was lost in his adorably clumsy steps.

I don’t have any more words, so here’s the video:

I stayed one more day with my brother and nephew. When Caden went down for his late morning nap, I went to a cafe around the corner to get some breakfast and do some writing. I received service with an attitude from two dudes still strung out from the night before who informed me “cash only” in a way that dripped with the unspoken ‘, moron’ attached at the end. Because apparently I should have read the sign that wasn’t there.

I sat down on a table that had been broken at some point and fixed in the most haphazard way possible. After ten minutes, a 135-pound Brooklynite in a knock-off fedora and meticulously “unshaved” face sits down next to me with a young blonde who desperately wanted him to say something interesting. She would leave unfulfilled, though I imagined listening to him that this was par for the course in their relationship. But then I hit a realization. Here I was in this f***ing place, this awful excuse for a coffeehouse patronized by neutered posers and brewing what I’m pretty sure was Maxwell House out of a can nestled in the midst of this wonderful Park Slope neighborhood. And I thought to myself, guess what? This place has its warts. And I thought back to conversations and time spent yesterday discussing what my own city could be, and I didn’t feel so bad about having to go home later that day.

Caden peeks out from his hiding spot.

After an hour, I went back to my brother’s apartment and spent some more time with my nephew. We laughed and played hide and go seek, except he was the only one hiding…in the same spot. Later that afternoon, I said my goodbyes and took the F train to Penn Station and the Megabus back to Albany.

I got home around 10:00pm and got into my bed as soon as possible. I wasn’t relieved to be home; I never am when I make my sojourn to see my brother’s family and the friends I have down there, who are some of the most wonderful people I know. I did, however, go to sleep that night with a renewed optimism and less angst about where I was.

There’s a button made by Hello Pretty City host Laura Glazer that I have on my bag, which reads “You take Brooklyn, I’ll take Troy.” You can buy it down at Anchor No. 5 Boutique, downtown on River Street right next to Market Block Books. While it’s not a permanent rallying cry, it is at least a statement I won’t dispute.

Not for now, at least.

PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS

• New York in August, Part 1: a newspaper deputy, hipsters, and hardcore bands
• New York in August, Part 2: Bohn Mi, Mon Ami
• New York in August, Part 3: …er, make that Philadelphia
• New York, or rather Philadelphia, Part 4: UFC 133 Live Report

I could feel their eyes on me, the man who hadn't showered yet that day.

Myself and two others on my team are looking to rappel off the Crowne Plaza Hotel in support of the Special Olympics of New York! Have you donated yet to our cause? Your donation can get you baked goods, a portrait drawn by yours truly, and much more. Plus, you’re automatically entered to win a $25 Target gift card! Give a little, get a little. Click here for more info.

—————–

I woke up early during my third day in New York. Well, as early as I’m going to be awake on a Saturday morning.

Brian, who I was staying with in Manhattan, needed as much time as possible to recover from his head cold. Bearing that in mind and wanting to give him as little distraction as possible, I took to the street sans a shower and headed to find someplace to get coffee that had WiFi. This turned out to be much harder than expected. I ignored the Starbucks that jumped in front of me every two blocks and made an earnest attempt to support a smaller business. The first two I came across had every table occupied and a line near the door. I stumbled upon Oren’s Daily Roast on Lexington, which looked promising. But I discovered when I sat down with my order that there was no available WiFi. Still, the fig bar was good and the coffee was adequate. It also gave me the opportunity (or perhaps forced me to) without the self-destructive distractions that being perpetually online provides me.

Matt Hamill squares off with Alex Gustafsson

I did need to clear out my work e-mail inbox before the end of the weekend, so after an hour at Oren’s Daily Roast I finally caved in and hit a Starbucks. The first one I encountered had a hand-written note saying their Wi-Fi was down and offering their earnest, most sincere apology. I knew they meant it because it was in the handwriting, which was distinctly feminine but possessed just a hint of sloppiness. I almost went there anyway to get more writing done, but naturally there was another one two blocks up that did have working Wi-Fi. As soon as I sat down, I suddenly remembered that I never really did care much for the whole “corporate/small business” delineation, much to my shame, and spent a brief moment trying to figure out why I’d made the effort in the first place.

After a few hours had passed I returned to the apartment and an awake Brian. We ordered a proper breakfast and got a phone call from Brian’s friend Gabe, who was driving us to Philadelphia for my first ever live UFC event.

Gabe is very friendly and jovial, which isn’t quite what some would expect from a man who trained with professional head-shamshers and earns coin bouncing at clubs and pubs. It’s been my experience however, that this sort – and by that I mean bouncers and fighters, both and respectively – were rarely disagreeable people to be around. I’m sure, too, the fact that we had one of the best tickets to a major sporting event contributed in no small way to a better mood.

We arrived in Philadelphia shortly after 5:00pm. From the car window, the Philly we saw was an alien municipality boasting a disjointed skyline littered with cranes and jagged edges. I grew up in Upstate New York in a city that once was or could have been what Philly is in terms of manufacturing. It has forced the city and the region to re-examine its priorities. My hometown of Troy in particular has made great strides in the last ten years towards rebuilding a downtown essentially from scratch. For someone like me, driving through Philly and seeing the sights I saw felt like I had traveled back in time. It is exactly what I envisioned an economically viable area to be, but in 1985. I had to check my phone to make sure it was still working. Only when I was able to update my Twitter was I able to breathe easy with the knowledge that we hadn’t been sucked into a time vortex.

We pulled into what I can only describe as a vast campus of sports and entertainment complexes that included Lincoln Financial Field, Citizens Bank Park, and the Wells Fargo Arena, which respectively house the NFL’s Eagles, MLB’s Phillies, and NHL’s Flyers. The area is situated in industrial South Philly. It provided, to me, an almost mystical contrast to the blue collar industrial grind. Here were not only the places where we go to relieve and/or forget the travails of our nine to fives, but they’re also situated in the most convenient space possible. It honestly filled me with a sense of wonder and a desire to get back to Philly to see, one day, a Phillies or Eagles game. Or maybe my friends Joe or Tom can convince me to forego my ignorance of hockey and actually attend a Flyers games. Stranger things have happened.

As we approached Wells Fargo we noticed that there were a lot more young teenaged girls than we anticipated. It was only when we parked that we discovered the true purpose of their sojourn: while twenty grown men sought to dispatch, submit, or outlast their opponents in an eight-sided fenced mat in front of a crowd largely composed of sweaty bros in Affliction t-shirts and their high-heeled girlfriends, twenty-two-year-old Taylor Swift was playing to a sold out crowd of screaming teenagers and their chaperones at Lincoln Financial Field. For a moment, I had a dilemma: Taylor Swift or the UFC? If there was a God, and he did love me, he wouldn’t have asked me to choose.

Kidding. Of course we still went. The tickets, after all, were free.

View from our seats.

Our hook-up came through Brian, who I was staying with in New York, and our mutual UFC contact. He’d met her through mutual work and shared objectives, and introduced me to her through e-mailed correspondence and exposure to my writings. Through this connection I had landed a (very) part-time gig writing articles for UFC.com meant to generate interest, hype fighters, and create pageviews. It wasn’t a bad gig, though the organization’s insane fight schedule this calendar year has made pinning her down for a pitch extremely difficult. The event was also my first time meeting her. Halfway through, just as my bladder started screaming bloody murder, she took a respite from what appeared to be a harrowing schedule to say hi to us. I expressed my thanks, briefly and clumsily.

When first entering a live UFC event, one can’t help but be impressed at the lengths the organization goes to. The organization definitely knows their fans and how to cater to them. There were scantily-clad women in fishnets posing for pictures with men that, despite spending more time in the gym than at their place of employment, approached with an enthusiasm that betrayed their social awkwardness. They also had the “Octagon Nation Tour,” a large mobile unit that opened up to interactive booths, rare items from the sport’s past, a chance to meet many of the fighters, and no shortage of contests and giveaways. Inside there were more tables and giveaways and contests such as a mechanism that measured the power of your punch and compared it to the sport’s best sluggers.

We took our seats and were immediately struck with how goddamn lucky we were. We had a straight on view of the cage, and sat on the same side as Dana White and the other UFC brass. Though we were actually on the first level above the floor, we had a better vantage point than most in closer seats. From my vantage point I was able to spot the unmistakable attire and build of Mickey Rourke, Charles Barkley, and more.

The celebrity component at these events is both good and bad. Certainly,it lends the sport some credibility and a reputation as a place to be seen, both of which it could desperately use. On the other hand, it has encouraged a culture similar to that of boxing, where many who acquire tickets go there to be seen and, as such, don’t show up until well into the televised portion of the evening. As a fan of the sport itself, I don’t understand the mentality of the person who isn’t there for the first fight. I’ve seen enough preliminary bouts make it to air to know that some great things happen in front of empty seats. What’s more perplexing is that tickets are relatively expensive. Why let your dollar go to waste? To me it’s like showing up to a Giants game in the fourth quarter. I just can’t wrap my head around it.

The display at the Wells Fargo Arena.

The event itself was, despite being one of the more haphazard and injury-riddled cards in recent history, a highly memorable evening. In a separate post I’ll provide my thoughts on the fights and a rundown on the event itself.

After the undersized yet immensely skilled Rashad Evans dispatched Tito Ortiz in the second round of the main event, we took our leave. We had anticipated a bit of a struggle and as such took our time getting to Gabe’s vehicle. We ran into Keith Peterson, one of the referees for the evening, who Gabe knew from around the way. That was a bit surreal.

When we approached the area where our car was and were told we had to go all the way around, our hearts sunk into our stomach. Our worst fears had been realized: the UFC and Taylor Swift contingents were departing at the exact same time. Fight geeks and emotionally desperate half-drunk juice heads were jammed into a gridlock with fourteen-year-old girls piled into their one friend’s mom’s minivan. Men discussed the likelihood of Rashad Evans being able to overcome Jon Jones’ aggression and freakish reach while cars passed by with windows adorned with Taylor Swift lyrics such as “I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you.”

After an hour and a half, we finally got out of the parking lot. We went to a place called Tony Luke’s in South Philly, surrounded by nothing except for things lesser than our destination. We ordered the cheese steak and were not disappointed. Finally, I felt like we had fulfilled a primary mission in life, which was to eat that one food in that one city that everyone says is a prerequisite if you’re a resident of the Northeast.

We got home shortly after 4:00am. We immediately went to bed with the promise that we would wake a quarter after whenever the Hell we felt like it. Marla was briefly awoken from her slumber, and Brian joined her and immediately succumbed to the travails of the trip and the day. Me, as per the usual, I stayed up later than intended. I listened to music, staring at the fuzzy haze that would be the ceiling if I had not already taken out my industrial-strength prescription contacts. I reflected on the day and things around me. I had forgotten so many of the stressors of life and just marveled at how lucky I’d been in being able to have the last twenty-four hours.

I fell asleep, my head filled with dreams of headkicks, takedowns, and the unbridled joy that would come the following day when I finally got to see my little nephew again.

—————–

NOTE: I’ve decided to chronicle my extended five-day weekend in New York because why not?

——-

I had been in New York less than twenty-four hours, but I was already dreading having to go back. I love everything about it, warts and all. But I will say one thing: cell phones have ruined this city. I used to barely be able to keep up with pedestrian traffic down here. A moment’s hesitation in certain parts of Manhattan would make you an obvious and shamed obstruction. Now, with smart phones providing a seemingly limitless number of distractions, I’m finding myself having to dodge and dart around thin, young, rank dullards staring downward into an abyss of useless information and preoccupation. Ten years ago, moving down 3rd Avenue would have been akin to competing in a power-walking race. Now it’s more like a tedious game of frogger, except if I jumped into traffic there’d be less people in my goddamn way.

I didn't realize when posing for this photo that I intended to f*** this sandwich. But apparently I did.

I woke up at the crack of 9:30am on my second day. First thing I had to do was get a memory card for my Blackberry so I could take videos on my phone of my one-year-old nephew Caden, who I was seeing (briefly) later that afternoon and was going to spend time with on Sunday and Monday.

After a morning of errands and writing, I met up with an acquaintance for lunch. We’d only met in person once before, where we both attended a painfully awkward short film festival back in the Capital Region. The entries were terrible, but at the same time you had to be careful not to have too much fun tearing it apart lest the filmmaker be sitting on a blanket five feet from you.

Kristin had moved down to Brooklyn some time ago and was in the midst of a “gap year,” waiting tables while she searched for something better than what she was given when she first moved down. I have no doubt she’ll find what she’s looking for in her field. She’s an incredibly friendly, committed, and charismatic woman with a strong work ethic and gorgeous eyes. Naturally, she’s seeing someone.

We met up at her apartment and had lemonade on her roof. Her place is in a less scenic block that rests right on the Western edge of Park Slope. What it lacks in exterior aesthetics, though, it more than makes up for in the view from her roof. She took me to a specific spot where, when you sit down, you get a straight-on view of the Statue of Liberty. It must be a Hell of a sight in the evening.

We talked about anything and everything, including but not limited to who I would consider my nemesis. I had to confess to her that I’m far too self-centered to have a nemesis, though there seem to be a handful of people that count me as theirs. Some of their apprehension and aggression is truly perplexing. My inability to return the venom they spread in some circles of Albany is misinterpreted by many as me trying to be the bigger person. Trust me, though, when I tell you it’s all ego.

After climbing back down the fire escape, we got lunch at a tiny place with a counter and a single table that specialized Vietnamese street food. There I was introduced to Bahn Mi, a Vietnamese sandwich that is essentially a hodgepodge of whatever animal parts they have lying around. In that sense it’s a distant relative of chow mein, though I’m pretty sure that Bahn Mi has actual roots in Vietnam whereas chow mein was invented stateside by a resourceful restauranteur. I’d look it up to confirm my suspicion, but as I explained to Kristin, I’m the furthest thing from a foodie and the fascination so many (including her) have for food writing both fascinates and repels me.

We walked through Prospect Park in search of some shade. Children from the neighborhood played while a band I later found out was Ra Ra Riot did an early soundcheck where they played Peter Cetera-era Chicago songs. We finally found a place that bore some distance from the sounds of ironic nostalgia and pre-pubescents, exchanging experiences and desires for our life’s whims. As we talked and ate I fell hard for the Bahn Mi, a cacophony of meats and spices that somehow works. Discussion turned to writing, our mutual friend that was a writer, and how despite the wonderful relationship I have with the man I hate reading his stuff because it reminds me how much better he is at this whole thing than I am. She tried, unsuccessfully, to re-assure me. It was a truly pathetic blight on an otherwise wonderful afternoon meeting.

If everyone was as thrilled to see me as Pop Tart was on Friday, what a wonderful world it would be.

We parted ways and I went to visit my sister-in-law Jill and my one-year-old nephew Caden, who by chance lived within a stone’s throw of where we were. Jill gave me a heads up that a rash was making Caden cranky. After some initial uncertainty he warmed up to me. I hadn’t seen him since early last Fall. He was so young at the time that, in essence, he’d never met me. He only knew that there was this guy that looked like his Daddy, but was a little shorter and absent all those wonderful colors up and down his arms. I also got to see the dogs. Of all the wonderful individuals I spent time with this weekend, none of them expressed the sheer, unbridled joy upon seeing me that my brother’s dogs did. One of them, Pop Tart, literally wouldn’t let me put her down.

After cuddling with the two little monsters, we took Caden to the pharmacy to get some tylenol. When we got back to the apartment, he completely warmed up to me and we bonded over our mutual enjoyment of tickling and making random, nonsensical noises. As stated before, there are some great people in this city that I don’t see often enough. Even still, the highlight up until that point and as of this writing was holding my one-year-old nephew.

After some familial bonding, I met up with my Rick and Jessica in Astoria. Rick used to work in the area and we actually share the same last name, though thus far we’ve been unable to find any familial connection. Marshall is, after all, a fairly common name. Stranger, though are the mutual connections I share with his wife Jessica, including but not limited to the guy I shared a room with freshman year at college. We had food and drink at Il Bambino and followed it with coffee. Rick, Jess and I talked shop about media and general geekery for what I realize now was the quickest four hours I’ve experienced in quite a long time.

I arrived back at Marla and Brian’s apartment with some inclination, but no earnest intention, of going back out. We watched Project Runway and turned in early so that Brian could catch up on some much-needed rest and recover from a wicked Summer cold he’d caught earlier in the week.

We would need it to make the trip to Philadelphia the next day for UFC 133.

So Hideous, My Love... live at The Acheron 8/4/2011

Myself and two others on my team are looking to rappel off the Crowne Plaza Hotel in support of the Special Olympics of New York! Have you donated yet to our cause? Your donation can get you baked goods, a portrait drawn by yours truly, and much more. Plus, you’re automatically entered to win a $25 Target gift card! Give a little, get a little. Click here for more info.

—————–

It used to be that weird things would happen when I visit New York City, but as I get older, that’s not the case. On the other hand, I do make some adjustments that are out of character for me. I become much more confident, adventurous, awake, and far less self-conscious.

Being in a city where everyone’s as hot, cramped, and sweaty as you are will do that to you.

The ride to New York gave me a headache that didn’t go away until two hours after I’d arrived in Manhattan. The bus was scheduled to depart at 10:30am. I knew I was in for a long three hours from the onset, when the two women sitting directly across from me started loudly complaining about the fact that the bus was a mere five minutes late in leaving. From 10:31am onwards, they announced the time every minute on the minute until the bus departed. Thirty minutes later, they consumed the smelliest sandwiches known to man in spite of the sign that explicitly stated there was no eating allowed on the bus. This sign was also ignored by another man who, just when the smell started to dissipate, unleashed his own smelly sandwich. From the smell and what little I could see, I’m guessing it was an onion and baby food wrap that he made from ingredients found in a dumpster. After stuffing his face and fouling up our bus with an atrocious scent, he gave loud and detailed investing advice to an elderly woman sitting next to him. Because when you need sound financial strategies, forget Charles Schwab: take it from the guy riding the Megabus on a Thursday morning.

The bus ride was three hours of obnoxious voices, smelly sandwiches, and a child that cried and screamed for the duration while the mother sat next to her tuning her out (because holding or consoling a child is just too much intimacy for some people). It was still early on Thursday afternoon and everyone I knew was still at work. I passed the time at a cafe that was also a small software company that also lent out space and time to people to produce multimedia. It was a strange space, cold and not all that alluring, but I had my bags with me and no shortage of time to kill. For the hour I was there, a flat screen television on the far wall was frozen on an image of Will Smith looking down with his eyes closed and a smirk on his face. I imagine he was thinking about how wonderful his life was, even if the scene the still was taken from called for acting of some kind. After an hour of Smith’s imagined self-aware smugness, I got a phone call from Bobby.

I knew Bobby from college, where he was both a confidante and a partner in crime. I met him through our college’s pathetic excuse for a student newspaper, The Promethean, which was staffed with very good people that were terrible writers. The articles were fluff, authored by individuals who weren’t shameless per se in their friendly associations with their subjects, because that would imply some awareness that expressing it in a newspaper article itself was a mis-step. You couldn’t fault them too much for it. They were students at a small liberal arts college nestled in a high-end residential area of Loudonville, NY, where most of the student body was studying business, specifically Marketing Management. of studies was on business. To expect the staff to exhibit constructive or thought-provoking material was a fool’s errand.

I had written a couple articles for the previous editor when Bobby took over. We immediately connected and took a liking to each other. I think it was for the same reasons that I connect so well with babies, which is that we have eyes that are too big for our heads, both figuratively and literally. Like me, he’s perpetually wide-eyed and intense in an endearing manner. Were were also both, at that time in our lives, self-obsessed hedonists in search of anarchy under the guise of reform. On page two of our second edition, he ran a barely literate, profane e-mail sent by a female student in response to a recent editorial written by our sarcastic Portugese friend Andy. To say it caused an uproar would be an understatement. There was posturing, finger-pointing, and outrage expressed from students and administrators alike. The girl who wrote the e-mail, to her credit, bathed in the attention with smiles and a sense of humor about the whole thing.

We were called before the Student Senate to answer for our misdeeds. We brought with us signs and supporters, claiming to have published it to force conversation on certain issues. In reality, we had reached the conclusion that if we were going to publish awful material, we may as well publish something that will amuse us and incite something – anything – in the people reading it. In that meeting I was introduced by Bobby as a new member of editorial with a new title. I was now the Newspaper Deputy, responsible for whipping the staff into shape and making sure they stayed in line.

A few nights before, when we came up with the concept, we laughed for what must have been five minutes. We meant it as a joke, but it was too funny to restrict to that meeting. So it continued for the rest of the year.

Eight years later I was on the phone with him and making arrangements to meet him at an Uptown Starbucks. He looks exactly the same now as he did then. We caught each other up on our various projects and endeavors. Bobby had been freelancing on the side as a writer when he was approached for help on a book. Writing under a pseudonym, he and a friend of his made enough money from it for him to quit his day job. He’s currently working on a memoir that I’d describe as sort of like Tucker Max if that guy had empathy or anything resembling talent.

It was great seeing and talking to him again. Bobby is one of those people that make me yearn to be down here, because no matter how much time passes between our meetings, we immediately pick up a conversation seemingly where we had left off with the same beat and cadence as before. It was like a trumpet player jumping into an impromptu jazz set and hitting the right notes without a thought of where they were in the song or where it was heading.

As I left, we made arrangements to possibly meet up the next day for breakfast. It didn’t happen because we both (most likely) slept in, but it’s no matter. Whether it’s next month or next year, we’ll have that breakfast and nothing will have changed except for the circumstances surrounding us.

—–

After unpacking and showering at my best friends’* apartment, I took the 6 and the L to The Acheron in Williamsburgh. The Acheron is a small metal club on Waterbury Street, one of a myriad of places with what my friends Rick and Jessica refer to as manufactured neglect. The style is in keeping with the inhabitants of the neighborhood: children of rich, white parents who feign poverty for the sake of fashion and pretense. To call this deception would be giving much more credit than it deserves. Anyone who grew up in real poverty or has ever been in a truly dire, dirty place will immediately recognize the fraud. The streets and building “dirty” through carefully placed industrial sculptures, color schemes, and the careful splattering of paint. Next door to the club there was an event styled after an art opening. About a hundred hipsters in their early twenties smiled and congratulated each other on all being in the same place at the same time. In the venue itself, inside jokes adorned with antlers masqueraded as art. It made me wish I didn’t have to stick around for my brother’s show, only because I felt an obligation to modern art, culture, and society to douse the gallery in gasoline and burn it to the ground.

After milling about for a half-hour, my brother’s band played and they were wonderful. Truly wonderful. My brother was in other bands in the 90s, yet something was missing. It’s probably that they just weren’t quite as ambitious in their sound. But he really and truly has something here. Unfortunately, So Hideous, My Love… is in a tough spot in terms of bookings. There are other bands that work along their lines and sensibilities, but they’re scattered throughout the globe, so they are stuck playing what I can only describe as sweepingly ambitious progressive ambient hardcore music with other metal and hardcore bands that don’t quite fit the same mold. Case in point: one of the band members for a later act showed up wearing a top hat, an open leather vest with no shirt underneath that revealed an atrophied torso, and corpse paint.

After the show I got to talk to my brother Jack and Brandon, the dual creative force behind the group. We discussed the scene (or lack thereof) and what had been accomplished with their latest EP. I complimented them on their improved live performance and presence with their new lead singer, who was also Brandon’s brother. Brandon described their latest effort as almost arrogant, but I corrected him and just said that it was progressive. He talked about how he wanted to push it further in terms of the orchestration, which appears now in their music with greater frequency than anytime before.

“You already have your d*** out,” I assured him. “So you might as well go ahead and shake it.”

I was glad to talk to Brandon. I wanted to convey to him how much I appreciated not only what they were doing but that I was also, legitimately a fan. I was too self-conscious to do so at the time, however, and so I’ll just do it here in the hopes that he reads it.

I left my brother and sister-in-law with a hug and a promise to see them again as soon as I could. I went back to Manhattan and was in bed before 11:30pm. Marla had a day at work and Brian was suffering from a head cold. Me, I fell asleep without any regrets. I’m not exactly ancient by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I’m not even middle aged. But I’m still too old to sacrifice my days for my nights.

*This not a typographical error. Brian had become my best friend when he started seeing Marla, and we all immediately took a great liking to each other. I consider them a packaged deal.

—–

Equal parts outrageous and sad.

Desperate for some footage to accompany a story about a shooting, CBS Chicago interviewed nearby neighborhood children to get sound bites and reaction. The video first shows the segment as it aired, then the full footage. Note that the first child interviewed is only four years old.

In the footage that airs, the clip ends with the four-year-old saying “I’m gonna have me a gun!” After another child reacts to the violence, the anchor does a head-shaking, pseudo-remorseful “that is very scary indeed” that would put Jack Aerneke to shame.

As the upload on YouTube shows and is apparent by the fact that in the aired clip you can hear the beginning of the reporter’s follow-up question (nice editing, folks), the child wants to be a police officer.

Child: “I’m gonna have me a gun!”
Reporter: “Why do you want to do that?”
Child: “I’m gonna be the police!”
Reporter: “Oh, that’s okay then!”

So what could have been a moment of brief respite, with the idea that this violence is possibly laying the foundation for this child to pursue a dream in law enforcement or somehow fight back against the criminal element in his community, is twisted and distorted to make it look like this innocent four-year-old is a little gangbanger in training.

I wish I was surprised that any news organization would stoop to this level, but the mantra has become that ratings are ratings and sales are sales. This is the sort of thing that happens when you compromise things like journalistic ethics and higher standards for the sake of numbers. Many newsrooms of various media would give no shortage of excuses (“the state of the industry made me do it!”) or cry “logical fallacy” at the inference of a slippery slope. But it’s not a slope, it’s a dam. Putting entertainment and narrative ahead of truth and journalism in any way puts a crack in that dam, and eventually that leak becomes a flood.

And we’re the ones left drowning in misinformation and an almost cartoonish disregard for standards and decency. This was inexcusable, but it was not isolated, and any outfit presenting itself as a news organization – regardless of the form it takes or its presentation – needs to be held to a much higher standard.

—-

Local readers will note that in the beginning there’s mention of “South Albany” – there’s a lot of fun connections between New York’s capitol and the pride of Illinois. There’s also an Albany Park neighborhood which has a street named…Troy.

Click the pic to donate!

So this is my busy season at work, hence commentaries on current events being replaced with posts about Kitty Cat Warriors and hipster scumbags trying to drag their babies into a bar with them. I finally listened to a voicemail I received last week from one of the organizers behind “Over the Edge,” who had wanted to see how my fundraising was going and if I had any questions.

Whoops!

So anyway, here’s my pitch:

I’m participating in Over the Edge, which is a benefit for the New York chapter of the Special Olympics. The first 100 individuals to raise over $1,000 will have the pleasure of repelling off the side of the Crowne Plaza.

Why not make me one of those?

CLICK HERE TO DONATE

A little bit goes a long way. Even as little as $10 will help. If I don’t get to repel down the side of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, who cares? The worst that will happen is that money will go to a great cause. But to help us get to that point and more importantly raise more funds for the Special Olympics, I’ve come up with some incentives for you:

Not pictured: Kevin Marshall, who on September 16th might DIE

With a donation of…

$50 - You get a personal shout-out from YOURS TRULY on Twitter! Holy crap, that’s hyooooge!
$100 – You’ll be added to the Official Honor Roll of Awesome Individuals and mentioned in a blog post! Sweet sassy molassy, that’s even hyooger!
$150 – I will write a flattering, borderine romantic (or outright – your preference) poem about you and post it to the blog. Minimum of 8 lines.
$200 – I will write a blog post on the topic of your choosing. Minimum 400 words.
$300 – I’ll wear any item of clothing, your choice, at the event so long as it doesn’t interfere with safety.

We need to be one of the first 100 participants to raise $1,000 by September 1st. There’s no time to wait! Give now!

To make your donation, CLICK HERE

Also, share the Facebook event: Throw Kevin Marshall off the top of the Crowne Plaza Hotel!