Back to Manhattan

So, after seven years, I made it back to Manhattan. Out of Brooklyn and back into the part of the city that only exists in black and white. We made it actually -- myself and my wife, Dhanushka.

And we moved incredibly close to where I lived when I first came to the city after college. It was the upper east side, just 20 blocks south of SpaHa on 2^nd avenue. There’s a great halal cart outside our apartment. Not sure if the guy bathes in his own cooking oil. I can only hope.

And yes, as hard as it might be to believe, I committed to somebody. Forget about my past commitments to the Mets or to eating handfuls of double-stuffed Oreos every night after dinner. This was a person. This was beautiful Dhanushka.

I married her. I loved her more than anything else in the world. She had a smile that could light up the darkest room. A spirit and love of living that you could see within the first couple minutes of meeting her. Nothing seemed to bother her. I felt better every time she was around.

Although we loved our new home, it wasn’t a move we planned. We were there out of necessity.

Before, we were living in a grand building in up and coming Gowanus, right next to the canal. We were excited about it. The neighborhood was hip, the bars were cool, breweries were aplenty. Friends came to visit. They loved our rooftop, the welcoming lobby and all the new, strange restaurants you read about in Eater but never think you’ll see in person.

Oftentimes, on warm nights, the two of us would stroll, hand-in-hand, down the roads of Carroll Gardens – staring at the townhouses and wondering how much each one might cost. Wondering if, someday, somehow, we might ever live in one of them.

I even remember the first time we came to the neighborhood and decided to move there together. We went to an old, woodsy-looking candle-lit wine bar, hidden away so well in the dark and among the nearby homes that you wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking for it. Fireflies, fireflies in New York City, were floating through the air. It felt like magic. We could stay here forever, I thought to myself. Our future kids would love it (Maya would be her name if it was a girl, although I preferred the Ghetto Superstar spelling Mya). They’d hate us if we didn’t give it a shot. What if we stayed here forever?

But then things suddenly became different. After weeks of massive headaches, my wife, my girl – the one I met one incredibly hazy night at Williamsburg’s Union Pool six years before – was sick. Terminally. She had Glioblastoma. Brain cancer. The worst of the worst. At 27 years old.

At first, we stayed in Gowanus. The surgery knocked out the first tumor. She came out of it well, eating chocolate chip cookies by the busload. She had six weeks of chemotherapy and radiation while somehow still working every day. We woke up every morning to do the half hour drive to Weill Cornell on the upper east side – listening to songs and podcasts and anything else to take our minds off what we were doing. We learned to appreciate the beauty of the Brooklyn Bridge and sunrises coming up and over the East River – lighting up the city for our daily approach.

Dhanush finished up the six weeks like a breeze. We knew how serious it all was, but besides losing some strands of hair on the back of her head, she was fine. We were fine. It’s weird and probably wrong, but I counted on her to keep me strong and she was impenetrable. She refused to be knocked down.

We had a few months of trips and fun. We went to our favorite hotel: Victoria House in Belize. We went on sunset cruises, we drank margaritas, we spent days just sitting in the sun – soaking it all in. 

We went to Bermuda and Martha’s Vineyard. All the while, she was continuing chemo. It made her sick but you wouldn’t have known it.

And then, in June, an MRI showed it had returned to her spine. Everyone cried. It’s never a place you want cancer to go.

We were told we had to move to Boston to undergo the most intense radiation anybody can get: Cerebral-spinal. The entire brain and entire spine for 5 weeks at Mass General. But right before, we decided to get married.

We had planned on doing the wedding in Newport in September, but that was, of course, all up in the air now. It crushed Dhanushka – a person who loved friends and family more than anything -- not to have big ceremony and party, but the day at the Brooklyn courthouse and afterwards turned out to be just as memorable.

Boston was difficult. It feels like it was 10 years ago, when it was just last summer. Her legs, her back, her weight, everything became weak. She lost all of her beautiful black hair. Everything became harder for her. By the final week, she could barely make the five-minute walk to the hospital. She couldn’t get on the radiation table without an Ativan.

Somehow, though, she made it through. Again. She didn’t complain. She didn’t break down. She was incredible. She even went to a wedding with me just a few days after finishing. When any of us would’ve been crying in a corner refusing to move; Dhanushka looked like this. She danced on a night when she could hardly stand.

And then she had a stable scan back in New York at Cornell. That’s when we decided we needed to move. Back to Manhattan. Closer to the hospital.

We had another few months of relative calm. She was on a new drug to try and keep the cancer at bay. Her walking improved with the placement of a shunt and almost daily physical therapy. Her hair began to grow back – little wisps, but something we could keep an eye on and note to ourselves as a small sign of the body healing and improving. We did cocktail-making glasses, we stayed at the W in Miami over New Years, we had a night up in the Catskill mountains, we had plans for a whole lot more.

And then, the disease that just wouldn’t go away came back to the brain and spine in March. This time things began deteriorating quickly. She lost her sight in her left eye and then began slowly losing it in her right. Her legs gradually weakened again and stopped working for her. We went from me walking with her -- holding her under her arms -- to a walker, to finally, a wheelchair.

But she still never lost that light about her. I remember coming back early from Florida in March and she opened her mom’s apartment door with a giant smile. Her left eye was off-center, not working with the other, but she was smiling. She was so happy to see me. I don’t even know if she knew. I’ll never forget that. That bright optimism was always there in these heartbreaking moments. She was always ready for a kiss or cuddle. She never felt defeated. Cancer could take a lot of things from her, but it couldn’t take her spirit. It couldn’t make her sad if she didn’t let it.

She began to sleep a lot more post-March. She had confusion for the small amounts of time she was awake. Bouts of immunotherapy and chemotherapy did nothing, potentially just causing more issues. Finally, in May, the doctors told us there wasn’t anything else they could do. We decided to leave New York to be in a bigger space for most hands-on, in-home care. It was hard leaving the city and our empty apartment behind, mostly because I knew it was probably the last time she’d be there with me.

She continued to have more trouble eating and swallowing, we eventually had her on oxygen 24/7. She was bedbound. Her voice went from strong and clear to a whisper to just mouthing words, and then, eventually, nothing.

Still, she was there waiting for kisses. She still smiled. She nodded when I asked her if she wanted me to jump in her hospital bed with her. She was still there. She was still fighting when everybody else would have given up.

Finally, after a week of unresponsiveness, she passed away. Peacefully with no pain. With everyone who loved her most at her bedside. She’s gone and it’s hard to accept that it’s real.

Life is unfair. It sucks. It’s random bull shit. She did nothing to deserve any of it. And where is she now? Is she OK? When I look at the clouds moving in the sky, I wonder if she’s behind them. When I hear the wind rustling through the trees, I wonder if that’s her telling me she’s all right.

I miss her all the time. Everything reminds me of her. Songs, movies, TV shows, food, photographs, smells, sounds, ice cream, puppies. It feels wrong seeing and doing things when she can’t. The first few days back home with my parents, I’ve almost gone into my bedroom to check my phone to see what she’s texted me. Maybe a kissy-face emoji, maybe a “hi how you?” And then I remember that she’s not here anymore.

So what do I do? Where do I go? Do I move to Miami? Do I go to Carmel by the Sea, the place we always imagined living when we were much older? What about just staying in New York? It was the place we met. A place with so many memories and dates and dinners and late-night parties. She loved it here. She loved walking up and down fifth avenue by herself, eating hit-me chocolate cake at Catch, spending a hot summer day in the Rockaways.

Maybe if I stay, those memories will always be swirling around -- they'll always be a part of me. She’ll always be a part of me. 

Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

https://www.abta.org/

The Ninth Inning

I had found my spot.

It was just down the right-field line, parallel to right fielder Curtis Granderson and about 30 rows up from the grass. I stood up in the aisle against a side wall -- with a perfect view of the field. A perfect view for the top of the ninth inning. A perfect view to watch Matt Harvey close out his complete game and send the Mets back to Kansas City for Game 6 of the World Series.

As he jogged out onto the field and fired in his warm-up pitches, the "Harvey" chants were deafening. An older fan to the right rapped his cane against the seat in front of him, slightly grimacing with each "Har-vey" as though he knew what's coming. Another man leaning over the railing above me screamed at his fellow brethren to get louder, worried that his Mets couldn't hear us ... nervous we weren't doing a good enough job. Two middle-school aged boys in front of me, possibly brothers, danced around to the chorus of cheers in their deGrom and Harvey shirts.

Were these two kids alive during the 2000 World Series, my thoughts wander. Do they know about the great Timo Perez? What about Butch Huskey? Eric Valent?

Harvey finished his warm-up tosses and Lorenzo Cain stepped up to the plate. Optimism is at its highest.
Terry Collins had listened to us maniacal fans! He left him in the game! Harvey is a true competitor. This would be the turning point in the series.

Cain walks.

Optimism wanes, but there's still much confidence among the over-capacity crowd. Harvey chants continue, gaining in seriousness and necessity.

Cain steals second. Eric Hosmer doubles him home. Harvey comes out of the game.

Things begin to get restless.

The father of the two boys in front of me moves up the aisle toward the section's exit, squinting out at the field like he's trying to shield his eyes from some nuclear explosion.

The fan above me is now shrieking at us to join him in a "Let's Go Mets" chant, his voice nearly gone, his heart stronger than ever.

Jeurys Familia enters the game. He's one of the best closers in baseball, yet, you wouldn't know it looking at the grim faces in the Citi Field seats. 

Mike Moustakas grounds out to first base, moving Hosmer along to third. One out.

The Queens' faithful are now all standing, hunched over, cheering, hands crossed above their heads, hands clapping on beat ... off-beat ... hands back above their heads. 

A crushed beer can rolls sheepishly off the ledge next to me and falls behind the deGrom/Harvey boys. They look back then quickly turn their attention to the action.

I've lost sight of the older fan with the cane. Had he left? Was he in the bathroom? The Shake Shack line? There couldn't be a Shake Shack line at this point in the game, right?

I reach for the side of the same ledge, ready to brace myself for whatever's coming next. The hard cement is caked in peanut shells and spilled drinks, but I hardly notice. I need something to hold onto.

Hoping for happiness, preparing for nothing close to it.

And then ...

As soon as the ball sails past d'arnaud's glove, heads spin away from the field as if they're on some metronomic swivel. Aghast and unable to watch any longer, some fans pack up their belongings and head for the exits. Perhaps they'll listen to the legendary Howie Rose call the ebbing moments of the 2015 season on the drive home or maybe they'll journey in silence -- letting the night and dark consume them.

I'd fault them for giving up so quickly, but, well, you know what happened.

I stand there in my spot until the 12th inning, hearing the father call his two boys up to go home and seeing the man above me slam his fist into a table before ending his shift for the year. 

I leave the stadium later on when it's nearly empty, making my way past the home run apple and up toward the 7 train steps. Even with the loss, I'm overcome with a good feeling. The Mets had a great season. They had been to the World Series. I had been to the World Series. I turn around for one last look at the stadium's warm glow -- a reminder of the memorable summer that was:

Same time next year?

I have 3, they have 30: How Phish converted me

There I was -- cheering, swaying, jamming in my seat at Madison Square Garden. I never, ever thought I'd be there, let alone be enjoying myself.

Sure, I'd gone to MSG to see the Knicks play. Shit, I'd even been there to see a hockey game. But to see Phish? What the fuck was I doing here? Had I been drugged? Was I having some LSD-infused nightmare? I'm a custy? Who has wook flu? Is this Star Wars?

That was how I felt three years ago, the night I arrived at my very first Phish show in the heart of New York City. I was a Hip Hop fan. I didn't know Phish from (sorry, Phish fans) Reel Big Fish. I didn't know Phish from one fish, two fish, redfish or bluefish. I was frightened. I was confused.

But I was there. I was there because my good friend had always been a fan and I needed to see (or he needed me to see) what it was all about. And I'm glad I/he did.

--

The atmosphere is unlike any other. You don't have to know the songs. No one's screaming them out or waiting for you to do the same.

The long, twisting guitar riffs and echoing keyboard overwhelm everything. They'll hit a nerve you never knew you had. I certainly didn't know I had it. You'll want to dance. You might make out with the person next to you. You'll smile. They'll smile.



With welcoming music comes welcoming fans, or Phans, or Phisheads, or wooks. There's no fighting. There are no angry mobs. People share seats. People hang out in the fucking aisles for the show's entire entirety.

"Sure, your seat is at the top of the building, but you can sway here next to me in the front row while hitting my bowl filled with my marijuana."

What? Can you imagine that kind of thing happening at any other concert? There would be mass ejections/murder. But here, it was safe. It was normal. It was just how it was, and it was spectacular.

OK, grab that bowl back and pay close/lose all attention. Watch the show. Watch as the lights stream magically around the arena, bringing the audience to life. It's almost as if that ray of brilliance first made them dance, but then you remember you're at a Phish show, and everyone is dancing ... all the time.

It's nearly midnight, but the energy from the music and the people keep you going. You're as young as you ever wanted to be. A beach ball comes into your section and you juggle it on your head a few times before punching it forward. First punch thrown in Phish show history?

Trey, Jon, Mike and Page keep jamming away -- eight, 10, 20, 76, I lost count(?) minutes at a time. Balloons fall from the ceiling, lighters flicker in unison, glowsticks pour out from sections like green rainbows running over some fairytale horizon. You can't help but laugh. Good times, brah.

--

Three years this past December. That's how long we've made going to the MSG Phish run a tradition. I roared the Reba Roar, I air-guitared my way through last NYE eve eve's classic second set, and I've fucking swayed. I look forward to the show every winter.

And how about Phish. The four mates celebrated their 30th year together in 2013. They've adopted hoards of fans with their easygoing, jam-band-man, incredibly quirky sound. They don't rant. They don't scream. They don't blow things up on stage.

They perform. They play music. They have a good time doing what they love.

And I've had a good time listening.

Photos via Phish.com and Phishthoughts.com

Shut up and Lift: Papa Frenchie is Here to Stay

He shuffled in his chair and squinted out his desk-side window -- perhaps wondering how a neighborhood could have changed so much over the past 37 years, perhaps simply watching the trucks roar by on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“You know, I could’ve been a wrestler,” Frenchie said with a smile. “But I was too short. Too light.”

Before the luxury, high-rise buildings shot up along the East River, before Christopher Wallace became Notorious BIG, before the MetroCard -- there was Frenchie’s Gym.

Hailing from Puerto Rico, Frenchie (or Papa Frenchie, if you’d like) came to the Big Apple in 1966. He started off as a Manhattan factory worker before quickly entering the club wrestling scene via Williamsburg’s Mr. Puerto Rico Gym. But after attending a local match with early-WWF superstars Johnny Rodz and Jose Estrada, Frenchie decided refereeing was the better fit.

“Let me tell you, I was 5’3” and 140 pounds!” he recalled. “These guys were giants.

And referee he did. Frenchie began by officiating local events before eventually doing a 1979 match in front of 30,000 people ... at Madison Square Garden:

“Nervous? Never. I was excited!” the 73-year-old said, smacking his hand on his desk. “The boss (Vince McMahon) had to tell me to calm down in between rounds.”

He worked on-and-off at MSG for 10 years. He was in the ring for the first Wrestlemania. He hung out with Hulk Hogan and Mr. T. He even starred in the short-lived FX show “Lights Out.”

But Frenchie’s greatest contribution probably came in 1976 – the year he turned an old dentist’s office into a workout haven. A Williamsburg mainstay that’s survived crack epidemics, recessions and varying degrees of gentrification.

Frenchie’s Gym stands two floors above a discount clothing store, parallel to the elevated M Train station on Broadway and Marcy. In many ways, the gym is refreshingly old-fashioned -- hardwood floors, rows of free weights, get-to-the-point bodybuilding machines and the owner, yes, the owner there to greet you at the door.

In other ways, change has crept its way into the neighborhood landmark. A “Like Us on Facebook” sticker sits awkwardly next to a poster of an ‘80s bodybuilder, the glowing light of a drink machine shines over a vintage desk full of old wrestling tales and an array of sports jerseys hang from a decades-old ceiling -- ready to be sold.

And then there’s the surrounding neighborhood.

A McDonalds, Checkers and Bank of America have all since opened right around the corner. High-rise apartments, internet cafes, grass-fed beef restaurants, smoothie stores and barcades have sprouted up in droves across the highway in South Williamsburg. Ridership on the L has increased almost 20 million in the past 20 years. Young professionals have replaced Dominican, Italian-American and Puerto Rican immigrants.

“Who am I to judge people?” Frenchie shrugged, rubbing his head. “But yeah, people who have been here a long time have been knocked out. Prices are too high to compete.”

Brooklyn’s average rent was calculated at $3,305 (an 8.2% increase from 2012) this past summer, not far off from Manhattan’s $3,822 median.

But although he feels the pressure of rising prices and radical changes, Frenchie keeps his fees low ($30 per month), maintains fulfilling relationships with customers and will stay in business as long as he can.

“I’m here 15 hours a day,” he said, stroking his long grey beard as an M Train rattled by the far windows. “As long as I can walk up that staircase to my desk -- I’ll be here, Papi. You can count on it.”

My relationship with Lou Reed

It's funny how I was first introduced to Lou Reed. It was indirect. It was unintentional. It was via a group of guys from Queens, almost 30 years his junior:

After hearing the song a few times, I decided to do some research on the lyrics. Who the hell was "Mr. Dinkins?" And why did A Tribe Called Quest want him to be their "mayor?"

Well, I never did find out who Mr. Dinkins was, but I did discover "Walk on the Wild Side"

The original took the place of the sample. "Dinkins" was subbed out for "Dean." I was walking on the wild side (Fordham Road is pretty wild) during my last year of college.

And then, while teaching English in Korea post-graduation, the song became a noreabang (karaoke) favorite performed by myself and some other guy who tried to blog blogged while overseas. It mostly involved throwing microphones back-and-forth, Jamiroquaing furniture around the room and singing "doo do-do do-do do-do doo do-do ... " over and over again.

But Reed was always there in the background. Talking about Holly from FLA, or Sugar Plum Fairies hittin' the streets. And whenever I hear it now, I think of that room. I think of the drinks, the friends from around the world, the great times we had ...

Eventually, I heard more Reed. And it was again indirectly (Don't ask me why I didn't search out more of his material. I'm a jerk). I saw Adventureland the very same year, a movie that was chock full of Reed references and songs. "Satellite of Love," "Here She Comes" and "Pale Blue Eyes" all made appearances:

It was a coming-of-age film about spending the summer working at an amusement park -- something I did in my high-school days. Young love, stupid mistakes and an overpowering innocence. Reed's music helped ripen that nostalgia and bring about some fond memories.

From there, and on my journey back to living in New York City, I've branched out to his live recordings in London, his Oh! Sweet Nothings and sweet,

Sweet Jane:

Songs that balance the ups, downs, confusion and excitement of living in NYC. A wild night out on the town, or the disappointment of a lost opportunity. An urban soundtrack for anybody's early-20s.

I may not be the biggest Lou Reed fan, but he's definitely played an interesting part in my young adulthood -- meeting me in NYC, traveling on my laptop to South Korea and waiting for me upon my return.
He will definitely be with me as I make my move to Brooklyn (his hometown) later this week. And although our relationship may be strange and a bit wild -- something tells me Mr. Reed wouldn't have wanted it any other way.