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.

A Farewell Note to Spanish Harlem

He adored Spanish Harlem, he idolized it all out of proportion ...

No, wait. That’s not right. Nobody adores Spanish Harlem. Nobody idolizes it. And if they did, they definitely didn't idolize it out of proportion.

After three years, I’m saying goodbye to East Harlem -- specifically 101st Street and Third Avenue, Apt. B-7D (b as in boy, d as in dog for food-delivery purposes). It’s a neighborhood that looked to be on the up-and-up (sort of) when I first moved, but now, as I depart, seems to be falling back by the wayside. Within the past year, an entire block of restaurants/cafes have closed. A pizza shop went out of business. Families are running for the hills. Rats have foreclosed on garbage cans. A SUBWAY CLOSED. DURING SUBTEMBER.

And even though things have taken a turn for the worse, this place, a few blocks north of the nearest Halal food cart, has been my home for my first few post-college years. It’s SpaHa. It’s taught me wrong from right. It’s solidified my belief that a bodega sandwich is the only sandwich. It smells like molding cheese six months out of the year. For all these things, I owe it a farewell -- fond or not.

Fine Fare Grocery

You were my first grocery store, and yes, your fines were indeed fare. But your food ... questionable. Sausages that last for two days. Chunky milk. Babies eating Lucky Charms in the aisles. However, I did enjoy your collection of Oreos. From double-stuffed to Halloween's cream-colored orange, you always knew the way to my heart.

Gunshots

We heard you more than a few times over the past three years. Sometimes you were all by yourself. Sometimes you came in bunches. Sometimes you were accompanied by screams. Sometimes there was laughter. Either way, we knew you were out there. I’ll miss you, gunshots. Not too much, though.

Emmerson Deli (directly below my building)

I love you. Your Cold Italian sandwiches, your sunflower seeds at 2 am, your ever-changing prices, your Caesar salads, that I got sick from, but continued to order because I thought they were healthy.
A 24/7 deli is crucial. My next apartment needs to have one. If not, I’ll have to learn how to make a ham sandwich.

The Laundry Lady

Because you wear a surgical mask, I've never actually seen the bottom half of your face. But that's OK. I know it's there.
You laugh at my jokes, you work hard, you once sewed up a tear in my corduroys (goddammit I love corduroys) free of charge. You're the best.

Do you deliver to/from Brooklyn?

96th Street Halal Cart

It may be true that one of my fellow SpaHa’ers saw you bathing in your own cooking oil. It may also be true that the lamb over rice is not actually lamb over rice. But you know what, I don’t really care. Your late-night service, your white sauce (what is that shit?), your conversation on a Friday night when there’s nobody left to talk to.
You’re the best food cart in all the land. You deserve a spot in Restaurant Week. You’re to die for. Really though, this guy may have died halfway through his meal:

The Reservoir Run

Yeah, I run. Seriously, I do. You wanna race? I did a 5K this past spring at the Bronx Zoo. Did it for the elephants. I love elephants. Great memories.
Anyways, sometimes I run outside. When I do, I usually run around the Central Park Reservoir off 96th street. The trees, the fresh air and the water provide a kind of oasis away from the city. It's especially nice at night:

And yes, I know that's not exactly Spanish Harlem. But I often end my run up towards 110th street:

Yeah, by the time I get there it's day again.

My Rooftop

It’s where I’m typing this love letter to you, Spanish Harlem. I can see the Triborough Bridge straight out in front of me. Manhattan towers over my right shoulder, while the Bronx fades off to my left. I can see the lights of Yankee Stadium on August nights, fireworks from three different boroughs in July and strobe lights from Central Park dancing in the sky during summer concert tours.

But the one thing I’ll really miss seeing is the traffic moving up Third Ave. Leaning over the ledge and just watching it.  Knowing that I’m in a city that’s always moving and never sleeping. Cars and buses maneuvering their way in and out of different lanes, near-accidents occurring at every cross street, stoplights setting the rhythm to the city's song.

Me seeing it all happen from a safe distance.

I'll definitely miss that.

I'll miss all of this -- the good, the bad, the wonky. That's what Spanish Harlem is, and that's what it always will be. 

But I'll be back living on this side of the city some day. And hopefully it's in that part of town that only exists in black and white.