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.

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.

Walking through Spanish Harlem in the summer