New York, New York

Or: How Here Makes There All the Much More

When I rolled (crawled) out of bed the first morning after, I was in rough shape. I had also completely slept through the fact that I was supposed to be at a NY Phil matinee at 11, which, in retrospect, was a bad agreement to enter into, considering. I’ve been to New York before, and I guarantee I can get just as fucked up, and in just as much trouble, in a little town in the middle of nowhere as I can in NYC, CHI, LA, SF, or whatever city you can toss me in. It’s part of my superpowers. My other superpowers include getting people to make bad decisions and feeling really good about it, and having some of the fastest “Never-Been-in-the-Bar-to-Treated-Like-a-Regular” times in the world.

The night before was the day Halloween, and I had been responsible for a solid amount of Jack, which is not my drink of choice in the worst of times. I’m not even certain it’s real bourbon anymore, there’s something in there that just messes me up. (My guess is added sugar or some sort of coloring, I need to look into this. That or they just suck anymore. Or always did.) The night before I had taken part in a seance, my first ever, and while I can go more into this another time, what didn’t happen was nothing. Call it calling up spirits, call it the power of suggestion, call it group thought, don’t care, it was interesting. I didn’t really recover until well into the afternoon.

That night, our plan was to meet up and go to a party and then out around Downtown Brooklyn, which is what happened, and I remember the later parts in broken montage form. I woke up at 5 am (which according to my body was 2am) with a hangover the likes of which I had not known for some time. I know why, there was some stupid ice cream and Hennessy drink at the BBQ joint we ended up at at the end of the night that I decided would be an excellent idea. It was not. I did my usual regimen, minus the curling up on the floor of the shower, because there was something wrong with the building’s water and the water was cold. I recovered, if barely.

That morning, we were headed out to Williamsburg for brunch with some friends of mine, and then subsequently decided to walk around WillyB more or less the rest of the day. Seeing old friends, meeting up at bars, a perfect Brooklyn Saturday. One of my best friends Joe and I went and got tattoos together, my first. (Story for another time, too big of a deal to be handled in this particular telling.) I saw a dear old friend, and several new ones. The long day turned to long night ended with steaks at a French bistro, but this is not before me, one of my best friends, and a new friend/another best friend’s pseudo-little-sister, who just also happens to easily be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever been around, went to one of the craziest strip clubs* I’ve ever been in. Filled with the baddest bitches I’ve ever seen on stage, half-shaved-head-tatted-6-foot-3-in-4-inch heels, lithe-but-tall-Asians who were defying gravity on the pole, and just generally interesting strippers. There’s always the dregs, but this place had a different thing going on. Not to mention they were playing some deep track hip-hop and crazy-house-bass-and-drum-rock-mashups. That and no cover and 10 dollar drinks. Which might seem high, but it’s not for a strip club in New York. Or anywhere.

Day 4 was comprised of re-recovering, going to dinner with more friends, sitting in the Frank Sinatra booth at a public house in Brooklyn, and ending up in deep Brooklyn with another old friend. That’s a story for another time, but it will get told. It’s still being written, I suppose.

Day 5 has a great side story. I had gone out to meet an old friend, actually originally a friend of my sister’s, we met up at what I’ll call the “Best View in Brooklyn” and started drinking, and not messing around about it. I love this lady, she and I share many interests, including but not limited to having zero patience for stupid people and plenty of love for the written world and the drink. During our travels, we had happen one of the main reasons I love to love social media amongst all the hate from people of similar ilk. I posted a picture to Facebook, and one of my best friends from Minneapolis, Marcus, saw it, was just a few miles away, and we were able to connect. We ended up in a dirty, dirty, amazing dive bar in Brooklyn called Hank’s Saloon, our ageless, yet NYC hardened bartender and us having a great time talking booze, cocktails, NY, and anything else. That kind of thing would be the only reason I’d ever leave a lovely lady, ever.

That’s the recap. But the place where this fits the bill (Beyond there being at least two and a half decent hangovers in there.) is in what I learned, or moreover what I am starting. I came here for vacation. New York is anything but relaxing, but the point was to get away and be off the computer for work or writing, even for myself. To reset. Part of the reason for the tattoo was to mark the occasion, and myself, to remember that it’s time to motherfucking go on what I think I’m supposed to be doing. (This has become less “story” and more “journal entry,” but so be it.) One thing I have to be really, really clear on though, I love New York City. Yes. It’s dirty. Yes. People yell all the time. Fuck yes, it stinks to high hell all over. But it is, in the word’s of the lady mentioned above, “A fucking beast.” Just like me. I had been asked by lots of people to “Take it easy” and warned many times about how “New York is different, be careful.” New York doesn’t scare me, New York excites me. I want more of it. All that said, and here’s the kicker, kiddos, part of what I’m coming home with, and the reason for the subtitle, is that I know now, more than ever, that I am currently in the best place I can be, for me. New York is amazing. I love it. California, both North and South, are vastly superior, for me. As with all matters of opinion, of course, that’s up for debate and it’s not. But San Francisco has all the romance and the city with none of the stink, (although WAY more crazy people, sorry, New York.) and LA has all of the same kind of false romance that just rings with me a touch better. Oh, and the fucking weather. And in both of those cities, I can be absolutely gone from the city in less than an hour, depending on traffic. You can’t do that in NYC, and that’s part of it’s charm to me. I can’t count the number of people who have told me that they feel “trapped” in New York, but that they love it and don’t want to leave. I think that’s strangely beautiful.

Bottom line, I’ll be back, of course, over and over. But where I’m headed back to, right now, is becoming home to me. And even though I am a wanderer, a vagrant even, I live out of my bag 90% of the time, doing that in California just feels right to me, right now. And coming back after my first little break in awhile, renewed, recharged, inspired to get more focused about my goals, which I’m realizing, again, partly because of time in New York, that focusing on, for real, one goal, is how you get this shit done.

My tattoo says, “Do not go gentle.” It’s (Adapted?) from one of my favorite poems of all time, by Dylan Thomas. It’s been on every wall from college dorms to offices all over that I’ve ever lived or worked in. And now it’s on me. And now it’s time for that “Do.” I’m always talking about.

Ready…set…go.

*A side note on strip clubs. I’ve never been in one to be aroused. Amused? Absolutely. But it’s never sexual to me. No more, no, less so, than say, going to the beach.