Another installment in our series on abandoned places in the world. Continue reading
New York
16 posts
As expected, New York State Assembly passed a gay marriage bill last night granting the right to same sex couples to marry, 80-63. Now it heads to the State Senate for a final vote. This isn’t the first time at the rodeo for same sex couples, as the Assembly previous passed a bill “allowing” same sex marriage in New York back in 2009, which, among a whole lot of party in-fighting, failed miserably in the Senate.
Back in 2006, New York’s highest court ruled there was no constitutional right to same sex marriage. In 2008, then-Governor Paterson issued a directive requiring New York to recognize same sex marriages performed in other states. (He didn’t see a difference). Continue reading
My upper arms ache all the way up through my shoulders. It hurts to sling a pocketbook over my arm. My hips hurt. My lower back hurts to the extent I can’t sit in the same position for more than ten minutes. My thighs? Fuhgettaboutit.
God Bless You, Advil. Because tomorrow, I’m going to do this to myself again.
I don’t look like a fighter. I’m female. I’m fat. My boobs are more suited to Playboy (trust me) than the ring. I’m clumsy—my body currently bearing the scars of a recent bike crack-up. I fall off curbs and down stairs. I have spatial problems and can’t quite remember what is left and what is right. I know jab and cross, through.
I started boxing a few years ago, as a joke. My husband was taking classes, and the instructor was offering a try-it-free session. He wrapped my hands, and I fell in love.
Throwing a punch felt very foreign, and very wrong, at first. I was the kid on the playground who usually got tripped or smacked or tortured. “Stand,” the instructor said, his gold teeth glittering under the fluorescent lights of the gym, “with your left shoulder forward, your knees only as wide as your hips.” Karim said, “bend those knees. Lower your head. Twist your torso. Now hit, baby girl. Hit.”
I threw like a baby girl at first, too, embarrassed that the heavy bag barely trembled, let alone swung, under the laughable non-force of my sad jab-cross combination. I kept at it, even when I was pretty sure the big boys with the barbed wire bicep tattoos at the gym were laughing at the fat girl attempting to become a fighter. “Don’t look at them,” said Karim. “You and me, we’re the only ones who matter here.” He’d put on the punch mitts and have me aim my punches at them, not getting pissed off when I accidentally hit him in the face. “That was a good one, baby girl!”
I didn’t get hit by an instructor until I’d moved on to Church Street Boxing, an old-fashioned boxing gym by the World Trade Center site with actual spittoons placed around the floor so the Golden Gloves contenders had a place to spit their blood after being hit in the mouth. Antonio hit me after I didn’t leap back to action at the sound of the bell, because I was engaged in conversation with a fighter with a nose as flat as the floor about the condition of Farrah Fawcett. “That bell goes, you go,” said Antonio, “or you get smacked.”
This was no girly kickboxing class. Church Street was another universe.
I thought I’d feel uncomfortable there, at Church Street. I have never felt more welcome at a gym in my life. Usually, as a chubby female not known for my grace, I feel like a pigeon among blonde birds of paradise with eating disorders. Not here. This was a land of broken noses, of dreams that had fallen in the ring and gotten right back up, of careers that had collapsed on the ropes and untangled themselves. This was a gym that kept a mop handy to soak up the occasional bloodstain. This was a gym where Golden Gloves contenders threw punches next to people like me attempting to learn the art; where taut 19 year olds readying for the featherweight title trained next to amateurs, like the 76 year old man who said he liked to feel powerful.
The trainers at Church Street coaxed the tiger in me to the surface. You must run, they said. You can’t last a round if you don’t run. So I ran. I put my fears of being humiliated aside, laced up my New Balances, and ran as far as I could. At first it was half a block. Then an entire block. Then two. I’m up to three and half miles now, which is nothing compared to a marathoner, but is a miracle for me. What astonished me is that I wasn’t a laughingstock as I ran down 35th Avenue in Queens, from my place in Jackson Heights to the edge of the Grand Central and back. The occasional truck full of landscapers or electricians would slow down next to me, the elephant lumbering along as the gazelles sprinted past. “Good for you, honey!” I’d get a thumbs up. The men doing maintenance at the housing project by the highway said they wished they had the motivation to run. When I said it wasn’t far, they pointed out a marathon is run one mile at a time. Wise men.
Now I do my rounds on my own back patio. I bought a stand up bag, the type you fill with sand, to beat up several days a week. I named him Karim, in honor of the man who introduced me to boxing.
I put on my t-shirt that says FIGHTING SOLVES EVERYTHING across the back, roll the bag, filled with about 200 pounds of sand and gravel onto the cheap faux grass carpet I bought to cushion it against the concrete, clip my portable Everlast round timer (three minutes on, one off) to the laundry line, crank up the headphones heavy on the gangsta rap, and get to punching.
I gave myself a boxing nickname, drawing on my New England roots and my history of covering snowstorms. The Nor’Easter.
The kids at P.S. 212 next door are fascinated by the Crazy Fat Lady Boxing Show. They were first drawn by the slamming sound of the bag rocking back from my cross, coming down on the concrete. They press up against the wrought-iron fence separating our properties, watching as I work through combinations and grunt with the force of the punch hitting the bag. I took off my headphones fast enough as the timer went off to hear one kid yell to his friends, “she’s got a TIMER!”
The people in my building have gotten used to my odd hobby. Some have had to learn about it the hard way—the building’s super once tapped me on the shoulder to say hi when I was mid-round. I came thisclose to clocking him. My husband knows to get my attention from the far side of the patio. The neighbors who live right above the patio are tickled, often leaning out the window and their pumping their fists. The man who lives next door stopped me in the street and said he couldn’t figure out what those long strips of cloth—my hand wraps—were, until he saw my gloves.
I love it when the sweat pouring from my head splashes against the bag. I love it when a kick ass song by NWA pops up on the headphones and I throw punches like the world is about to end. I love it when I have 20 seconds left in a round and despite my pain, I keep going. I love it when I’m rolling up my wraps at the end of 12 rounds and my shoulders ache like I’ve been battered myself.
Sometimes I beat up my husband. I’ve beaten up my boss. I’ve beaten up my editor and various co-workers. I’ve beaten up former and current friends. I’ve beaten up my mother. I’ve beaten up my father. I’ve beaten up Julie Gallagher, who made my life miserable in second grade. I’ve beaten up ex-boyfriends. I’ve beaten up the economy.
A remarkable thing happens when you’re able to do that. Another boxer at Church Street told me that people who don’t box don’t understand. It’s not about aggression. It’s about being able to leave everything you’re angry at on the floor, letting you be a calmer person.
Intellectually, I know I look like a four-star dork in my workout gear—complete with nerd sweatband!—when I box. I know I probably look somewhat silly, especially when I really get into it and start screaming my way through punches. I know it’s geeky to have the theme from Rocky on my boxing playlist. I know being proud of a strained shoulder and sprained wrist is a little ridiculous.
I don’t feel that way, though. I feel strong, and tall, and powerful. For the first time in my life.
Cormega photo via the excellent photoblog G M D Three. Please go check him out!
Is there any other music scene that obsesses over mass appeal quite like hip-hop does? There’s a whole ecosystem of rap terminology related to fame. Now you’re famous? You just blew up. Having trouble getting radio airplay? Man, they’re sleepin on ya.
So who are the all-time most slept-on MCs? Me personally, I still absolutely love the mid to late 90s rhymes, so my list is big on East Coast mixtape heavy hitters and battle MCs. These are the best of the best, the ones who should have been household names, but no, you just had to have your PM Dawn and Kriss Kross.
(Warning: This is not an invitation to post awful Kriss Kross or PM Dawn videos in the comment section. If you do, I will personally ridicule your questionable taste. This is the GOOD HIP-HOP THREAD, not one of the many, many threads devoted to lame guilty pleasure music! I’m serious.)
In no particular order:
1. Ras Kass
Ras Kass has been putting out albums and mixtapes for years now. The L.A. rapper definitely has a hardcore cult following, but despite a Tupac-esque snarl and wicked vocabulary, he’s never been able to really break out. It may partly have to do with the fact that a lot of his songs reflect on deep, centuries-long themes such as colonialism and racism. For some reason, rap was way more political in the 90s.
2. Cormega
Oh, what could have been. Cormega was actually an original member of The Firm, along with Nas, Foxy Brown and AZ. The Queensbridge rapper unfortunately had a falling out with Nas early on, then left the group, then had a legendary beef with him, then went to prison for a little while. What a shame. Cormega has one of the greatest rap flows of all time. His voice is super nasally and actually kind of soft in a way that conveys a certain vulnerability that all the great rappers have had at one time or another (Tupac and Li’l Wayne come to mind).
3. Kool G. Rap
They call him Giacanna because he’s about as close to a rap godfather as there will ever be. Kool G. Rap had a few minor hits in the early 90s, then saw his brand of cocaine raps blow up with Pac and Biggie. Today basically EVERY rapper from Rick Ross to Young Jeezy to Waka Flocka Flame can thank him for taking rap to new heights of drug-trafficking braggadoccio. Also, he has an absolutely DOPE New York flow that’s deep and rich and funky.
4. Big L
This is probably one of the saddest rap stories of all time. Big L was young and on top of the world, with his debut album getting love… and then in 1999 he was shot to death in his Harlem neighborhood. To this day there are hip-hop heads who still haven’t gotten over it — with good reason. Check him out freestyling with a young Jigga and see if you can really tell which one would be the star.
5. Jadakiss
Jada has had one semi-big hit (“Why”) but the man is always named when talking about rap’s most slept-on. His rhymes are so rough and gravelly it’s like the devil himself is coming out the speakers. Jada may never have the mainstream appeal of Jay-Z or Kanye, but good luck finding another rapper with this level of street cred. He’s also got some of the most famous rap freestyles of all time… fast forward this video to the :30 when Kiss takes it to another level.
6. Memphis Bleek
Here’s another Roc-A-Fella veteran who never quite blew up. Even Jay-Z has said he could never understand how Bleek wasn’t a bigger name. Here he is on “Change the Game.” Bleek comes on at the 1:00 mark and just destroys it.
7. Third Degree
Third Degree was a group of rappers from San Antonio with pretty much a strictly Texas following (I’m pretty sure they’re no longer recording together). I have no idea how I discovered them (probably on some Houston mixtape). Anyway, I love them and how could you not? They named one of their mixtapes after their love of gold teeth, rapping and the Purple Drank: “Grills, Skills and Purple Spills.” Texas rap is just criminally underrated.
8. Rah Digga
Rah Digga was (and still is) the total package. She had the dope voice, the dope flow AND the dope look. And she did it all without being a chickenhead like Lil Kim or Nicki Minaj. She was knocking on the door of superstardom in the late 90s as a member of Flipmode (Busta Rhymes’ posse) but for some reason it never quite came togther. Anyway, I love her. R.D., I’m single now. Call me!
9. Keith Murray
What a great voice. I always kind of lumped him in with EPMD, Redman and Def Squad and I guess he sorta got lost in the shuffle of dope New Jersey rap flows. It’s too bad because he has some sick, sick rhymes.
10. Papoose
Papoose was born about 15 years too late. He would have been HUGE in 1992! He’s a pure battle rapper. (Warning: Old Man Rant coming up!) Unfortunately these days the rap game is all about who can sell the most ringtones, so things like lyrical skills don’t really matter. Here he is alliterating his way through the entire rap alphabet.
Have you heard of reflexology? It’s the fake alternative medical practice where a hippie holistic practitioner rubs the bottoms of your feet and magically heals you…. because you obviously are a moron who never realized that all your vital organs are connected to the soles of your feet. Yes, people actually believe in this.
Well apparently the reflexologists have their own cartel trade organization that wants to prevent the scourge of unlicensed foot rubbers from ever harming the good people of New York.
State Sen. Martin Golden and a handful of other lawmakers got what looked suspiciously like foot massages in the cavernous lobby of the Legislative Office Building.
“They are looking for some of our brains,” Golden (R-Brooklyn) quipped as a member of the New York State Reflexology Association rubbed down his bare feet.
“We are finding out all about reflexology,” Golden added as he sat back in a reclining chair with his feet lifted above his head.
Reflexology, for those who don’t know, is defined as the “systematic application of alternating pressure by the use of the practitioner’s hands, thumbs and fingers to reflex points on an individual’s hands, feet, face or ears.” It is promoted primarily as a stress reduction technique.
The group was in Albany pushing for passage of an Assembly bill that would require licensing of reflexologists and set competence standards
First of all, let’s get one thing straight. Reflexology is complete bullshit with absolutely no scientific evidence to back it up. Accupuncture and yoga, this ain’t.
And it would also be nice if legislators would be a little more skeptical when a trade organization wants to require licensing. Sorry, but they don’t want licensing because they’re oh so concerned about public safety. It’s because they want to restrict competition by increasing the barriers to entry. There is simply no logical reason to impose higher foot rubbing costs on society under the guise of public wellness.
Or as Matt Yglesias put it: “Another day, another spurious occupational licensing effort.”
New Yorkers always insist that the city is not an anonymous machine but actually just a series of small neighborhoods. We insist that we know our dry cleaner, our coffee shop guy, our grocery store cashier just as well as you all know yours.
Actually, that’s not true, we always insist that we know them even better.
Actually, that’s not true either. We New Yorkers are a narcissistic bunch. We insist that they know us even better. Trust me, your local dry cleaner does not care about you the same way my dry cleaner cares about me.
In any event, when I have lived in other places, one of the reasons you knew the “kid who bags your groceries” is because of some long generational history. The gossip you discuss as you head back to your car is along the lines of “Oh you know, that’s Johnny’s nephew. His momma went to school with…” Etc. Well no, we don’t have as much of that in Manhattan (although it is more common in the other boroughs). Our stories are a little bit different.
And I think it’s only fair that those of you who are not from a big city filled with people from all over the world be introduced to what some of our neighborhood knowledge looks like, and the center of it all is the local bodega.*
*Details have been changed to protect the innocent. Also, no, I do not actually believe that any of this is unique to New York. I promise. Okay, maybe a little bit. Nah, not really.
The Turtle Era
The Turtle Era was the best era. Turtle was the Day Manager when I first moved into my neighborhood. His first language was Spanish, and he spoke perfect English. He insisted that I only use Spanish and that he only use English. Because, you know, that’s how you improve. But he had also learned Korean, the language of the store’s owners, and Portuguese, because there was small Brazilian community in the neighborhood. The store was always perfectly kept while he was in charge. Well-stocked, clean. And the coffee. Dear god the coffee he made was perfect. He was funny, charming, handsome, confident, told a great story. I really wanted to drink with Turtle. All the time. The owner’s wife was confused about his name and called him Tut. Which stuck. About half of the customers called him Turtle, and about half called him Tut.
Turtle’s assistant was named Nick. Nick was quiet but polite. He was never completely happy with the questionable wage and hour policies of the owners, but you wouldn’t have known it. One of the nicest men I’ve ever known, with a genuine smile and a kick-ass mustache.
The night shift during The Turtle Era was run by a quirky older guy from rural somewhere. I don’t know where he was from, or what language he spoke, but he was differently from the country of some country. (You know how you can sometimes tell a rural accent even if you don’t know the language?) I was never sure what we were talking about when I went in, but I think we were talking about something. I don’t know what his name was. I’m not even sure how I could have asked. His assistant was a quiet guy from the pacific coast of Mexico. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than two words. In fact, sometimes I didn’t even know he was there and then “POOF!” he’d be standing right behind you. Basically a not-very-haunting ghost of a man. You will not hear about him again because that is all I know, even though he is still there.
Turtle was lucky. He married for immigration status, or so it was implied, but he fell in love. They had an adorable little girl. His wife, a midtown professional, got a promotion that took her to New Jersey. He went with her, and they bought a big house for the family. Last I heard he was managing a restaurant out there and going crazy because he had never needed to drive before, and he didn’t have his driver’s license yet. But he was happy.
The Nick Era
Poor Nick. When he took over for Turtle, they didn’t hire a new assistant. So Nick had to do everything. And I don’t think they gave him a raise, not at first. But we gave him a quick primer on New York labor laws and how they did, in fact, apply to everybody. And then they did. He was so politely sad about it all. He would politely ask me what it was like to have a good job. He would listen to traditional music and count the hours until he could go home and rest and have a beer. He was sending money home to his wife, where she ran a farm. Each paycheck went to building up the livestock, building a fence, fixing a barn. Nick spoke a little English, and I speak a little Spanish. Between the two of us, we could figure it all out. Nick also had taken steps to learn how to make coffee from Turtle before he left. God I miss Turtle’s coffee.
Then someone called in a Housing Violation on his building, and the city discovered his illegal apartment. We offered him a little help to find a new place, but he politely refused. Before they could shut it down he discovered he had cancer. He decided that it would be best if he went back home. If he could get medical help, he could get it safely at home. If he could not, then he wanted to spend his remaining days on the farm with his wife. He knew that either way, once he crossed the southern border, he would likely never come back. No one has heard from Nick since he was getting a ride south from Atlanta with a friend.
The night shift did not change during The Nick Era, but I got to know the Country Man a little better. I still don’t know what we were talking about, but we talked a lot. When the store raised the prices on cigarettes he made a disgruntled face and refused to charge me the new price. He would always round my charges, refusing my fifteen cents here or my seven cents there. Either he was overcharging someone else or the owners just liked him, because he certainly wasn’t paying it out of his paycheck.
The Son Era
Good kid. Friendly, happy, got good grades, played in a soccer league on the weekends. New York Mets fan, but nobody’s perfect. The son had come in on occasion to fill in as necessary, but once Nick left, he took over the day shift. He had recently finished college and was applying to graduate schools. He insisted on calling me by my last name, which freaked me out. No matter how many times I tried to get him to stop, he couldn’t seem to do so. “Are you watching the game today Mr. LeSabre? Should be a great one!” During his tenure they hired a new assistant, a really young kid, Johnny, who spoke only Spanish at first. Johnny practiced his English like crazy. He would step behind the counter as often as possible and come up with the most unnecessarily complicated questions he could. Just to practice. Johnny seemed to believe that my life consisted solely of making a lot of money, going out on wild dates, and drinking as much as possible. He had no evidence for any of this.
Johnny met a girl that lived in another borough, and two weeks later he quit. A cousin of the son was hired to replace him, and he is still there. I think the cousin is confused about his job responsibilities. He seems to think he is a security guard at a bank because all he does is stand about three feet from the counter like a statue. No one seems comfortable telling him otherwise. Much dust has accumulated since the cousin started.
The Dad Era
And now we are in the Dad era. The son has gone back to school, and I’m stuck with grumpy under-paying, shitty-coffee-making dad. If you buy cigarettes, he won’t give you matches unless you ask. If you buy coffee, you have to ask for the napkin. God forbid you ask for a sleeve. You’d think you just tried to shake down the ATM machine. And he never smiles. He is a mean old man. (Sometimes he forces a smile, but you know that forced smiles are worse than no smile at all.) But I don’t really mind. We have our routine.
The older son is there on occasion too now. A character and a half. I appreciate that he does not care even a little bit. He would rather sit outside and smoke or rush home to his (admittedly gorgeous) new wife. Since Turtle left, he’s by far the person I’m most inclined to just hang out with for a bit. Because he smokes. And because he will inevitably go on some rant about something in the pop culture news. (He’s like a particularly incensed Crasstalk commenter now that I think about it.)
And recently, Country Man has gone from the night shift. His wife, back in the old country, has become terminally ill. He hasn’t seen her in years and wants to spend her last few months with her. He may come back when she passes away, but maybe not. I hope he does. I miss Country Man. Country Man’s replacement unintentionally sold cigarettes to minors on multiple occasions and got the store shut down for a week. The doors were locked for the first time in thirty years. They didn’t even know where the keys were.
The jarring feeling the next day when I went to buy my morning coffee, when, distracted by my email, I ran straight into a closed door and a big ol’ New York City notice, made me realize just how much a part of my life the little store on the corner is. Good or bad, happy or sad, it’s a part of my life, and a part of what keeps the city from feeling so anonymous. I’m no fool; I don’t pretend we are friends or even colleagues. But I know them, and they know me.