The notion "best friend" swiftly becomes somewhat anachronistic after one leaves grade school, as quantifying the significance of one's friends seems a bit gauche. But, in all my life, there was one such "best friend" whose status as same was ironclad and irrevocable. That friend was Danny.
I just learned that my dear childhood friend, Danny Choy, just passed away. Danny was paralyzed after a bike accident in 2011, but fought valiantly in the wake of that, and assuredly never lost his spirit. It was that same spirit that defined him as an irreplaceable friend to me throughout childhood and adolescence.
I've alluded to Danny several times on the blog (he was immortalized as "Rocky" on this post). As a benevolent force of super-nature, Danny almost single-handedly kicked me out of my sheepish doldrums, as a kid, encouraging me time and again to FIGHT BACK! Never one to tolerate any shit, Danny -- who'd weathered considerably greater hardships than I, growing up -- came to a point of self-realization in his life that he was determined to evangelize. He was tireless, buoyant, insightful, unfailingly funny and fiercely loyal.
Our lives took different trajectories after we'd both gotten married and had kids, and I never got to see him again after he moved to Colorado. But as life took us each down our respective paths, and even diverging our sensibilities (Danny leaned much further to the right on most issues, than I), we absolutely never let those differences dilute our friendship. We may have differed on several issues, but we were always friends.
I am absolutely crestfallen that I shall never see, talk to or make him laugh ever again.
God bless, godspeed and thank you for everything, Danny. You are missed more than you know.
Having been shaking my fist— both metaphorically and literally — at the place since its opening in 1996, I was struck by a strange emotional quandary. This place I’ve reviled for so long … this place that is the literal and physical manifestation of the suburbanization of downtown Manhattan …. this place that marked the first blow against everything I’d held dear about the neighborhood … this place was …. going away?
I have a long list of posts about my doings in and around the Astor Place Kmart, most of them steeped in snark and flecked with contempt. At first, I completely boycotted the place. I don’t think I actively set foot within its cavernous three floors until 1997, when U2 held a frankly bizarre and oafishly undercooked press conference there to announce their equally club-footed PopMart tour. I remember thinking the band themselves weren’t even buying it. See below for those details.
I didn’t really have to shop at KMart (or is it K-Mart?) until about 2004, when my first child was born. I vividly remember trying to make an argument against spending our money there, but the weighty factors of immediate convenience and new-parental necessity rendered my protests moot. We needed diapers, burp cloths, wipes, bottles, baby powder and a host of other unimaginable such gear in fucking bulk on a maddeningly regular basis. I went from being a hostile KMart abstainer to a fucking regular customer in an order so short it made my head spin.
But even when my kids both moved beyond the baby stage, I found myself having to continue darkening its doors. While their stock was — and remains — by no means the highest quality, the sickly allure of convenience had me routinely repairing to it sprawling aisles for the procurement of various sundry items. In predictable course, my kids became acquainted with its toy section on its lower level. No one else in my family shares my hang-ups about the place, so I’ve just had to eat it, basically.
For picture frames and soccer balls to side-table lamps and popcorn poppers, I’ve stood on those interminable check-out lines for myriad reasons, whether to put my hand to a last-minute birthday present or secure a makeshift replacement for a crucial household item, although more often was the case that I was in there searching for some unlikely widget that they, of course, did not have, which only compounded the displeasure of the experience.
Regardless, whether I liked it or not, the Astor Place Kmart became a dependable-if-lackluster resource, and something of a neighborhood landmark, for better or worse. I know folks who swear by its restrooms, although I find their elevator scary enough that I’ve never deigned to explore those other facilities. I find it hard to imagine, but a lot of folks are probably crazy happy that the Kmart is there.
Beyond U2, I’ve (literally) run into Jon Spencer of Pussy Galore/Blues Explosion fame, and original punk rocker, Richard Hell also shopping there. I’ve probably wandered around every square inch of its spacious interior, often wondering what shenanigans have been attempted in its remotest aisles where the eyes aren’t always watching.
In 2017, the notion of there being a Kmart in downtown Manhattan no longer seems even remotely farfetched. The tumultuous two decades since its opening have seen New York City completely made over, its map covered with chainstores and big box outlets like a chronic case of the chicken pox. Once upon at time, Kmart stood out like a cow pie on a prayer rug. Now it’s basically just a field of cow-pies, to use an incongruously rural analogy.
This all said, once I read EV Grieve’s post, I was struck by that strange twinge of melancholy. As such, when out for a stroll in the unrelentingly frigid elements today, I voluntarily ducked into Kmart to find some veracity for Grieve’s report.
The first thing I noticed within, however, was several “pardon our appearance” signs, as there’s a bit of — for lack of a better term — “re-modelling” going on. I wouldn’t expect any sort of radical make-over, but plans for reorganizing on the street-level floor and the second floor don’t suggest they’re planning on going anywhere soon.
I made my way upstairs and back to the southeasterly corner of the floor, or what was originally dubbed “The K Cafe” (see this post for details). As mentioned on that older post, the K Cafe initially sought to mesh with the neighborhood’s once-storied aesthetic by showcasing work by local artists. That gesture of good will unsurprisingly didn’t take off, and the K Cafe was turned into the store’s swiftly-anachronistic audio/video department, where dated tech went to ingloriously die. Today, it seems like a forgotten space filled with boxes and ramshackle shelves full of c-list DVDs that harbor precious little promise of ever being sold. The views from those arched pictures window, however, remain striking.
Whatever its status, being inside the Astor Place Kmart is still a dreary experience, and the misty associations recounted above didn’t really temper my immediate desire to leave the premises with all speed. If the store is indeed on the chopping block, I cannot say it will entirely ruin my day, but I’d obviously be lying if I’m not somewhat sentimental about the place.
I suppose the scarier question is: What will take its place?
Oh, and here's that U2 press conference. Canada's Much Music wrongly identifies the address as "8th Avenue." They meant 8th Street, those silly hosers.
The great irony of the "the snow day" is that while it's ostensibly designed to encourage people to stay safe, warm and indoors, what's pretty much the first thing ya wanna do? Go outside and check it out.
Remember when January used to be just, y'know, *cold*, ... and not the frigid harbinger of a bleak and globally unlivable future Hellscape where all semblance of life is mercilessly terminated by a vengeful deity who knows not of the concept of compassion?
Seriously, the weather report now reads like something penned by H.P. Lovecraft.
With that in mind, given that weather is now suitably couched in all things doom and horror, I believe the weather bureau should jettison prospective names like "Grayson," Vicky" and "Dave" for these storms, and start choosing appropriate monikers like "Winter Storm Cthulhu," "Bomb Cyclone Yog-Sothoth" and "Extinction Level Event Hastur the Unspeakable."
I can’t remember when I first heard of the concept of “Dry January,” but it immediately made sense to me.
As someone already capable and prone to imbibing what some might consider an unwiedly amount of beer on the regular, I routinely find myself at the close of the Christmas season wanting to swear off, scale back and reallign. Year in and year out, if you read my dependably flimsy answers to the “resolution” question on those year-end surveys, I make some half-hearted acknowledgement that I need to cut down on the beer, but it rarely sticks. In due course, some social event rears its head or I slog through a long, difficult day at work, and I’m suddenly jettisoning my resolve and reaching into the fridge for a cold one. Either that, or I start rationalizing and whittling down the parameters ala “well, I’m going to continue not drinking on my couch, but if someone calls and invites me out, that’s okay,” or “Well, I’m just not going to have any beer during the week, but weekends are perfectly okay.” It’s all, of course, weak-willed bullshit.
This year should be different.
I turned 50 this past October (as mentioned here), and, as such, I’m attempting to be a bit more responsible about it. As also recently noted, having not seen my primary care physician since probably Obama’s first term in office, it’s fucking high time I had a proper, physical check-up. With an appointment with a brand new doctor looming (I believe my former p.c.p. has retired), I am becoming acutely concerned that my triglyceride count, sugar intake and overall physical state will prompt him to punish me with a robust battery of invasive tests. Suffice to say, I’m not looking forward to that. I don’t have that appointment until next week, so I’m determined to do my best to try to cleanse my system between now and then.
By the same token, January is a damn tough month to swear off drinking. It’s cold. It’s grim. It’s boring. I do not anticipate enjoying this month, if I manage to stay true to my convictions. A former colleague of mine just accomplished a similar endeavor with the help of a book called the “30 Day Sobriety Solution.” I got ahold of a copy myself, but have been somewhat put off by its length and its seeming preponderance of self-help psychobabble. I’m usually far too cynical to buy into that stuff.
So, anyway, that’s where this post comes in. By addressing the issue here, I’m hoping this public declaration will goad me into sticking with the plan. We shall see.
As mentioned back on this post, last night marked the final night for the NoHo Star on Bleecker and Lafayette. When my wife and I learned of the impending closure back in October, we immediately made plans to dine there with our family on the storied restaurant's last evening of business -- New Year's Eve.
It was lovely evening, and we'll miss the place very much.
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