Last week, after two years of podcasting, my friends over at Desperately Seeking the `80s hosted a little 100th-episode get-together at Bailey’s Corner Pub on 85th and York Avenue, inviting all their friends, supporters, and former guests of the podcast. Ironically enough, while I literally lived just up the road from this bar for well over a decade, this was the first time I’d ever set foot in the place. Y’see, when I first moved into that neighborhood circa 1984, that corner was occupied by a bar called Nash’s Cash Box and suffice to say that, as such, it did not exactly exude an atmosphere of welcoming bonhomie, or at least not to a stringbeany dweeb in Circle Jerks t-shirt like me.
In any event, I showed up, last Thursday evening, and was pretty much immediately immersed in a conversation with Travis Myers. You might remember my gingerly-worded mentions of him back on these earlier posts, but Travis is a former police officer turned novelist and lifelong Yorkvillian who, in his younger days, was a member of the infamous 84th Street Bombers. As such, we had a lot to talk about. We were soon joined by another lifelong neighborhood fixture and a former collegiate classmate of mine, Jennifer G. from this blog. In short order, the three of us were thick as thieves and chatting away. In fact, here’s a pic of we three. I'm the bespectacled psycho on the far right.
But because we were so eyeball-deep in our conversation, our opportunity to answer some of the roaming “engagement questions” that were being posed to all the other partygoers came and went, and we didn’t make the final cut of this week’s episode. With that in mind, I thought I’d address those questions that we missed here and now, so let’s have at it.
WHAT’S YOUR NEW YORK CITY SUBWAY STORY?
At some point in the spring of maybe 1982 or so, a girl from my high school class who, for the sake of this narrative, we’ll call Veronica, was throwing a party and invited pretty much everybody from school. I had a great friend and classmate we’ll call Lionel who harbored a massive crush on Veronica and, as such, really wanted to attend this bash. The only conceivable issue, however, was that Veronica lived way the Hell out in the wilds of Brooklyn, somewhere. As Lionel and I were both haplessly sheltered Manhattan snobs, this was something of a daunting prospect. But, driven by Lionel’s insatiable torch-carrying for otherwise oblivious Veronica, he was determined that he make a memorable appearance, and equally determined that I come with him.
Neglecting to inform any of our parents that the soiree we were planning to attend was in a far-flung province of an ::: gasp::: outer borough, Lionel and I plotted the perilous course of our under-and-overland trek to the borough of kings (“here be dragons…”), suited up in our best early `80s party finery (I believe I wore a Pink Floyd The Wall t-shirt under a blazer) and hit the MTA.
The journey to Veronica’s home was indeed a lengthy ride, with Lionel and I both audibly gasping when the train emerged from the subterranean warren of Manhattan onto the elevated, open-air tracks towards points beyond. But it was hardly the “Apocalypse Now”-styled descent into the heart of deepest Brooklyn we’d been expecting. We disembarked from the appointed station and eventually made our way to the party where -- SURPRISE! -- nothing of consequence transpired. Or nothing either of us had been hoping for, at least.
We nursed our contraband beers and chatted with various folks, but even after a few hours, the big moment for Lionel never came (especially since it was already sort of established that Veronica not-so-secretly liked a slack-jawed troglodyte from our class we’ll refer to here as Finn). As the gathering slowly started to wind down, it became obvious that it was time to go. Not wanting Lionel to have to witness Veronica and Finn become further well-acquainted, I grabbed him by the shoulder, and we headed out the door and back to the subway station for our long trip back to Manhattan.
It was now closing in on midnight as we boarded the otherwise empty train. Tired, bewildered, buzzed and slightly despondent, Lionel and I sat in silence as our subway car slowly headed west towards the portions of our native city we were actually familiar with. Lionel’s disappointment was practically palpable. Unlike several of my friends, I was no great admirer of Veronica’s, but I’d had my star-crossed designs on a different girl from our class … with equally dismal, unrequited results, so I could certainly empathize. No one ever said navigating matters of the heart as a high schooler was easy.
Our muted, melancholy musings came to a jarring halt, however, as we started to pull into another station. The train stopped at an elevated platform with another train across the way. Our doors opened, allowing Lionel and I to see across the platform and into the open doors of the car that was parked parallel to ours. There came the sound of a repeated smacking, like a thick, wet slapping noise, as if someone was punching a large fish. Something was going down.
There were three figures. One was a tall, hulking guy standing with fists clenched. The second figure was squatting over a third figure, repeatedly pounding that third figure directly in the face. The third figure, by this point, was sluggishly supine and badly bloodied, limply continuing to weather the barrage of blows from beyond a place of awareness. An affront had presumably taken place, the damage had clearly already been done, but the administering of the punishment was evidently unfinished. It was far and away the most brazen demonstration of cold, human brutality I’ve ever witnessed, and I had absolutely no concept of why it was happening.
Lionel and I sat watching this carnage with our mouths agape for what seemed like an eternity. There was no one else on our car and no one else on the platform. We assumed there was a conductor at the front of our train, but who knows if he’d seen what we were seeing? Eventually, the doors of our car closed, while the beating on the car across the platform continued in earnest. Our train pulled away from that platform, taking us away from the scene of that unfolding crime.
I don’t believe I felt compelled to visit Brooklyn for several years, after that.
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME FOR FIVE HOURS, WHEN & WHERE IN NYC WOULD YOU GO?
This might sound ridiculous, but I’d do what my great friend Rob B. and I used to inexplicably refer to as “The Schmoo” and/or “schmooing around.” And let’s say, for the sake of a specific era, we go to 1987.
What this basically means is that he and I would meet at Tower Records on 4th & Broadway and hit that store like a goddamn hammer. From there, we head west to Bleecker Bob’s (118 West 3rd Street), Second Coming Records (235 Sullivan Street), Venus Records (61 West 8th Street), It’s Only Rock’n’Roll (49 West 8th Street) and then grab a slice at Pizza Box at 176 Bleecker Street and discuss our invariably dubious purchases. We’d then cross Sixth Avenue to hit Subterranean Records (5 Cornelia Street), Record Runner (5 Jones Street) and Rebel Rebel (319 Bleecker Street). From there, we’d probably jet down to Rocks in Your Head in SoHo (157 Prince Street), skip over to Lunch For Your Ears (25 Prince Street) and then hustle over to the East Village to hit St. Marks Sounds (20 St. Marks Place) and Freebeing Records (129 Second Avenue).
That would probably eat up about five hours right there.
With the fleeting exception of Record Runner, none of these places still exist here in 2024.
SCARIEST NEW YORK CITY MOMENT?
Well, honestly, that subway story above was pretty damn scary, but at the risk of tremendously belaboring the obvious, there was a certain September morning almost 23 years ago that takes the “Scariest New York City Moment” cake every time. Watching a theretofore permanent fixture of the cityscape suddenly be reduced to ash was pretty terrifying.
IF YOU COULD SPEND THE NIGHT IN A NEW YORK CITY MUSEUM, WHICH WOULD YOU CHOOSE?
I think I’d probably go with the American Museum of Natural History. I mean, I certainly love the Metropolitan Museum, but that’s too cliched an answer. My very favorite museum is the Museum of the City of New York, but that simply doesn’t feel big enough to spend the night in. The American Museum of Natural History, however, is rife with big, expansive, high-ceilinged chambers filled with big imposing animals and things with tusks and unusually sized earthworms and scary tribal masks and big fuckoff whales – the opportunities to freak oneself right out are endless. I would totally do that museum.
TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FIRST NYC APARTMENT?
Because I’m such a pathetic milksop, after I graduated from college, I moved back home (and in with my mom), because I wanted to pursue a career in the oh-so-not-at-all lucrative field of journalism. While this did indeed enable me to land a string of woefully underpaying jobs at places like SPIN Magazine, some tiny independent periodicals like NY Perspectives, The New York Review of Records and a business journal called Venture Japan, and then onto LIFE Magazine and eventually TIME Magazine, it certainly didn’t do me any favors in terms of “my rep,” so to speak. While my mom and I got on famously and she loved all my friends (and, crucially, she took off every weekend for Long Island), I still needed to get the Hell out and into a place of my own.
My first place was actually kind of spectacular. While ostensibly a studio apartment on East 12th Street in a converted industrial space, it had very high ceilings and an elevated loft bed are which acted as sleeping quarters/DJ booth/command center. I absolutely loved it.
I was in that apartment from the mid-`90s until I got married in 2001, and then for another year after that. When it was determined that it would be impossible to credibly rear any children in the place, the writing was on the wall, and we moved out, although managed to stay in the same neighborhood. We’ve been in that apartment, now, since 2002, which is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere.
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