Every time one returns to a place they were formerly is an opportunity to gauge what hath time wrought. We can wax nostalgic about the smell of a baseball glove or out-of-body ourselves when the radio sounds out that same tune playing when we got our first backwoods handjob. Any place we've been is a place of memory, thickness varying. And when one knows of their imminent disappearance or departure, each moment might as well be sealed in amber in their own mind's eye.
Is there anything special about Brooklyn's 7th Avenue? Arguably, I guess. It doesn't belong in the guide book, but there are far worse places to drop your kids off at school or do your grocery shopping along. It's also one whose pavement I know very well, not from having lived along it, but from years of commuting by bike or patronizing its bars or stopping into one or another of its establishments for any one of a number of things. It is there, just like I was, over the years and again last evening. It will be there like I soon will no longer.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I will not be the sole party breaching this contract of memory. 7th Avenue has changed since I first saw its pavement, though less than the rest of this Great Goddamn Apple. This city has more identity crises than to be found in any returning soldier, a product of the millions of delusional dreamers and quixotic outcasts who stuff themselves into micro-living spaces in the name of personal freedom. We roll in like thunder and leave like the last drops of rain caught on post-storm branches; even when we fall, we still find ourselves clinging. And while we're stuck on that branch, if we take the time to look around, we see that the world has changed around us. In shades and nuances, sure. But when we're a part of the bigger storm, some of us find that the difference is worth remark.
When did you live in New York, they will ask. 2005-2012, I will respond. 2005-2012, they will repeat, mostly to themselves, and they will stare up at the ceiling deep in thought. I will wait a few seconds to respond, out of courtesy, and when they have not been able to hazard a prompt reply I will then inform them:
I was young, once, and I moved to New York in the latter stages of the Boutique Dumpling Phase and the onset of the Falafel Craze. Cupcakes were still in high fashion, long before the advent of the Mini-Cupcake. I worked hard and paid rent and lived my life well through the Banh Mi Sandwich Explosion and the Ramen Age. I reasonably partook in Meatball Mayhem, saw the Meatpie Emergence for the sparkle and fade for what it would be from the get go. I always respected the food truck and remember fondly the days when coffee shops had couches and acoustic rock, before it was fashionable to transform them into Scandinavian industrial spaces. There was but one Chipotle that I knew of.
Back when I moved here, compact discs were still sold inside stores, not exclusively on sidewalks. Smart phones were non-existent, so I saw the last days of New York's See-And-Be-Seen Era, before it became Check-In-To-Be-Checked-Out.
I lived in the East Village during its great epoch between AIDS and needle-sharing and its resurgence as post-fraternity row. I had nights out in Williamsburg and Greenpoint back when there was a discernible difference between them. I lived in Prospect Heights when one couldn't find a bagel, but had several options to get their hair braided. I was here when Park Slope stayed open past midnight, when Crown Heights was a No Go, DUMBO was for artists, and remember that, sometimes, it felt like I was trying to gentrify Sunset Park all by myself. I lived in Brooklyn before the French started saying tres Brooklyn.
I was surprised by the inelasticity of the mustache and never quite got swept into flannel. I never wore a pair of jean shorts and stayed away from tank tops and neon-rimmed plastic sunglasses. I always went for the beer-and-a-shot, folded my slice properly, smoked weed in bar gardens, pissed on shiny condos or abandoned lots (never single-family residences or architectural gems), told people I was a writer, Shazam'd good tunes, read The Onion on the shitter, drank from The Turkey's Nest in McCarren, and was down to go where you were in case it offered something better. And through it all, there I was: earbuds in, a full beard, riding atop an old Schwinn, comfortable inside my hoodie.
I was young, once.
Is there anything special about Brooklyn's 7th Avenue? Arguably, I guess. It doesn't belong in the guide book, but there are far worse places to drop your kids off at school or do your grocery shopping along. It's also one whose pavement I know very well, not from having lived along it, but from years of commuting by bike or patronizing its bars or stopping into one or another of its establishments for any one of a number of things. It is there, just like I was, over the years and again last evening. It will be there like I soon will no longer.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I will not be the sole party breaching this contract of memory. 7th Avenue has changed since I first saw its pavement, though less than the rest of this Great Goddamn Apple. This city has more identity crises than to be found in any returning soldier, a product of the millions of delusional dreamers and quixotic outcasts who stuff themselves into micro-living spaces in the name of personal freedom. We roll in like thunder and leave like the last drops of rain caught on post-storm branches; even when we fall, we still find ourselves clinging. And while we're stuck on that branch, if we take the time to look around, we see that the world has changed around us. In shades and nuances, sure. But when we're a part of the bigger storm, some of us find that the difference is worth remark.
When did you live in New York, they will ask. 2005-2012, I will respond. 2005-2012, they will repeat, mostly to themselves, and they will stare up at the ceiling deep in thought. I will wait a few seconds to respond, out of courtesy, and when they have not been able to hazard a prompt reply I will then inform them:
I was young, once, and I moved to New York in the latter stages of the Boutique Dumpling Phase and the onset of the Falafel Craze. Cupcakes were still in high fashion, long before the advent of the Mini-Cupcake. I worked hard and paid rent and lived my life well through the Banh Mi Sandwich Explosion and the Ramen Age. I reasonably partook in Meatball Mayhem, saw the Meatpie Emergence for the sparkle and fade for what it would be from the get go. I always respected the food truck and remember fondly the days when coffee shops had couches and acoustic rock, before it was fashionable to transform them into Scandinavian industrial spaces. There was but one Chipotle that I knew of.
Back when I moved here, compact discs were still sold inside stores, not exclusively on sidewalks. Smart phones were non-existent, so I saw the last days of New York's See-And-Be-Seen Era, before it became Check-In-To-Be-Checked-Out.
I lived in the East Village during its great epoch between AIDS and needle-sharing and its resurgence as post-fraternity row. I had nights out in Williamsburg and Greenpoint back when there was a discernible difference between them. I lived in Prospect Heights when one couldn't find a bagel, but had several options to get their hair braided. I was here when Park Slope stayed open past midnight, when Crown Heights was a No Go, DUMBO was for artists, and remember that, sometimes, it felt like I was trying to gentrify Sunset Park all by myself. I lived in Brooklyn before the French started saying tres Brooklyn.
I was surprised by the inelasticity of the mustache and never quite got swept into flannel. I never wore a pair of jean shorts and stayed away from tank tops and neon-rimmed plastic sunglasses. I always went for the beer-and-a-shot, folded my slice properly, smoked weed in bar gardens, pissed on shiny condos or abandoned lots (never single-family residences or architectural gems), told people I was a writer, Shazam'd good tunes, read The Onion on the shitter, drank from The Turkey's Nest in McCarren, and was down to go where you were in case it offered something better. And through it all, there I was: earbuds in, a full beard, riding atop an old Schwinn, comfortable inside my hoodie.
I was young, once.
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