Richard Kriheli

Open Letter to Prince;

So, I noticed that you no longer have an official presence on the web (unconfirmed twitter account notwithstanding). No disrespect to the team behind the now defunct LotusFlow3r website, but that’s hardly what I mean by presence.

Allow me to explain: You do a show, it sells out in minutes. You show your face, your supporters kiss it. Despite all this, YOU are purportedly slipping into an abyss of irrelevance. How, may I ask, is that possible? The internet spews countless reports of your demise, both financial and artistic. I don’t buy into it since I’m not one to subscribe to gossip and media indiscretion, but they are cramping your image, man. And, in a way you’re rendered defenseless – perhaps hoping faith will cure all ills. Spiritual warfare aside, this fight dons a very human element mixed in that you have limitless power to sway. A sway that unwraps the layers of your legacy.

Why am I writing this? I see a return to relevance that is woefully overdue. This unwrapping I speak of requires highly measured maneuvers which can’t simply be accomplished with a shiny new website or even a hot new track/record. In this day and age, you must mix it up with an entirely radical approach – a narrative, of sorts. Leveraging the power of social media to rebuild your brand is the some of the ammo at your disposal, and I think you’re in dire need of target practice.

Did I just say practice? I see a unique opportunity for you to ascend, albeit with some help. In my professional opinion, what you can use is a fresh design. And by design, I don’t mean graphic (though, it is certainly one piece). You need a select handful of folks who are tapped into the digital sphere for a solid strategy session to conjure up tactics and map out a game plan moving forward, if you haven’t already.

I know, I know… you are notorious for taking the reigns of your sled without requiring assistance. That said, I know my note here may sadly be dismissed. In the event that you’re feeling a bit radical (man), give me a shout and let’s brainstorm.

On that note, I conclude by wishing you a happy belated birthday hoping you receive the kind of presence you worked your entire life for.

Always,

Rich.

pri·vate [prahy-vit] – adjective – confined to or intended only for the persons immediately concerned; confidential. personal and not publicly expressed.

That word is the hottest topic of debate in the realm of social media yet it’s something most don’t fully grasp. Privacy, schmivacy. Where do folks get off huffing about privacy in an open network? Seriously guys, this has to stop right now. You have no idea how silly you look. It has gotten so out of hand that the New York Times of all places even breaks it down with a chart that sizes up legalities against the US Constitution. Really? Has society fallen that deep into a pit of paranoia?

In defense of the legal discourse that comes from social networking sites : they must have it – basically because opportunistic folks are capable of bringing down a company with lawsuits. Consider the discourse one big insurance policy. And unless you haven’t noticed, anytime a change is made to said policy, they post a prominent note about it – a note I am guessing most folks ignore. Enter the neurotics – they dissect the note and – OH MY GOD, facebook will make public my photo I posted of me jet-skiing in Aruba to travel companies! The outrage! Puh-lease.

Look folks – YOU control your online lives from the onset. YOU choose what to broadcast and what not to. I’d like to emphasize the word broadcast. What you are neglecting is that no matter how private your settings become, the ONLINE world will always be public. There aren’t any do-overs and take-backs here. The sooner you realize this, the better your lives will be. If you slap your aunt in the face, you can never take that slap back. The same thing applies to publishing things to the internet. It’s in the rulebook from day one. A rulebook you did not read or understand. The delete button is the biggest illusion on the world wide web.

So I beg you. Please stop the whining. Facebook and other social networks will not re-architect themselves for you. And unless you are a spy, a terrorist, a criminal or a cheat – chances are there is little you should be worried about. Moreover, there is little you can do to change things. In short, get over yourselves. The social networks give you adequate privacy controls for displaying your data. If something is private or personal, it does not belong on a social network, period. If something shouldn’t be in the public domain – don’t post it. End of story.

Open Letter to Adrian Benepe, NYC Parks Commissioner;

So, let me get this straight — you want to boot me out of the park and replace me with Wendy’s? Look man, I dig the spicy chicken sandwiches too, but this is all processed nonsense, biggie-sized. Stepping on rights and people’s faces will not win you any brownie points. Not cool. While I can’t speak for other venues, I feel deeply invested in what goes on specifically at Union Square Park. My wife and I have both displayed and sold work there and we’ve met, collaborated and befriended a diverse community of artists in the area with similar interests and motives. We have worked with honorable practices and adhered to all laws and guidelines while doing so. Recently, thanks to Robert Lederman and a bunch of concerned artists, I got wind of the changes proposed by a team led by Alessandro G. Olivieri and yourself (with the unmistakable backing of Mayor Bloomberg). A proposal that is squared up for review in close to two weeks.

Let me recap the stark particulars proposed: the new bill limits 12-18 vendors for Union Square – total (which is about 15% of us). These regulations are to create a less dense pocket of people in city parks. The argument is that vendors take up too much space and cause congestion and disruption.

In rebuttal, let us examine some of the points you guys are grossly overlooking. Besides violating the integrity of the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, the proposal:

murders the cultural relevancy of Union Square.
For as long as I can remember, Union Square Park has been a cultural hub for art and activism. It is one of the last remaining spots in the the city where folks can congregate and experience the nerve center of creativity and voice. Around it, Manhattan is quickly transforming into an urban corporate wasteland and the more restrictions you toss at this very tiny community of artists, the more unappealing the borough becomes. Culture is shot as we know it, and the evidence is all around us. It started over a decade ago when the mass exodus of art went over the bridge to Brooklyn. Folks like you who masquerade as art patrons are the root cause of this defection.

confuses tourists.
New York City is undoubtedly the tourist capital of the world. That being said, there are countless volumes of guides in print from very prominent publishers that point folks over to Union Square for things other than the Greenmarket. Transforming Union Square into the megalith formerly known as Times Square will not only wreck culture, but will also hurt the integrity of these publications and force them into re-writes. In case you were wondering, yes – I will cc: said publications. I’ve had many conversations with travelers from abroad who specifically sought out Union Square as one of their must-see’s. And not because of sponsored pillow fights (um, feel free to check the link for the photos of the congestion that debacle caused.)

creates more congestion, not less.
Let’s simplify and expose what is neatly and methodically tucked in your legal inaccessible discourse. The proposal insists that one of the goals is to alleviate congestion in the park. At the same time, the city would be willing to “reserve” the space for organized corporate entities, fast food (?!?!?) and art installations (see: aforementioned pillow fight.) Last I checked we were all confined to 8′ restrictions each (with most folks not even coming close to max limits). Good luck selling 8′ to Disney only. And if you honestly think that McDonald’s will take up less space than Kudu-Lah, you are living a far-fetched fantasy. Do you want absolute proof that artists don’t cause congestion? Walk through the park on a Sunday (when the Greenmarket and most corporate sponsors are off) and it will be painfully obvious where the congestion is really coming from. When these monstrosities do indeed get erected, lets circle back to your points about congestion. Bottom line is that the primary motive of the proposal is to enhance the Park Department’s concession revenue. In short, it’s all about cash. Cash, in your pockets.

In all, this whole thing reeks of selfishness and greed. If this law does indeed pass, I will just fold my table and be on my way. See, I don’t have the energy to fight greed with protests and legal proceedings. It’s the nature of the artist to fight with art and word of mouth. And I promise that you guys will have a barrage of condemnation that will cloud your reputation for the rest of your professional lives. Need I remind you that we are collectively armed with the leverage and power of social media? Despite dollar menu coins expanding your pockets, the accumulation of your karmic debt will be profound and ultimately, sad.

That said, are you still prepared to square off?

Always,

Rich (in ways you will never be)
First Amendment Artist

cc: Mayor Michael Bloomberg
cc: Fodors
cc: Lonely Planet
cc: Frommers

Black bests Orange, again.

Last night, a bunch of guys from Butler celebrated sweet sixteen victory over my alma mater. I saw a streak of black jerseys in videos and pics while the ones in orange modestly dotted the back of the frame, dejected – heads hanging low. The Syracuse Orange’s punking out of the big dance opens up a segue to a more dismal fan topic of mine – the annual New York Mets letdown and accompanying bitchfest. I used to get super amped for Spring Training and the swing of another baseball season, but lately its getting tougher to stomach.

To recap the ulcer-inducing blunders, spring twenty-ten version : Carlos Beltran went stealth and dug out his knee; the recently signed setup man Kelvim Escobar couldn’t play catch without wincing, two rookie standouts (Ike Davis and Fernando Martinez) have monster springs and get promptly sent down to the minors, former Met Doc Gooden crashes his car while completely lit (again), the 4th & 5th starters in the rotation are unsettled, Omar Minaya still can’t complete a sentence, and our tablesetter Jose Reyes has a hormone imbalance. Can I get a big WTF? It’s not even April yet, boys.

I started thinking back to when the Mets were actually relevant in New York, and tried to find a root cause of this bizarre stretch. Something has to be responsible for it, right? I figure we find it and and perform a Jobu-like exorcism to regain a sense of normalcy. And then it dawned on me: the introduction of the black hat/jersey is the dark cloud we’re looking for.

In 1998, the franchise introduced the black alternate jersey while all the other jerseys received a black drop shadow. The decision was undoubtedly financial — to increase jersey sales. A big drop shadow on the franchise has been cast that is now twelve years running. Yes, I know that ’98 was the year that ushered in the Piazza era, and that the black also represents the colors of the vintage New York Giants baseball franchise (after all, the blue and orange came from the Brooklyn Dodgers and NY Giants as well). But these kinds of decisions should have been finalized with the birth of the franchise in 1962 and not after the team has logged significant history. And yes, I also know that the team has been playing far better than what we had to witness in the 90s. But, the story remains: the franchise with all the potential and financial freedom it has consistently comes up short. And I blame it on the black jerseys. Why? because it’s not them. It simply doesn’t fit. Much like Brooklyn has lost face in recent decades, the Mets have followed suit. Even blatantly so, with a big, black drop shadow.

The Mets have lost their identity. They can’t even settle on a consistent look anymore. Calling it an alternate jersey is laughable. Come on, there is nothing alternate about it. You think I’m not watching the games? It is abundantly clear that the real alternate jerseys are the main ones. The black jerseys are used far more than the regular home jerseys for sure. I bet the loss of face and focus may indeed be the contributing factor to the team’s recent troubles. You don’t see the Dodgers and Giants introducing new colors into their palette, do you?

Seriously guys, ditch the black on the field (feel free to stick them in for commerce if need be). Stick with the storied blue and orange. Stick with identity, brand and history. In graphic design, a drop shadow is a visual effect underscoring a shadow of an object, giving the impression that the object is raised above the objects behind it. This effect is not may bring visibility up, but really it’s nothing more than illusory. So maybe it’s time to cut it out of the equation altogether. And maybe your star shortstop won’t need ph balanced soap. It’s bad enough that home is in a place called Flushing.

The speculative room was labled “Living Spaces of the Future” or something like it. It had floating appliances and lots of shiny gadgets and unrecognizable washrooms. I was about 8 years old and I was mesmerized by this display at Disney’s Epcot Center. The Jetsons never really impressed me, but this coupled with an onslaught of Sci-Fi TV shows and feature length flicks had me completely sold. I saw the future. Well, at least someone else’s vision of the future. Apparently, it was a vision shared by many. Behold, the twenty-first century and beyond will be filled with flying cars and floating gadgets!

Fast forward to today. We are several months already into the second decade of the millenium and I am thinking back to those very impressionable days. We have come a long way, in some cases. I remember my family purchasing a super-expensive set of encyclopedia books filling up an entire wall of our tiny apartment so my sister and I wouldn’t have to run all the way to the library to finish our homework. Now kids are a keyword or two in a search bar away from the same information. That is progress. In a recent CNN article, Bob Green illustrates three innovations that have permanently changed this country over the past century. It got me thinking that with everything created that was handy and broke new ground there must also be inventions that have gone really nowhere. Because, lets face it – those visions everyone had for twenty-ten are somewhat a bit off. That said, I’d like to cover 3 innovations that pretty much went nowhere. We’ll lovingly call these : the stalled innovations, or just simply “the stalls.”

Stall # 1. The Umbrella.
Can I get a big “COME ON?” Really? Is this the best thing we, as a species, can come up up with to ward off rain? How many effin’ umbrellas do I have to go through in my lifetime before I can officially deem the invention useless? Don’t even get me started on rain coats. In a world where splitting atoms with lasers, cloning live animals and turning Michael Jackson from black to white is reality, you would think that we could come up with something better than a handle/stick with layered nylon triggered by a spring? Way to represent advancement in technology, guys.

Stall # 2. The Steering Wheel.
This is a less obvious invention because we’ve come a long way in automotive technology but we actually still have the trusty ol’ steering wheel? This is something that was created in 1894, and other than look and some additional functionality, hasn’t really advanced past the time when our great-grandparents were children. I understand a serious modification would come with a steep learning curve and judging by the way most folks drive, I figure nobody wants to hedge their bets. But people, this is not the future. Steering wheels in 2010? Yikes.

Stall # 3. Toilets.
Particularly public ones. Holy crap, folks. I’ve seldom walked into any public bathroom where I didn’t feel like I was in a zoo. Way to be primitive, America. Plastic frames and spring hinges are commonplace in this country. We are the floating turd of the civilized world. Recently, I spent a month in Thailand (a country most dub ‘third world’), and almost every modern public toilet facility there at the very least had a little spray attachment to assist in cleanliness. Living in what is supposed to be the capital of the world (NYC) with one of the poorest reputations for cleanliness is straight head-hanging shameful. This invention has taken a back seat to progress and has shown little to no promise.

In 1944 George Orwell wrote a classic dystopian novel with a murkier version of what I was drawn to in Epcot forty years later. I wonder though, what exactly are we promising the kids today? Are we still pushing flying cars? Or are the visions a bit more modest? In Orwell’s novel, and even Bob Green’s essay, emphasis is focused on progressive innovations (be it useful or questionable). That is smart, and I am all for it. But I can speak for myself and many others, that we can go a long way if we just cleaned up a few stalls along the way.

Sawasdee Krub. The last time I visited Thailand (’05), I barely had time for noodles. This time, my stay is three times as long as my previous jaunt — an opportunity to truly digest the experience. As my vacation draws to a close, I sit in my in-law’s home putting together my thoughts on lessons I have learned during my current stay. Although much can be written, I’ve chosen to highlight my latest list of nine (in no particular order), dedicated to all those who are curious about “the land of smiles” and all future travellers to this gem of a country. Fodors, Lonely Planet – you’ve got nothing on me.:

Dunkin Donuts locations in Bangkok = 734
Dunkin Donuts locations in Los Angeles = 0.
OK, so I skewed the Thailand location number a bit, but pretty much everywhere I looked, I saw a DD chain shop. Granted the donuts and coffee taste like crap in comparison to its western counterpart, but this is glaring statistic, is it not? Better yet, not only does Bangkok have LA wiped out in numbers, they also host the largest Dunkin Donuts shop in the world. Looks like one city needs to represent. City of Angels (US Version), I am looking your way. Time to make the donuts, indeed.

Take boats instead of taxi’s wherever available.
If you are nowhere near the public transportation available, you are likely to hop in an automobile to get around town. During waking hours, that usually means bumper to bumper traffic and waiting up to five minutes for lights to change in some areas. Want to get from one side of the city to another in under 3 hours (seriously) without dealing with that? Take one of the boats that operate like a bus route cutting through the city via river. But if you are one of those claustrophobes, this may not be a great option as the boats get jam-packed and the ceilings are designed for short folks.

If the mall breaks out in a raging fire, don’t leave your unfinished Pad See Eiw behind as you bolt for the exit.
The mall food courts will hook you up with a tasty full lunch for under $2 USD (if you avoid the US chain restaurants, of course). But please follow these steps when consuming your grub: 1) Eat with generous spoonfuls. 2) Listen carefully for any developing panic. 3) If panic ensues, either a) finish food as quickly as possible and bolt for the door – or b) throw everything into your shopping bag, dart for exit and finish later. You don’t want to start your meal only to give up on it because some amateur forgets how to work the grill.

Brush & Shock (or Brush Shock / Brushock) is/are the foremost graffiti artist(s) tagging the streets of Bangkok.
These punks are everywhere. Just as many tags as Dunkin Donut locations. Their graffiti style, however, is very pedestrian at best. I get the feeling they are taking their cues from ‘Rumble in the Bronx‘ (aka Toronto disguised as the Boogie Down.) Word, na krub.

XL actually means Medium.
If you are a larger-than-average westerner, don’t bother shopping for clothes in outdoor markets. Chances are, they aren’t carrying XXXL. You will have better luck at the seven million malls that pepper the city, though the prices are pretty much on par with what you’d find in Macy’s. Squeezing into an XL polo shirt from an outdoor market will make you feel like George Muresan sans the rim skills.

Do not make eye contact with bar-girls.
If you want to feel like a hot chick walking by construction workers, feel free to ignore this lesson. Otherwise, avoid the cat-calling, hooting, grabbing (yes, grabbing) by just directing your eyes elsewhere while strolling the evening streets. Usually, there will be a group of 3 to 6 nymphettes wearing matching skimpy outfits, loitering in front of pubs, and trying to hit their ‘best’ convincing cries. Note: Despite what they yell: they do not want you, they want your wallet.

Do not expose your sliced mango pieces if there are monkeys roaming around.
If your itinerary includes travel to different, more rural provinces outside of metropolitan Bangkok, this lesson is directed at you. Odds are, you will encounter a myriad of wildlife throughout the countryside journey. This will make for fantastic pictures, but not so much for enjoying a fruity snack in some spots. Also beware of domesticated monkeys – they can be trained to pick pockets.

Wear sandals/slippers if you go temple-hopping.
You will be taking off your shoes often especially when you are around places of worship (as an aside, white socks = not recommended unless you intended to buy black socks). Thailand is overrun by devout buddhists that build very grand shrines that are must-see ornate spectacles in my opinion. If your day consists of hitting multiple temples, I highly recommend investing in some flip-flops or sandals. And speaking of purchasing shoes . . .

The largest shoe size in most places is “9″.
In other words, if your feet are bigger than that, get the sandals from your home country and bring them along. Trust me, walking around in sandals that are a couple sizes too short are murder on the soles/souls.

I like to eat. Who doesn’t, right? In case you haven’t noticed how spoiled I am (see: my wife’s food blog) I share a very particular fascination of tasty food with her. But sometimes we are so damn busy with rockin’ shirts and websites, that we are forced to eat out. A lot of my food preferences are pretty low-brow being that there’s little I love eating more than Popeyes Fried Chicken or the standard NYC Pizza. So please rest assured, you won’t be getting a stuffy food-snob/nazi perspective here. For the purposes of this blog, I will choose to recognize nine individual restaurants that literally have me salivating as I type (in no order of preference, as part of my ongoing series of 9′s):

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Chao Thai – Elmhurst, Queens [ map ]
Being that my wife is from Thailand, and I get to eat authentic Thai food regularly, I am biased and a bit reluctant to include a Thai place on my list. But this place really makes it difficult for me not to. With so many wack Thai restaurants that litter NYC, this is one of few that do it right. Chao Thai is tiny and full of Thai locals (a good sign). Until recently, the menu wasn’t even in English. The food is superb even by my wife’s picky standards and lives up to the hype that it is currently generating. A-roi!
Order: Som Tam, BBQ Pork.

Jackson Diner – Jackson Heights, Queens [ map ]
Those that spend time with me know that I am crazy about Indian food. This place is the mecca of Indian food in NYC. I have been eating here for almost 15 years now and I learned that my wife was a regular too, well before we met (when she used to live in Jackson Heights) – chalk up one score for fate. Not the cleanest place in the world, but the food and selection is fantastic. Prime time to drop in is during the all-you-can-eat buffet daily from 11:30a-4p. Prepare to leave with food coma.
Order: Tandoori Chicken, Chana Masala

Sirtaj – Chelsea, Manhattan [ map ]
Like I said, I am crazy about Indian food. Unlike Jackson Diner, this IndoPak hole-in-the-wall is a typical busy greasy spoon takeout joint in the heart of Chelsea. But this place is by far, my favorite. Sirtaj is tucked away from the rows of mediocre Indian eateries dotting Lexington Ave in an inauspicious locale west of Broadway. The Tikka Masala is unlike any I’ve ever had, perhaps lending to more Pakistani influence with a vibrant reddish tint. Not for everyone, but the people who dig Sirtaj all seem as addicted as I am.
Order: Chicken Tikka Masala, Navaratan Curry

Menkui Tei – Midtown, Manhattan [ map ]
If you’re hitting the sake bars of Midtown east, I suggest you hit up Menkui Tei to coat your stomach prior to the evening’s debauchery. Admittedly, it is a difficult task to pick a single ramen place that stands out in the city – but the friendly waitstaff and awfully creative & incredibly hearty inclusion of a curry pork ramen soup on the menu seals the deal and distinguishes the establishment for my tastebuds. My wife is nuts about the leek & chicken liver dish as well, making us regulars there.
Order: Curry Ramen, Gyoza

Spicy & Tasty – Flushing, Queens [ map ]
My buddy Clayton had been raving about this restaurant for years. In the past year, my wife and I finally accompanied him during one of his visits and were instantly reeled in. Not for the faint-type as the dishes featuring assorted animal organs look daunting to say the least. However, the taste of the food quickly flushes the intimidation away. This restaurant truly and literally lives up to it’s name.
Order: Cold Spicy Noodles, Double Cooked Pork, Chili Lamb

Pho Bac – Elmhurst, Queens [ map ]
The service is indifferent and sometimes piss poor. The decor won’t make you want to impress your friends or date. But, somehow, some way – it draws me back in – over and over. Maybe it’s a ‘cheap-eats’ paradise where most of the best dishes are still going in the sub $8 range. Maybe it’s the generous portions for said price range. Or maybe, the food is just damn good. Either way, this place is pho-bulous, pho sure and definitely gets my endorsement.
Order: Pho! and the Grilled Pork w/Angel Hair Noodles

Ichi Umi – Koreatown, Manhattan [ map ]
At around $30+ a head to start, the restaurant formerly known as Todai is not on the cheapie end. On the flip side, it is one of the biggest buffets I have ever seen – bigger than those obnoxious 50/head Vegas buffets. The selections are a sushi-lover’s promised land. I’m not big on sushi myself (being only a recent convert over to the raw-side of the force) but it is only half the story here. An assortment of meats, veggies and seafood makes for a very fulfilling journey for virtually anyone’s palate. Crepes and mini dessert bar with red-bean and green tea ice cream are big plusses.
Order: Anything

Nonna – Upper West Side, Manhattan [ map ]
There are about 7 kajillion Italian restaurants smattered around New York City and I have been to quite a few good ones and a bunch of crappy ones. While I am no Italian cuisine connoisseur by any stretch, I want to give a shout to the one place that I have been a repeat customer at (mostly out of convenience). We live a few blocks away from this place and it has never let us down. The food is excellent, the service is pleasant and the atmosphere is perfect – especially for lazy Upper West Side evenings when the weather is nice.
Order: Arancini and Strozzapretti

Golden Unicorn – Chinatown, Manhattan [ map ]
It seems that every other week or so, the urge for Dim Sum strikes and my wife and I trek downtown through waves of tourists and locals in Chinatown to this obnoxious palace of Chinese brunch food. This is how the Kriheli’s brunch it, unlike forking over a c-note at overpriced, long-wait eatieries all over town. Make no mistake, this place is loud and busy. The service is sub-par at best, but the food alone is worth making the effort to get there. Much cooler if you go in groups.
Order: Flat Stuffed Noodles (with Beef or Shrimp), Crispy Peking Duck In Pancake

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Now that I’ve worked up a raging hunger with this post, I’d love to hear about YOUR favorite NYC eats and why. So . . . let’s dine.

Dearest Cola,

I am writing this letter to you to formally request a divorce. I don’t think we should go the separation route, as we’d be kidding ourselves and making excuses to coexist. Let’s face it, our relationship has fizzled over the years and I feel it is best for us to go our separate ways. We’re not good for one another.

There was a time when you were always around and available when I needed you. You were cool and refreshing company. You tickled my insides with your spark, bubbly effervescence, and striking caramel color. Our dinners used to have a lot more pep, now everything is still. I don’t even have to shake you.

Lately things have just gone flat. Things seem more complicated now: you appear to be preoccupied with counting calories and changing your look so often that you’ve become almost unrecognizable. Even when you appear sweet, it’s all pretense because we both know it’s all artificial. And those nicknames were just brutal. Pop? Come on, most folks call their father that. Big turn off.

So, it’s over between us. It has been for a long time. The fizz is gone. I need time to cleanse myself. I am not necessarily prepared to find a suitable replacement just yet, and I figure to test out the waters when I am ready. But for now, I renounce my reliance to you and will choose to just walk away.

With this farewell, I wish you the best with your future and have little doubt that others will latch on to you as I have. And I’m sure you’d stick to them too (pun intended).

Always,

Richard’s Health.
“Life tastes Good”

Dear World,

Your second face is now in plain sight. Both faces as black and white as the man you snubbed. Oh, the irony.

Be ashamed of yourselves as you sit and weep for a man you turned your back on during his pleas for reasoning. Truth is, Michael was not perfect. In a lot of ways, he was sick and troubled. He was/is a case-study of a child that grew out from abuse – both physical and psychological. When he caved to pressure and made mistakes, he was lost to you. Lost because he couldn’t supersede the image of the dude dancing with zombies anymore. Instead, insanity is the label you bestowed. YOU, the smoking gun, wrecked Michael and ultimately did him in. How dare you draw on fond memories after his passing when last week he was the subject of your ridicule? Do you not see the sheer hipocrisy of your tears?

The moonwalk, as you are all familiar, is a dance step appearing as a forward step but in fact moving the dancer backwards. It appears as if your opinions and judgements are not dissimilar.

For the sake of our futures, I hope this event serves as a lesson for you all.

Regretfully,

Your Guilty Conscience.

Being sworn onto the witness stand, the publishing industry lumbers aboard and plops down. Outside the court, cries were heard, the loudest of which sounded something like “publishing is dead!” The trial has been raging on for the past few years now, but little has been reconciled since. The popular sentiment remains : the end is nigh. Sentences are about to be sentenced.

As we await for the proverbial gavel to strike, let us muse on the cause of this ruckus. Allow me to adjourn the sentencing proceedings, if you will. See, I think this is all bogus and preventable. A whole lot of fingers are pointing at Amazon, digital media and the internet for hurting the industry. Excuse my naivety, but isn’t having another place and means to sell and promote your books a good thing? Perhaps if you are doing it wisely. Am I foolish to believe that technology could be an aid rather than a scourge to the process. Granted, there are other factors at hand, but nothing seems to outweigh the obvious suspects.

Blaming the internet is for the meek. The problem, I believe, is that the publishing folks haven’t thought things through with sincere insight and scrutiny. Lets face it, the old-school folks running the publishing conglomerates are stunted in their evolution. The ancient business model no longer applies to current times, and waving a white flag now is just pathetic. Resistance to change is going to get you slaughtered in the field. Here’s the deal in three sentences (digest at will): You guys are trapped in a very flat, linear narrative – the bound book. However, this same stack of pages is no longer the optimal way of disseminating content. So what you’ve become is a group of grumpy, whiny nostalgics bound to print.

I’m not suggesting the book is over. Nor do I want to sound like I am taunting sans rejoinder. I actually have gobs of ideas on how to work towards solutions. Things that may work, things that may not. But the bottom line is, I’ve got potential propositions that may save you from the chair. But no freebies here for vultures. If anyone wants to talk shop, look me up and I’d be happy to get some discussion rolling. I’m looking your way, Random, Harper, S&S, Penguin & Hatchette. This trial will come out of recess quicker than you can spell recession (pun intended).

Book it.

Juliet,

“It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!” B.S! Sun, you are not. But since you are being annointed as a good person on the ABC tragedy known as LOST, I figured I’d let you redeem yourself for real. Let you save some face. The show is about redemption, right? A lot to gain you have, Juliet – sans the Shakespearian babble.

Look, it is clear that those around you are obviously brain-dead (I’m lookin’ in your direction, James) and are missing the necessary screws to deduce that you hold some key knowledge that has yet to be shared. So, I will do question-asking for them since they are too busy self-indulging. Enter : a real interrogator. No, not Sayid who punked out when he had the chance. Call me Jack-like, if you will… not Jack Shephard, but Jack Bauer as I am about to employ Keifer-tactics to get some info out of you, Miss Burke.

Note: Please answer with a modicum of honesty, as we know the deceit you are capable of. This is a matter of national security, as many people are glued to their television sets like my wife and I in utter horror and frustration that these answers are not being gleamed – directly from the source. And I am here to prevent an all-out act of aggression against television writers near and afar. Copy that?

Have a seat at the interrogation table, Miss Burke.
(I throw the table violently aside and begin):

1. Tell me everything you know about the Island! Start with the hieroglyphics and statue.
2. Tell me everything you know about Ben Linus, Charles Widmore, Richard Alpert (a.k.a. RA) and most importantly Jacob.
3. How are you time-hopping like the other 815′ers?
4. Where did the firearm proficiency come from? Who trained you?
5. Why are you still using your married name?
6. What is your real agenda?

See, to me the sun sheds light. You shed nothing but that irksome smile of yours covering layers of pretense. In short, I don’t trust you. I shall not fall asleep at the wheel like the others, err… other-others (current 815′ers, otherwise known as the ’77 Dharma recruits). You will be sitting at my virtual interrogation table, and this charade and your motives will all be judged in the end until you start spitting out something to chew on. Soon.

Sincerely,

Not Romeo. Not Jack. Simply, Rich.

Postscript: No offense to Elizabeth Mitchell, who is simply reading lines off a piece of paper. The real attack is directed, um… elsewhere.

Spring has sprung, though the thermometer begs to differ. This usually points to the start of yet another potentially heartbreaking season of New York Mets baseball. I’ve followed this team faithfully since the rise of Darryl in ’83, which means a quarter of a century has elapsed since. I sit here thinking about all the time and energy I have invested in my life as fan. I can’t help but lament at the time lost. When doing some simple arithmetic, I am looking back at roughly 530 aggregate days of my life spent on watching games, engaging in discussions, and other trite, related endeavors. That’s a lot of time, folks. I can’t hop back in time and give my younger-self some pointers, but it is worth doting on what a sans-Mets life would have looked like. Thus, I conjured up my latest list of nine, dedicated to ways my life would have been different had I not been a Mets fan (in no particular order):

I’d be nicer to neighbors.
Let’s face it, I live in a Yankee city. Everywhere I turn, I see Yankees paraphernalia despite most folks being bandwagon wannabe’s. I respect people who love baseball, and can have a legitimate argument about the sport. Somehow “Mike Piazza is gay” is not even worth a breath. So my love for baseball and the Mets, has turned me against my simple-minded neighbors, as I walk the streets with my bitter scowl. I believe taking the Mets out of the equation would have made me oblivious to their ineptitude.

I’d dress better.
My wardrobe is overrun with a bunch of jerseys and caps that would have Allen Iverson vouching for me. It certainly doesn’t help that my favorite all-time athlete was a serious drug-offender (thanks, Doc). I am certain that this fairly casual, nonchalant approach to fashion has singled me out, particularly in my younger years, when it wasn’t so commonplace to sport these type of clothes outside of the stadium. And this stuff isn’t cheap either. Definitely less green in my pocket as a result.

I’d have beaten Natalie Rodriguez’ boyfriend down.
Yes, I was blindsided in the junior-high schoolyard by some jackass thinking I was sweatin’ his girl. Truth is, I did look at her, and I had a nice beating to show for it. I get the feeling that less hours of sweatin’ the ’86 world champions could have translated into sweating more for the good of my physical prowess. This would effectively turn the table on that mess of a fight. I would whoop that guy’s ass now, but what if I did it in ’86?… cue the domino-effect taking full steam.

My adolescent social life would’ve rocked. (Less Mookie, More Hookie/Nookie)
Cutting Mets baseball would have meant going out more during my teens. I consciously chose to watch games in lieu of partying away my summers. I would have played more hookie in the fall with Maria Llompart, than watch Mookie steal bases. I could have at the very least scammed a bunch of amateurs at poker in those days. These kinds of shenanigans translate into a much richer teen social life.

I’d be a math genius.
I was already pretty stellar at math. But I never took it to the next level as my path had summoned. Partly because I was more concerned with the calculations of WHIP and OPS rather than any signifcant metric that would have really propelled “higher education.” Harvard or Yale could have been my bitches, folks. Instead, the pride of Flushing consumed me so much that even my later academic ventures were flushed by orange and blue.

I’d already have a child.
Last year, my wife and I spent time watching almost every inning that was available to us on SNY and ESPN. Close to five hundred hours that could have been better used towards procreating. Instead of watching the Mets piss away their season on the last day of September against the Marlins, I could have already been pissed on by our own giggling, crying little one. Me thinks that is far more rewarding piss.

I’d have less drama.
Every year, without fail I sit at the edge of my couch, biting my nails with my heart going bonkers as I watch the inevitable balloon burst (aside from 1986, of course). I wade through the news, rumors and quite frankly the drama that envelops this franchise. This same drama trickled down to every facet of my existence to the point that I became a magnet for it. Drama with my personal and professional life particularly. White hairs sprout from my chin with a ferocity. I’d be an ascended master with peace in my life, without the Mets.

I’d be rich, and not just by name.
Almost 2 years of my life has ticked away via swings and misses. There should be no misses when the fat pitches are right at my knees, begging me to take a big hack. I don’t think there would be as many whiffs had I focused my attention, energy and time on business. With my passion and devotion, I’d have invented Google, Facebook or at least the Snuggie and I’d be laughing my way to the bank right now. Instead, I’m still paying Mo Vaughn’s salary while hoping that Jose Reyes and David Wright bank in September.

I’d write better.
I’d certainly have a book or three done by now. With all the nuances that go into fiction writing including planning, architecting, editing, etc it is no wonder that I have still yet to complete a novel in my career. Yes, I have a modest backlog of short fiction and poetry, but I know I am capable of more than writing blogs about how the Mets jacked me. Here I am, throwing another valuable hour away from writing my debut masterpiece, waiting for CitiField to open its inaugural gates to yet another hair pulling, nail biting season. Wait, my hair is gone.

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Regardless, I live my life minus regrets. I simply have no room for them. Rather, with all the time traveling going on these days on LOST, my mind tends to wander. Great, that’s exactly what I need – another diversion!

While poking around the new Facebook layout, I notice an apparent backlash from the community regarding recent improvements. The common sentiment is that these improvements are anything but. Why is this? What is troubling is that the same people who are whining now, were pretty much the first to bash the last modification as well. The outcry is reactionary at best, and it clearly fails to exhibit a rational understanding of why Facebook did what it did. One simple truth dawned on me : people aren’t truly ready for change.

You must be thinking, how is Kriheli using Facebook to make such general accusations? Look folks, this is widespread. Yes, America took a step forward by electing Obama last November, but something deep down tells me that the utter failure of the previous administration catapulted this purported “change.” That’s not to say he didn’t deserve it, and rise under his own legs. Hell, I was sold as soon as he took the podium for the keynote at the DNC in ’04 when Kerry was making his lackluster run. But, here we stand – less than three months into the presidency, and people are still uneasy despite this historic, remarkable shift in confidence (or so it seemed).

This shift is an illusion. I wholeheartedly believe that most folks are not set to lead, but rather follow. They are sheep. Baaa. Yea, I’m looking right in your direction, America. You’re the folks that shamelessly beg for change because it’s the catchphrase of our time. Fads aside, I want to see you embrace transformations and refinements, rather than pretend to want it. We are supposedly on the brink of an era that will give way to a metamorphosis of consciousness. Despite this, I have reason to believe that people are ill-prepared to adapt and adjust. Facebook, like most things in your life should, and will evolve. It will synch with rapidly growing technology and align itself with the hard truth that change is not only necessary, but also unavoidable.

That said, I think all the haters need to come up with legitimate, adult arguments and concerns to facilitate critical discussion. This will undoubtedly make things better. Whining, and petitions are for lightweights, and sheep. So stop begging for change if you aren’t willing to make sense out of it, when it comes. Your pockets aren’t that deep.

Nick Hornby once wrote a book chronicling an obsession with music and mix-tape aesthetics. As evidenced by my Dinosaur Tracks post, it is clear that I am a sound junkie as well. Most folks like Nick and I would confess that a handful of records were so important to them, that the pieces would be considered somewhat life-altering to a degree. Aside from those ‘albums on a deserted island’ scenarios, I am choosing to offer up the 9 records that have had the greatest impact on my life thus far (in no particular order). Note: These are not my favorite, nor are they my most played records – but rather ones that have had a consequential stake in my life’s narrative, if you will. I invite my audience to whip up a similar grouping and share some of your most influential LPs with me as well. Thus, the first entry in my list of nine series goes a little somethin’ like this:

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Around The World In A Day (Prince)
This record debuted when I was 10. Coming off the insanely defining Purple Rain, the easy thing for Prince to do was to put out a safe follow-up. He didn’t do easy. He completely shook things up, instantly becoming legendary in my opinion with an album that was more Beatles than Hendrix. ATWIAD pretty much cemented my allegiance to Prince’s catalogue and inspired a lot of my artistic endeavors. This was the last Prince record I purchased in my youth until re-immersing myself into the full catalogue in college. Fast forward twenty four years later, I am still actively listening to the same artist with over 1000 Prince tracks in my iTunes.

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Raising Hell (Run DMC)
1986 was a great year (hey, the Mets won the World Series!) and that summer, the greatest hip hop record ever was dropped. Thankfully, I grew up in a time where good hip-hop was rampant. While some acts were better than others, no record was tighter than this one. Run DMC, Beastie Boys, LL Cool J and Rakim got me through the very impressionable junior-high years as evidenced by my squeaky clean white Adidas. Raising Hell was seemingly instrumental in molding a very malleable youth in a high-pressure environment.

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The Downward Spiral (Nine Inch Nails)
There was a period in college when I bordered on self-destructive tendencies, though not severe. Never a big fan of industrial rock until I heard this record, it reeled me in. The nihilistic conceptual theme was strong, consistent and followed a very intricately woven narrative. This record, along with Prince’s Lovesexy, and a series of life-changing episodes inspired my transfer from Finance to Creative Writing as my sole academic focus. While I won’t say things like it saved my life (as I exhibit a modicum of self-control), I am grateful for the music being around when I needed it.

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Bat Out of Hell (Meat Loaf)
Everyone has a cheesy disc, or three in their collection. I have far more than that. The hugely underrated songwriter, Jim Steinman and the animated, derivative Meat Loaf teamed up to put together an operatic, insane mini-epic of sorts. Music like this is largely inaccessible and corny. Which is precisely why I love it. This record was partially responsible for my satirical and not-so-serious worldview. Who else can put an entire Phil Rizzuto play-by-play into a song and make it a hit? Holy cow.

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The Low End Theory (A Tribe Called Quest)
No record is more “Queens” than this one. Quintessential early 90s hip hop right after the market got saturated by the likes of Hammer and Vanilla Ice. Every single track flows with distinctive basslines and jazz horn samples. This group was ahead of their time, covering issues like the exploitation of artists by the music industry. This record accentuated my affinity for my hometown and made me appreciate the nuances of city-life. I love this record, and it hardly gets better than this.

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California (Mr. Bungle)
I am a huge Mike Patton devotee, and this LP seems to be the most complete piece in his revolutionary catalogue. Witnessing tracks from this record performed live was one of the greatest treats of my life. ‘California’ is literary, obnoxious, unorthodox and monstrous. Recorded in analog rather than digital with myriad levels of percussion, samples and keyboards, the work is astounding. I model much of my fiction writing with a similar multi-layered, haphazard approach. I would recommend this to anyone who is willing treat their ears to something violently new and suprisingly accessible.

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Black on Both Sides (Mos Def)
Wow. Just as I began to sour on hip hop, this grossly overlooked record reinforced my faith. Thanks to the likes of Mos along with Talib Kweli, The Roots and the Dilated Peoples – I became a believer again with a welcome alternative to the filth that governs the market. Socio-political and incredibly deep, this record hits all the right notes. My foray into free verse and poetry was accented by the likes of these type of artists and lyricists. This record made me appreciate the power, cadence and rhythm of the written (and spoken) word.

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The Gold Experience (Prince)
Not his best record. Certainly not his worst. The anticipation for this album was intense and I remember going bonkers on the release date. Originally slated to “never be released,” after not concurrently shelved in stores with Come, this record was a raging, methodical Prince. Some great tracks, some not-so-great, but the end result was masterful for me. The live performances around this time were pretty memorable as well (thanks to Mayte). Also, my favorite track (“Dolphin”) lives on this album. That secures its place in my universe.

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Attack & Release (The Black Keys)
Much like how my faith in hip hop had dwindled over time, new music was pretty much dead to me. Nothing spoke to me anymore until Danger Mouse bowled onto the scene and looped into this gem of a record, and the works of others like Gnarls Barkley and Gorillaz. Thankfully, I have something I can listen to that makes me crave for more. I credit a close friend of mine for turning me on to this group shortly after voicing my displeasure for new music repeatedly.

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Honorable Mentions: A Love Supreme (John Coltrane), Kind of Blue (Miles Davis), Lies (Guns N’ Roses), Live from Folsom Prison (Johnny Cash)

I am standing on the platform in Jackson Heights, waiting for an express train when I see the light of a train approaching through the tunnel. Only now, I can’t tell which train is coming until the front car has entered the station. And even so, it takes a bit of squinting until it comes close enough to make out the badge. Yes, I’m getting old – but my eyesight is still good. So, it’s not that.

Earlier, when I threw up my dukes against gentrification and the loss of character in New York City, I glazed over another, more obvious example of losing face: the MTA’s wavering identity. I am not even talking about the loss of graffiti that once turned a train-ride into a lesson in underground, urban graphic art. Now, trains are virtually unidentifiable.

I have had plenty of beef with the MTA in the past, but this time its striking a different chord with me. Being that I’ve invested a large portion of my adult professional career in graphic design, I feel somewhat obligated to call out the MTA for this tragedy-in-the-making. Please join me in a collective: “what the eff happened to the design system/taxonomy?”

The MTA still uses the color-coded lines representing routes or trunks in their maps and stations, but traces of this system are slowly going extinct on the trains themselves. The new R142 trains that are slowly replacing the smelly-old cars are nice, clean and effective (so far). Let’s face it – anyone who has used the MTA in the past will appreciate the clear instructions being relayed instead of the muffled loud crap that no one understood anyway. But, the color codes and graphic design system is absent on the outside of the cars.

Thus, distinction is lost now. The experience is radically different in my estimation. There aren’t many cool things about the MTA, and you will rarely hear me compliment anything they do. But the graphic design is tight, and they had it good. The ubiquitous Helvetica used throughout with a strong color arrangement makes for a very user-friendly, seamless scheme.

I can’t believe today I can say : there used to be a time when I could tell which train was coming from almost a station away. That said, I strongly urge the MTA to bring back the color coded designs to the exterior of the cars. Actually, consider this a plea. Don’t destroy the only thing you have going in your favor: your face.