Richard Kriheli

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 and most importantly Richard Alpert (a.k.a. RA).
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. 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.

Who is this Kriheli guy?  How can we sell him?  

Nope, no running tricks here. These questions will undoubtedly arise if an interested party reviews my work. Aside from all this pointless blogging and my day career as an Internet Maharishi, I write fiction. I am approaching the stage where I will need to find a home for my work as I prep for my submission run in the coming months. But I am plagued with a small dilemma.  Where I have near full confidence in my prose, I am cracking at the bits when it comes to my name.

Name? Why is this important? Well, for one – a snappy nom de plume makes someone easily recognizable and memorable (of course, when paired with solid work.) From a marketing standpoint, I’m no fool – this could be a critical piece of the plan. While I do realize that I carry a unique last name, it is still difficult for your average dimwit to pronounce.  KREE-HELL-EE is the way I pitch it.  Instead, I am met with gems like CRY-HELL-EYE, KRILLI, KREELI and I have even been graced with CRYLLIC believe it or not. Actually, it is easy for me to believe because I have come to the conclusion that people are plain lazy. I am not about to hop into “John Smith” territory or anything but given my penchant for the written word, I feel I can come up with something interesting. After all, I did author an anonymous blog under a pseudonym in the past that seemed to work. So, this dilemma needs to be resolved for me to go forward. I will attempt to reconcile this shortly and be done with it. So I really have two choices here:

1) Keep the name.
Kriheli is my birthname. People already know me and I have already pimped myself enough on the internet to feel like a dirty trollop (they don’t call me Filthy Rich for nothin’). Pros: Not everyone knows my background so there is an air of mystery around it – I often field questions about it. Cons: Not catchy, and pronunciation could be awfully butchered.

- OR -

2) Go with a Pseudonym.
In college, I was asked to use a pen-name on two occasions. One time, I used Papermate (har har), and the other time Sam Clemens (Mark Twain’s real name). I think I have since shed my arrogance and corn, and will try to be less of a dick. Pros: A good pseudonym is memorable and can define a career. Cons: Birthname gets lost – Richard Kriheli who? Also, I’d have to get a new domain/website rolling to not confuse anyone. Also, choosing an alias is the lyrical equivalent of a tattoo for a career – changing it down the line is tricky.

That said, I turn to you. My audience of word lovers and fellow writers. Those who love and appreciate language and the beauty of the written word alongside yours truly. I need some opinions and a nice, healthy debate on the merits and pitfalls of both options. In the end, I make the final call on this. When a writer approaches agents for representation and publishers for the proverbial go/no-go decision – they are often asked whether they know their audience. Consider this post just my attempt at getting to know what you guys want.

And yes, you are now my pimps.

I’ve got white hairs. Forget gray or silver. Effin’ white! Granted, I’m no spring chicken, but come on!

See, I’ve got this awful and nervous habit of pulling hairs from my beard/goatee while working, reading, watching tv, etc. Last year, in the midst of one of my pluck-athons, I pulled one that quite simply stunned me — stark white. Upon closer inspection via restroom-mirror, the anomaly was confirmed as anything but. White hairs have invaded my turf, err… face. And, it was only the beginning.

When I turned thirty, my knees started getting cranky and my head hair began thinning. I am going to the bathroom more frequently and I can’t leg out an infield single without a hammy pulling up lame. Fast forward four years later, and I am staring at salt and pepper on my face when I wasn’t exactly expecting seasoning.

Aw, who am I kidding? How could I not expect it? My race towards middle-age is blind if I don’t embrace this quick. They say it’s a mark of distinction and character. It makes a man look distinguished. Bah! What if he still wears a Mets jersey, jeans and needs to drop about twenty? I am not exactly Sean Connery here, folks. And I am not about to sport a phony accent and cuff-links either.

I’m also not the type that will be shaving my face entirely or scurrying to Duane Reade for a box of “Just for Men.” Screw that. Twenty-Zero-Nine is here as I prepare for yet another trip around the sun. Everytime I see the sun rise is another day where my body takes a hit. White hairs or not, I am ready for you, middle-age. Ready for you to serve me my proverbial crisis on your plate. Hey, I’ve got the seasoning all set.

Santa was always a tough sell for me. With the current economy laying an egg, I’m no fool: I know there is no shiny new Macbook Pro waiting for me under the tree, courtesy Mr.Claus. But, hell, even as a child, I wasn’t expecting jolly ol’ Nick to be making any cameos in my household. Not because I was a bad apple or anything — nope. It’s all because of where I grew up – Queens. To be frank, I wondered how any kid around my neighborhood could believe that Santa would venture ’round our neck of the woods. My pea-sized pre-K brain was positive that reason and logistics in this case were way off. That said, my childhood holidays were pretty much wrecked from the go.

Recently, I found this old pic of myself and Santa in some mall, circa 1977. At close examination, the apprehension and doubt painted all over my little face is clear as day. I wonder if this blatant lack of faith messed with the dreams of those around me. I suddenly feel terrible. This time of the year (or any time for that matter) should be spent with more positive energy and less skepticism. So, I feel it’s time for me make amends with ol’ Kringle. Here goes:

Dear Santa,

Alright, I suck. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you when I was three. Can you blame me, though? Forgive me for wondering how you could maneuver around Queens in your bright red suit without getting mugged. Hey, the 70s-80s were a rough time. I apologize for telling you not to bother with my building because of the security cameras. Reindeer flying or not, I was sure there was no way you were lugging around a bunch of Ataris through the projects just to make your way to my neck of the woods. I was just a little kid and I didn’t know the importance of your presence/presents. So I shall compose a little jingle verse in hopes you can absolve my childhood deriliction:

Money is tight ’round the country
you must be busy fielding requests
I know I’ve been naughty, even at three
now your word will live at my behest

Tis the season, or so they say
But don’t let my mood kill your glow
I shall spread your word every day
so try get me a Macbook Pro

Sincerely,

- Rich from Rego Park

In short, I can get behind this Santa thing now. Even though I am back in Queens for the time being, I think a little good juju (especially out of me) will go far. With NYC looking more like Minnesota everyday, I see no reason why we can’t leave our collective cookies and milk out and have some faith, for a change. Ho ho ho.

Dear MTA,

Yesterday, I was in between tracks on my iPhone when not-so-ironically, my train too, was in between tracks. The announcement that followed instructed that the R-train was going over the V-line because of construction at 59th/Lex. It got me thinking. Let’s see: I’ve lived in New York for over 33 years now and every weekend for as long as I can remember – there has been “construction” announcements and train re-routings. Even during the maddening holiday-shopping weekends!

My question to you is: what exactly are you constructing? Something profound and immense, I hope. I mean, Citi Field and the new Yankee Stadium were built in a little over 2 years. I have seen a complete transformation of Columbus Circle in the blink of an eye as well. I am positive you have something far more grand with all those years logged. A whole new speed-of-sound bullet train system? A massive underground monument to celebrate the return of the Sumerian Gods? What is it? I see all the rats scurrying in an excited frenzy and we are experiencing more and more sick passenger delays. Goodie, goodie.

Humor me and tell me you are not lying to your loyal and overly tolerant city. Yes, I say tolerant. What other word would you use for a city that does not question the “work” that is being done without any demand for a status update. Please don’t tell me that “construction” is just a code word for “we don’t work weekends.” I mean I’ve seen my one-way fare hike up from 75 cents to the two dollar mark it is today. Surely, that should cover paying some extra folks working the weekends (especially since there are plenty of unemployed folks willing to chip in). And gee, the Metrocard afforded you the luxury of cutting the jobs of all the token-booth folks, so salaries shouldn’t be an obstacle, should they?

So . . . when should we expect this “construction” to conclude? Do we have an end-date? Can I get an invite to the press-release or unveiling-party? I am greatly interested, as are my fellow brethren. Show us the greatness that is being laid between the tracks. Unless of course, it is one fat goose egg.

Regards,

Strap-hanger # 10,021,974

Postscript: due to ongoing construction (of this blog), this is the last stop on the K-train. for service to the next post, please get off and take the free shuttle bus uptown.

I vant to suck your… um, soul.

I’d like to formally declare that we can call the classic incarnation of the vampire as dead (for now). The body of the myth is completely flaccid. Rigor Mortis. Finis!

What brought upon this death? Was it an extra order of garlic-knots? A WalMart pistol with a silver bullet? An enormous cross searing into the soul of the legend? No it was not. The proverbial wooden stake through the heart is actually contemporary media and overly sympathetic, romantic artists. There, I said it. You guys killed off the vampire. Give yourselves a hand. (clap clap).

I can see it was a long battle that did not start overnight. It began in the late 70s when Anne Rice decided she wanted to romanticize the lore altogether. Suddenly, the formerly grotesque figure is sporting ruffles and satin shirts. Hollywood didn’t help matters – Frank Langella wasn’t exactly scaring the ladies off – with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise taking the reins shortly after. More recently, the success and hype behind the Angel, Buffy, True Blood and Twilight narratives are responsible for opening the shades and reducing the legend to dust. Stoker would be ashamed (though some would argue – myself included – that he partially contributed to this mess).

I’m disgusted by this loss because for a long time, I was a vampire-junkie. While I wasn’t exactly goth-crazy or anything, I really was fond of the rich history and folklore carried by the legend of vampires. My love of the horror film began with Nosferatu and the subsequent appreciation for old folk tales coming from Eastern Europe. I was a student of the mythos, as I was attempting to write a vampire story way back when, but then Charlie Huston beat me to a similar idea and I made some adjustments and changed gears (props to Mr. Huston, btw). You can say that I feel somewhat invested when I speak about the topic.

So, the bastardization of the bloodsucker is the blood on your hands. I call out to the audiences that give these monstrosities life and urge them to repel it. How much more of this nonsense can you take? You guys have literally sapped the tragedy out of the myth and turned it into 90210. Please stop. If I hear another story about “the most perfect man…” and he sports fangs, I will vomit.

But I digress. Instead of reading my eulogy, I want to offer this: I know folklore prevents the vampire from truly being destroyed. So it is my wish that contemporary writers do their homework and give me something fresh, new and … gruesome, for a change. And please, don’t suck (har har).

The other day, while perusing my iTunes library for the umpteenth time, my wife asked me if there was any new music on my list. I thought about it for a minute and went blank. What was shocking was that I really don’t have anything new. Riding the train this morning, listening to Sabbath, Cash and Run DMC, it suddenly became clear. Richard Kriheli is a dinosaur. And my tracks are old.

Time upon a once, I was quite the music enthusiast. Clocking in at close to 700 cd’s, and most of them ripped to my Mac – you can safely say that I have a modest obsession. Or had one. From my first Walkman in ‘83 to my iPhone today, I rarely go a day without headphones on at one point or another. But something has changed. You won’t find many current tracks on my playlist or any new cd’s on my shelf. Why is that? Did something happen to music, the industry, the distribution or did something happen to me? Am I just at that age where I frown upon anything that didn’t excite me like the past? Or does music these days just flat out blow? Lots of questions to address.

What is confounding is that with the internet, the ability to freeload music or buy single tracks if need be, I find myself looking for nothing. In a time where music is everywhere and underground is mainstream, it is still hard to find anything great – even stuff that is recycled. These days it is obviously hard to justify forking over fifteen bucks in a record store for a cd as well. As far as problems with distribution and industry saturation are concerned, allow me digress a little and focus on the music itself.

In short, it doesn’t speak to me anymore. It doesn’t inspire or excite me. Aside from buying my annual Prince release or getting something slightly radical and new from Patton or Reznor here and there – almost everything else is dry. Gone are the days where I am counting down to a new release and running home to absorb it. Gone are the days where I had to be selective about what to get because I just simply could not afford everything. But now, that I can afford enough, the music cannot afford me. So I turn to you, my friends, in hopes that there was no extinction-level-event that precluded this mass good music die-off. In hopes that maybe there was a lull in the evolutionary process and I am just missing out on unearthing good tunes.

Help me excavate. I know there are gems out there that I am missing out on. We are living in one of the most effed up and depressing eras in many generations. I fully expect that should spawn some really great material. Where can it be found? Give me some suggestions because if my tracklist is stagnant, thus is my life.

Every morning on my trudge to work, I walk by Virgin Megastore Union Square which houses both great and crappy music. And there are people inside, standing in line, cd’s in their hands. I am outside looking in. Way outside, and Triassic.

It never ceases to amaze me that private universities in this country have the balls to ask for contributions on top of their already abhorrent, inflated tuition costs. Specifically targeting people who took loans out to eek out their educations – well, that’s just filthy. I understand that alumni contributions shape the future of some schools, but please call those jerks whose tuitions were paid-in-full by their parents while they pissed away their future doing keg stands. Don’t call me. Here is a delightful exchange I had yesterday with my Alma Mater’s semi-annual attempt to pull some more green from yours truly:

Cuse Student: We have all these exciting new developments at Syracuse University. (Student launches into speech about new facilities/buildings and organizations on campus).

Rich: Thats so cool, I have had some exciting new developments too! I am halfway done on my mortgage payments! 15 years to go. Go me!

Cuse Student: Anyway, Mr. Kriheli, would you like to donate some money to (incoherent babble about some new development)?

Rich: Donations are a fantastic idea.

Cuse Student: That sounds great.

Rich: Actually, I was wondering if you guys would like to donate some money to me. I have a ton of upcoming expenses, and I have been eyeing a sweet new receiver for my home theater system that is close to a decade old now. Your contribution would be greatly appreciated. Despite your university almost driving me and my family to financial ruin, I still wear my “real men wear orange” tee shirt proudly. Go Orange!

Cuse Student: (nervous) A-actually, Mr. Kriheli. We were asking you for a donation. A minimal donation is also great.

Rich: I agree, I will take what I can get. Should I send you my paypal address? I can’t wait to watch “The Express” in hi-def glory!

Cuse Student: Um, Mr. Kriheli, we need your donation. We don’t give donations.

Rich: You need me? That’s laughable. Let me ask you a question.

Cuse Student: Yes?

Rich: Are you at your part-time job right now on campus?

Cuse Student: Yes I am.

Rich: Can you give me your information, name, phone, email? I’d like to look you up 10-15 years from now and ask you for some spare loot. I’m sure you’d relate.

Cuse Student: (after a pause) Sorry for taking your time, Mr. Kriheli. (hangs up)

No shame. Yeah, I felt bad for the kid because he, too, will see my point of view in his future. Academia in this country is flawed. All dollars, no sense.

I’ll trade you an Aston Martin for your 10×10 “master bedroom” off Central Park West. Yep, that’s what it will take. One million dollars gets you approximately 750 square feet in Manhattan these days. That’s $1500 a square foot. Insane. The abstract science of number, quantity and space is grossly distorted if you consider purchasing real estate in New York City. Unless of course, my math is wrong.

Up until college, I was good at math. I mean, really good. Let’s put it this way: I don’t remember getting anything wrong on any math exam dating between junior high and the time I reached college. Even in my SAT’s (680 out of 800 in the Math portion), I just didnt answer everything in time. I took all those honors math courses with the graphing calculator-carrying contingency. Complex algorithms were my bitch. Though I didn’t geek over any lame trig analogies and jokes, or join any math-teams/clubs/whatever, I wasn’t exactly divided either – Har har.

Division first came in the form of a roadblock in my Freshman year in Syracuse. I took a Business Calc class I thought would be a breeze. After botching my first quiz (88/100) and learning that there was no way to make up points, I quickly realized my pursuit of an A in the subject was futile without perfection. Perfection eluded me altogether as I stumbled over and over again. I finished up the semester with a 79 average – which thanks to a very skewed curve, earned me a big, fat D!

My analytical skills either took a major nosedive, or reverting to my love of the arts compromised my attention altogether. I like to think the latter happened, but every time I peruse real estate ads and do the math, I am left wondering if I did indeed forget how to calculate altogether. It is astonishing to visualize the distortion.

Simply put, the laws of arithmetic and logic go out the door when you attempt to rationalize your shoebox existence. So, I say fuck math. I look forward to the highly prophesized (and much anticipated) dip in the real estate market – just so I can get my calculations all right again. And maybe my focus will be somewhat integral, for a change.