Richard Kriheli

“Am I the baddest?”

Actually, he was, but in my opinion he always will be. Our resident 80’s malefactor icon, Sho’Nuff - the Shogun of Harlem, now sleeps with the fishes and Filthy Rich is crestfallen. In a mournful stretch where we lost George Carlin, Isaac Hayes and Bernie Mac - I can’t help but to feel anchors of my youth slipping away. Sho’Nuff, no more? That is depressing. Yes, that obnoxious red glow still leaves a lasting impression on me. And those lines, damn they were gold.

You just get that sucker to the designated place at the designated time, and I will gladly designate his ass… for dismemberment!

That was just one of many gems delivered by Julius J. Carry III playing the infamous Sho’Nuff in the cult classic, Berry Gordy’s The Last Dragon. This is a man who was once “limited by his height” (6′ 5″) in his pursuit of acting greatness. Thankfully, landing the role of the campiest badass was a modicum of fate. So maybe greatness eluded him, but just that one role alone is enough to make a mark. Alongside a modest career in television, nothing Carry did was more memorable than terrorizing the likes of Taimak and Vanity. And for that, he has earned my vote for coolest villain of all time. So may we all bow down, and kiss his converse.

So, Mr. Carry, we are thankful for the memories you left us. Though you conceded your ‘master’ calling to “Bruce” Leroy Green, you will always be the baddest mofo low down ’round this town. For that, you are the first inductee to my Hall of Fame.

I get paid to be hated. No glamour in my line of work - it’s all villainous. But before I go into some lengthy bitchfest, let me first explain what I do (currently) in the simplest way possible.

When I am not fighting crime, slaying mc’s, or writing, I work for an interactive agency that puts out nifty web and mobile apps for pretty hip clientele. I am responsible for the quality of the final product - meaning I coordinate testing efforts on the apps and I give the green light to launch (or not). In other words, I nitpick it to death.

Sound fun? It’s not. In this line of work, you pretty much piss off anyone you work with. You piss off developers and designers for pointing out errors. You piss off project managers by not being accurate with time estimates (hey, how can I predict how faulty an app will be?) You piss off account managers by having to bill for all the time spent. You piss off the client by putting launch dates in jeopardy. You piss off IT for needing up-to-date hardware, as well as shitty hardware. And on top of everything, you piss yourself off for getting involved in this mess in the first place.

My haphazard descent into the pedantic world of “Quality Assurance” began rather inauspiciously. I was an English major in college. My first ‘real’ job search was focused on lowly editorial assistant gigs. One day into my search, I was recommended to a software firm looking for someone to proof educational games and applications for kids. More money than publishing, more sexy technology and gadgets — you can say I was seduced. And thus my QA career was spawned.

There were separate occasions where I broke free and parlayed my creativity to a career in design, development and art direction for the web. I thought I was safe. But no, QA seemed to linger around and always find a way of eeking back into my life. First by nitpicking my own artwork to death, and then during a lull-period in my career (see: dot-com meltdown) seduced, once again. I can say with pride that I spent most of my career in design and art direction. But QA was still there, lurking in the shadows. The dark side summoned. After the tension and fallout of my last art direction gig, QA appeared to be a low-stress, no nonsense alternative in comparison. The offer was there, and my guard was down.

Fast forward two years later - and here I am in the midst of yet another run of nitpicking. And the designers, developers, project managers, account managers all curse me under their breaths. And I curse at myself at the mirror in the morning, as I don this mask of meticulousness.

Mask or not, I tell my people that if I am liked at work, I am not doing a good job. And the job requirement should read: ability to endure hatred and carry the weight of every project on your shoulders. After all, if something goes wrong, guess who gets villified? Cue: more hatred.

The welcome mat to New York’s proverbial ‘melting pot’ has long been weathered and worn. In the past couple of decades, those from the outskirts of this country seem to have migrated here in droves. Despite the stereotypes New Yorkers have long been branded with - the outsiders were always greeted with open arms. Though, there is a common aphorism amongst native New Yorkers - more typically in the outer boroughs that goes something like:

“wipe your feet before you step in my house”

With the said influx of transplants, I am starting to feel as if the mat is being hopped over en route to our place. The landscape of New York is transfigured with folks from other cities rapidly becoming a significant portion of our population. It’s those same people that say “I’m from Brooklyn,” and you can instantly whiff the new blood.

So these newbies stand before the mat, and glaze it over, walk right in, chest brazen with that ever-so-bleached smile. The immigrants who came before them are jolted. The same people who paved the way, and made this city what it is today. Or, rather, what it was.

What it was? Here are just a few checklist highlights: The gentrificaton of Harlem and now Brooklyn. The transformation of Times Square into Disneyland. The entire island of Manhattan gradually resembling a midwestern strip mall. People creating “you’re a new yorker when…” lists, whose stay here has been shorter than my current lease. Venti Skim Mochiattos with no foam. I could go on, but you get the picture.

This whole thing reeks of something equivalent a new neighbor helping themselves to your fridge and remote. Hey, I’m a friendly guy - even by NYC standards. Go ahead, use my fridge and remote, no problem - but please show some manners. This city is great, and everyone should have equal access to it. But this metamorphosis gives me the creeps.

Bottom line is, the welcome mat is there for a reason. It is muddied, though dry, from endless traffic to and from our home. And yes, it bears the word “welcome” but maybe this word needs to be redefined, or changed altogether - just like the face of this city. Those from outside should take a minute to be conscious of this mat, woven with coarse materials - designed to last. And last, it will.

The other day, I overheard someone on the train crowing (with a friend) about her impending lease signing in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn. She was glowing, beaming! I couldn’t place her accent but my money would have been on Memphis, Little Rock or say . . . Williamsburg. Not Williamsburg, Virginia - but Williamsburg, New York! What was clear to me in that moment was a glaring truth simmering over the past decade or so, something I didn’t want to ever admit to or believe - New York has lost face.

The gentrification of some New York City neighborhoods over the years has been stunning and in some respect, heartbreaking. Williamsburg looks more like the East Village than the actual East Village now. All of the former ‘rough’ areas are now fashionable real estate targets. Never in my dreams would I have imagined that Brooklyn would become “the place to be” or the hot-spot it is today. “Bushwick? No sweat - we have this beautiful, sunny luxury condo . . .”

While I am all for the decrease in crime, and seeing parts of New York revitalized, the tradeoff appears to be a rapidly deteriorating identity. Nowhere is this more unmistakable than in Brooklyn. What happened? I mean seriously. Brooklyn used to have grit and character. It was easy to distinguish Brooklynites from Manhattanites. Those rough neighborhoods used to evoke fear and paranoia from non-residents. Unless you were raised there, no one really desired to be there. Now, everyone I meet (it seems) hails from there. It’s their ‘hood. No, not Biloxi, but Brownsville! Where did all these transplants come from? And how did the turf transform to such lengths? The whole thing stinks, partly because Brooklyn is now borderline unrecognizable. What’s next? An amusement park in the “Boogie-Down” Bronx? Oh wait, the Yankees are already there. I suspect once the NBA transitions the New Jersey Nets hoops franchise to Brooklyn, the circus will only get worse (you’re welcome, Jay Z).

The day has finally come where I can watch Do The Right Thing or listen to Mos Def and feel like I am experiencing artifacts of history. Now, every time someone mentions hailing from Brooklyn, I feel the hair on my arms stand and my stomach feel like I had too many dirty-water hot dogs. And its not out of intimidation, but rather despondency.

So once again, Filthy Rich kicks off an inaugural blog post (otherwise known as “Hello World: Version Deux”). Only this time, it is with fervency, and with potentially no audience. Well, no audience - yet.

Kriheli.com was around for a while, long before everyone and their mothers had blogs. Long before social networking, and web 2.0. I blogged often, and was somewhat consistent about it. ‘Somewhat’ never really cut it - especially if one claimed to be a scribe. But there were still readers, once upon a time. And there were comments and all kinds of positive feedback. There was a time back in the day, where I actually tried to woo Ananda Lewis through this very blog (circa 1998). I even remember blogging the night before 9/11 - packing my bags on en route to London for a friend’s graduation. The words I posted the following morning still haunt me to this day:

“Tuesday September, 11, 2001. 9:31am - Um, scratch the London trip. War is imminent.”

Gone are those days. As the posts got more and more infrequent, inconsistent and scattered, so did my writing. I’m not sure what exactly happened - or if there exists a root cause for becoming unproductive. Judging by the slew of -ly adverbs in this post, I can already see I have a lot of work to do. Nonetheless, I am here blogging again. And doing it to prove to myself that I still have it in me. Actually, I kinda know I still have something because I ran an anonymous blog last year on a very personal subject matter and was blown away with the response to it. The proverbial fire was reignited, so-to-speak.

That said, here I am with my blog version of a “do-over.” Though, because of past inconsistencies, I will not boast about being a capable, seasoned veteran in this game. I will not assume my readers will be back. But what I will do is honor the written word, this time ’round - and win you guys back.