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’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…” 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).

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.

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.

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.

As he was gleefully signing his name on the receipt, I learned of this coveted treasure found oddly in a little store on Canal Street. The label read “White Gold”. It’s not the gold you see peddled on Ebay or in the Diamond District in Midtown that you hope will suffice as an adequate engagement gift. The gold I am writing about is what is otherwise known as edible Bird’s Nest. Yes, Bird’s Nest - I kid you not.

Apparantly the U.S. and Hong Kong are the biggest importers of these nests. According to many Asian cultures, Bird’s Nests provide benefits such as increased sex-drive, help with asthma, concentration, digestion, voice-clarity and above all - re-invigorating a failed immune system. None of this, of course, is proven medical fact - though, it doesn’t seem to stop demand. And the prices soar around $2000 USD a pound. The White Gold variation is the clearest and most rarest kind, although the prices of the reddish, blood stained ones seemed just as steep.

Naturally, I am thinking : This is genius! Where can I get my hands on this kind of stuff so I can profit as well? But wait! Before you go climbing any trees to pad that wallet of yours and open up your new Golden Empire, be warned: these things are very, very rare. And mostly can be found in the caves of Indonesia and the islands off southern Thailand.

That said, we may be better off conjuring up some kind of belief system around something just as idiosyncratic but original - like jarring French Bulldog Saliva. We can call it something crazy like Spit Pearls. Who’s with me?

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.

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.

“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 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.