Richard Kriheli

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’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.

Standing in a grocery checkout line in Chinatown, I was not expecting to witness any acquisitions of fortune outside of those bad one-liners in bland “cookies.” But when I saw the register flash “$943.54″ with an ecstatic, grinning customer handing over his credit card to the clerk, my interest was piqued. I was carefully studying the customer’s purchase, bewildered as to what is inside the little bag sitting on the scale. I suddenly got nervous that the bag of Chrysanthemum tea I was holding was going to eat my savings.

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?

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.