No car, no cry

It has been 110 days since I have operated a motor vehicle.

I don't miss it at all. No insurance premiums, no gas tank to fill, no flat tires, no dead batteries, no oil changes (which I never really kept track of anyways - sorry Grandpa), no filling the windshield washer fluid, no window scraping in the winter, having to replace headlights and wiper blades... the list goes on and on. We have been in a standard size vehicle two times since we've lived in New York and it was surprising how claustrophobic I felt both times. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way where I immediately took notice that I hadn't been in a car or thought about being in one in quite some time. Sitting in a car used to feel completely normal, but now it feels like being in a glorified upholstered Rubbermaid storage container.

Old fashioned mp3s

I bought a new vehicle once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away: a Chevy S-10 pickup back in 1993. It featured the Tahoe trim package which basically meant the tires looked more bitchin' than the standard S-10 and it had a sweet-ass Delco AM/FM cassette player. It had a manual transmission which is something that I had never laid hands on prior to signing my life away to GMAC on that fateful autumn day. An automatic transmission would have added $700 or so onto the final price of the vehicle, not to mention there was only one black S-10 on the lot which is what I wanted. In spite of the manual transmission, that wasn't going to stop me from learning how to drive it. It was a bit unnerving watching my salesman Rick Cherry ("Like the fruit," he'd say when telling people his name) walk towards me with freshly typed up loan papers to autograph in exchange for a new vehicle that I didn't know how to make go. Just like most of the others in the handful of big risks I've taken that could have resulted in complete and utter catastrophe (make note of the word "most"), everything worked out fine. After a few weeks of letting up on the clutch too fast, slamming the brakes and killing it on hills and at stop signs, that is.

For several years that truck was my life. Not so much in the way that other dudes look at their cars as babe magnets or status symbols - to me my truck was a glorified private stereo system on wheels that I liked to keep shiny. As a teenager I'd always fantasize about having my own vehicle with a tape deck in it so I could aimlessly drive around and crank my tunes by myself. Kind of like the solitude that a bathroom offers but with driving and loud music instead of pooping and reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone. When I bought my truck I loaded up my 24 cassette tape suitcase with all of my favorites and DROVE. For once in my life I had a reliable vehicle, and being that I was 20 at the time and hadn't been outside of the St. Paul area all that much, I explored. I've always taken a fancy to wandering around in unfamiliar territory so did a lot of driving around outside of the St. Paul city limits to places like *gasp* Edina and sometimes even *ohmygawd* Minnetonka, simply because I could. Although these places were only 15-20 miles away they seemed like different worlds to me. This was back before the internet came around and fucked everything up for independent record stores and guitar shops, so more often than not I'd look up music shops in the Yellow Pages and go cruisin'. As convenient as the internet is sometimes I miss the old days of having to hunt and gather my music rather than just typing it into a magic box and downloading it within seconds.

I don't know if it's the holidays making me nostalgic or the fact that we don't live in MN anymore is truly sinking in, but lately I catch my brain randomly remembering Twin Cities roads and highways and which routes I'd take to get places. It's only been three months but it seems like we moved out here a couple of years ago. A few nights ago just before falling asleep I found myself trying to accurately recall as many details as I possibly could of the Lyndale exit ramp off of 94 and what everything looked like getting from there to our place on Grand Avenue. Although I pretty much remember all of it, there are some things that I'm sure have evaporated from my noggin. I'm sure there's many snippets within the Twin Cities scenery that I subconsciously absorbed, but not until next time I'm in MN and see them will think "Oh yeah, I remember that!" I also play video in my head of the route from 80th Street in Cottage Grove to my parent's house a lot. I'm still batting at 97-98% on that one because I grew up in the Grove for 18-19 years, but now on top of that my brain has additional new cud to chew: What will it look like next time I'm there? When will I be there next? Whose car will I be in? and a bunch of other junk that didn't really occur to me until we recently became so geographically displaced from our roots. We used to get out to Rancho Relaxo about once a month on average, so this three month stretch is a new record. I'm not sure how to feel about that, but it is what it is. Thankfully Google Maps has street view (plus there's Google Earth) so I can always visit places that way, but that's sort of like cheating.

Good ol' Cabbage Grove.

I just read Paul Shaffer and Craig Ferguson's books, both of which interestingly enough go into detail about moving far away from Mom and Dad and their families and ultimately ending up in New York City... that subject matter certainly hit me on a much different level now than if I would have read those books back in Minneapolis. Instead of reading it and thinking Man, that would really suck I read it and think Yeah, it really sucks (we miss you, family and friends!) Life in Minneapolis didn't involve two hours on the train every weekday for me to sit and read, so I probably never would have read those in the first place had we not lived here. Right place/right time, I guess. If we were still in MN I would have given them a half assed read at best and never finished 'em. Not because they weren't good - they were incredibly excellent books. My attention span just doesn't allow me to finish books unless I'm in a situation where I'm forced to, such as sitting on the train trying not to stare at the asses and crotches in my face of people who got on at Times Square and have to stand and hold the bar above my seat (I believe they're lovingly referred to as strap hangers even though there aren't straps in the subways anymore). Times Square is the stop on my way home from work where everyone and their mama boards the train; I'm incredibly grateful that I get on three stops before it when seats are still available.

I've been wondering when I'll be behind the wheel of a motor vehicle next - we just scored tickets to a Jeff Beck gig in June which will require 6 hours of driving upstate, so it looks like that might be it at this point. Maybe instead of renting a car I'll bust out Grand Theft Auto and brush up on my carjacking proficiency. That and maybe one of the Need For Speed games to familiarize myself with getting past the road spikes they'll put up as we approach the Newark Turnpike at 110mph.

It's Beginning to Look a Not Like Chrissss-mas!

Wow... Here we are three and a half months into this whole NYC thing already. It's interesting thinking back to August not knowing how in the world this was all gonna pan out. I remember thinking "What happens if we don't have jobs and savings runs dry?" and envisioning having to sell my amp and a guitar to pay for a moving truck back to Minneapolis, but lo and behold our savings account is still alive and we both have jobs. It feels strangely like home here rather than some big scary intimidating city you always see in the movies that we packed up and moved to.

Every day during my lunch break I religiously walk to south Central Park, down to Times Square, and then take the train back to work. We honeymooned in that general area so it's always quite nostalgic walking past all of the spots and remembering seeing them for the first time. When you see a building or even a doorway that you remember from a movie or TV show for the first time it's almost as cool as seeing a celebrity. Maybe it's better than seeing a celebrity now that I think about it... buildings and historic sites can't talk. Unless you're on some sort of illegal mind altering toxin, I guess. Then they probably talk a lot.

Will Lee, man on bass

On that walk I make a point of it to pass under the Late Show marquee outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater and remember a) crapping my pants in delight when we turned the corner onto Broadway from our hotel and seeing it IN REAL LIFE and b) waiting outside for tickets to Dave's show a few days later wondering what it would be like to live here. A few days ago I saw Late Show bassist extraordinaire Will Lee outside the building for the second or third time - he's pretty hard to miss. I always get a little musician-giddy when I see him. Not just because of his undeniably stellar bass skills and his place in Letterman history, but also because he laid down some pretty kickass bass lines on Ace Frehley's 1978 solo album (which also features equally kickass drumming by Late Show drummer Anton Fig who I hope to see roaming the streets some day). That record has been a staple of my music intake ever since Santa's elves made it for me and left it under the tree on Dec. 24th of 1979 or 80 (thanks, Santa!) My sister and brother both remember those songs simply because I played the shit out of it and still do to this day - I'm sure it has been embedded into Bryn's brain as well at this point.

I also unwrapped the Paul Stanley and Peter Criss solo albums that morning, completing my collection of KISS record awesomeness that my Aunt Cookie started the previous July by giving me the Gene Simmons record for my birthday. Ace's was and always will be by far my favorite. I wonder what Will looked like back then. I'm guessing he sported a sweet beret and a moustache. Pretty much every good rock bassist back then seemed to look like they were in the Doobie Brothers.
Speaking of Santa giving me KISS records, Christmas is right around the corner, yet life feels strangely UnChristmas. This is not a bad or a good thing, it just is what it is mainly due to the following two circumstances:

1. Friends and family are 1,200 miles away. If I were The Dude from The Big Lebowski this would certainly register at the top of my "Major bummer, man" list.
2. New York City's weather is currently 49 degrees. Minneapolis' is that minus 50. I don't miss that by any means, but it's certainly different living without it at this time of the year.
   

#1 is a given to throw anyone's holiday spirit for a humdinger of a loop. I love being around my families, all two of them, and wondering what spending the holidays without seeing them all sucks. It's one of the first things that weighed quite heavily on my mind when planning to move out here. Christmas + No family = Major bummer, man. The only thing I can really compare it to is the feeling I had when I was 14 and couldn't go see Ace Frehley's 21+ show at Ryan's... there was something awesome going on that I really wanted to be part of but couldn't go. We made it through our first Thanksgiving on our own last month just fine though, so there is hope. Missing everyone aside, it was quite the lovely holiday to be quite honest. It still felt like Thanksgiving rather than a day of feeling like we were the only two people left on the planet missing our family and friends. Hopefully Christmas will be the same... we'll miss everyone like crazy but as Tony Soprano would say, "What da fugg yagonnado?"

#2 The weather. This one kind of took me by surprise. In my happy little pretend la la land world I choose to walk around in most of the day, in order for Christmas to occur there needs to be snow on the ground accompanied by nose leak-inducing temperatures. Rumor has it that does occur around here on occasion, but at the time of writing this it's 49 degrees and all I see when I look at the ground are the beautiful filthy gum-spotted sidewalks.

There is a #2.5 to this that I just realized: There aren't any tacky yard ornaments or lights to see on people's homes... I'm assuming that is because there are no yards in most areas of the city. When one does not have a yard, one cannot decorate one's yard. Makes sense, I suppose. There are front stoops of course, although I have yet to see any of them completely pimped out for Christmas (there were some really well done Halloween stoops so I know they've got it in 'em). There are three Christmas tree vendors on our street alone, and every time we walk past them I get in a good huff of Christmas tree smell which will forever give me the warm fuzzies and flashbacks of things such as watching John Denver hanging out with the Muppets, the smell of wrapping paper, and eagerly awaiting the two week break from school. Those are things that encompass true meaning of Christmas, after all. Man... I miss the two week break from school. I work at a school of sorts now and have a copious amount of envy when I see the unspoken anticipation in the faces of students of not having to come here for two weeks. Lucky sonsabitches.

Christmas will come and go, as will New Years, and then it's onto that long stretch to spring. We certainly aren't going to get the same amount of frozen crystalline precipitation that I'm used to in Minnesota which is primarily a good thing. Once winter is over perhaps we will catch a glimpse of the East Coast's own special extreme weather treat: Tropical cyclone season. I'm not sure that we're close enough to get any of that action firsthand, but a guy can always hope. I've always wanted to hold onto a tree for dear life while my body is parallel to the ground as a result of 150mph winds. Perhaps I will shave all of my hair off so that I'm more aerodynamic.

Dear Santa:

This Christmas in preparation for East Coast tropical cyclone season I would like an adjustable hair trimmer, a bottle of Nair, and a nerd strap for my eyeglasses to keep them on my head while I'm holding onto a tree for dear life and being blown sideways by torrential winds.

Sincerely,

Micycle.