The New Adventures Began Like This (part one)

My blog seems a bit empty and I really don’t feel like I have anything earth shattering to say at this point, so I am going to go back. Back to a time in which the month of October meant 80 degree temperatures and the State Fair of Texas was a yearly wait and see tradition of mine (wait-and-see if I will actually go). I was living in Texas and feeling the need for something different. Antsy. My position at my job at the time was… shaky at best and my lease was going to be up in a few months. Thus it was during this time (and my subsequent layoff) these odd voices swirled around in my little head.

“Move to the frigid north!! Go to New-“

The new part never finished, but there was certainly a movement afoot. It really seemed to start back when my dad was alive. He and my mother would talk of their time in NYC. Staying out late, the music… the food. They spoke of his visits to my mother in the south Bronx where people were requiring tolls to pass through certain neighborhoods. I, the Boston-born-Texas raised kid, would in turn shake my head and quietly call them brainwashed behind their backs.
It’s cold, it’s old and dreary. Why would I want to go there? Sure I had friends who either visited or used to live there. Each of them with their own flavored tales of NY life. Each with an odd glow about them as they enthusiastically described what they did while there. I would quietly roll my eyes and mutter “whatever” because I wasn’t feeling it. If the place was all that, why are you standing here in Texas?
Now, did I have a curiosity about this place? Sure, who isn’t curious as to how (and *WHY*) 10 million-plus ill tempered people squeeze onto a tiny island(s) and love it so. I have passed through NY a few times in life. Visited both airports pre-911 and been driven through parts of Queens. My curiosity was tempered when I visited Toronto and London a few times and were told they were nicer versions of NYC. That there was good enough for me. That Toronto was a cleaner version and London’s subway system and shopping were on par with the Big Apple. Add in Miami and it’s huge NY influence with warm weather and hell.. why would I want to go to NYC??

“Your mother and I loved it and you would too..”

Yet, the seeds were planted and they took root. So much so that one day when it was suggested I move to New… gulp.. Jersey, I didn’t gag as much as one would think I should have. I have things to say about the Garden State, but that’s for another time. The Jersey idea was being pitched again as it has been in the past by the same friend with a twist.

“Yeah, we’re like 30-45 mins from NY and it’s waaay cheaper here”

Again, this statement will be re-visited another time in the saga. At the time… sounded like a perfect idea. Get over the cold phobia and live somewhere outside of the Lone Star state. So I packed it all up and planned my trek east.

To be continued…

-J

Pour One For The "R"

A few years ago my dear friend Pickle told me of this guy she was talking to. She spoke of him highly and I listened along happily and then she sent me a link and suggested I read it. She told me it was a “blog”. “What the hell is that,” I asked her and she explained it in a few minced jumbled words; the bottom line was read it. This was the first version of what is now the R Spot and the writings were of the man who would later become her husband, Reggie. Back then, however, I was very slow on the uptake and regarded this with skepticism. I read a couple of items as she happily spoke of his writings. I had to admit, I was hatin a little but the man wrote well.

The two of them progressed along and time began to pass. Pickle and I didn’t talk as often and I found myself chatting with her online and playing catch up. At some point in the conversation, she asked me if I had a blog and I replied that no one would want to read it. Somehow the conversation stirred back towards her writer boyfriend and something he wrote which now escapes me. I can say it struck me enough to go to Yahoo 360 (and later to Blogger) and create a blog. The rest is bad history I guess.

The blog he wrote often carried thoughts of a Colorado-minded brotha who was living in the mad world of Southern California. He often wrote of various observations, be they of a political nature, sports or just entertainment in general. He truly excels and enjoys touching on more than just the “nightly news issues” or the primetime offerings of the Big 4 networks. He delves into trying to make light of things that may have gone under readers’ noses, especially in the vast land of cable television watching (his post on the 2007 television season is a brief look into what I have enjoyed).

It seems that the R-Spot is about to undergo a major face lift and I felt the need to pay my respects to my blogging sensei. When I first sat down to write his blog was what came to mind. “How can I be interesting and amusing?” “How can I talk about topics as they run through my head and flow them onto the screen for someone to roll their eyes at?” I am a guy, who took a couple of years of journalism back in high school, trying to write based on the blog of a person who is paid to write as his 9 to 5. It’s not going to measure up, but I have to try right?

Before it disappears take a peek at some of the posts at the R-Spot.

-J

Welcome to the Eastside

Last Wednesday I went to my first art gallery opening. Not surprisingly, I was a little concerned about what to throw on. I know I am not a very fashionable person and since my relocation to the east, it has become painfully obvious…I look like a tourist. Or something to that effect. In other words, I ain’t from here. I prefer to fit in where I go and what I wear should reflect. Wear what makes you comfortable? Eh, I like dress for the occasion better.

So I tossed on an older charcoal wool long sleeve, some baggy jeans, black leather coat and black lace up boots and set off with one of my new housemates. Said housemate invited me because I was sitting there with nothing to do and took pity on me. Thus, we drove over to the Chelsea area and parked. Now let me say once out of our chariot, I suddenly realized how wrong this looked. She was an outfit complete with handmade crème jacket and exposed red stitching, blue top, nicer jeans and fusha shoes. What she had screamed spring and fresh. Me.. not so much. More prince of darkness –ish.

We fell into a boutique where I felt my 6’2 frame shrink to 2 feet tall. The immaculate nature of the outfits the people in the store were wearing caused me to really start thinking about what I had on. The immaculately trimmed beards in contrast to my two day old scruff, the nice black tops to my weathered jacket with a mysterious patch of dirt on it and their high polished shoes to my.. oo.. lets let that go. The once over I received from of the salesmen told me my ish was all wrong.

So as they complemented my housemates outfit, I kept thinking how tight everything was she had on… but didn’t get the shoes. As I stood and pondered this, she says something about ‘these things? Prada baby!! Pleaaase’. With that she took off the shoe and displayed the logo on the inside. I had to shake my head after that. I don’t need to look like them, per se, but I didn’t need to look like I didn’t care about what I wore as well.