New Yawk, New Yawk

Ten years ago this month, I took a monumental Cherney Journey to the city so nice they named it twice. You know, the place that if you could make it there, you'll make it anywhere. And just like the other song says, it's a helluva town.   

                       

I am speaking of course about New York, New York. The vacation back in 2011 was transformative for my heart and soul. The main reason my wife and I went to NYC was to meet my fresh out of the oven baby granddaughter Aefa and, oh my land, it was love at first sight. But the rest of the trip was gravy, my friends and I was soaking in it. 

It was just like an MGM musical and about as as realistic. For some unknown but so welcome and magical reason, NYC became the city I had only dreamed of, a mystical place where anything could happen and gosh darn it to heck, it sure felt like it did. That summer I was Gene Kelly, but I probably came off more like Jules Munshin.

I've had a special affinity for this magnificent bastard of a city probably since the day I was born. It always held a mystic quality for me, a faraway magic land where anything and everything is possible unless it decides to kick your scrawny ass to the curb like it almost did back in 1975. It scared the holy crap out of me, but I got by on my naivete' and youthful hubris somehow, some way. Perhaps that all rose to the surface again in 2011, a fountain of youth I desperately needed. 

Being there just before the 10th anniversary of 9/11 proved to be more important than I realized at the time. When those planes hit the World Trade Center and brought NYC to its knees, I was rooting for it to get right back up before the count of ten and stand on its two feet again, which it did, the big lug.

What really got into my bone marrow on this trip was Brooklyn. I hadn't felt a sense of belonging to a place since San Francisco back in the 70s. Perhaps I lived there in a previous life and my ancestors were calling to me. All I know is that I've always wanted to return, but here I am in 2021 and it ain't happened yet. 

It's probably for the better. My rose-colored view of New York and all its magnificence would be probably be shattered as soon as reality set in and I wouldn't have the safety net of returning to Portland, Oregon, a place with its own set of troubles, not the least of which that it is turning into New York in the 1970s. And with this bloody pandemic still upon us, nowhere looks very inviting these days.

But I have these great memories and am grateful for each every one of them. New York showed me a good time and will remain as a holy spot on earth as far as I'm concerned. I will be eternally grateful to my daughter Lindsay and son-in-law Chris who sponsored this amazing Cherney Journey, giving the world their beautiful and talented daughter Aefa and along the way, their new force of nature, Aefa's sister Athena. Howe I feel about New York actually pales in comparison to the love I have for this family I have been blessed to have been a part, the gift that keeps on giving. 

Below are links to my blog posts from 2011, the grand adventure that was and always will be for me in the kingdom known as New York, New York.

THESE VAGABOND SHOES

STRAIGHT INTA BROOKLYN

HELLO, MY CONEY ISLAND BABY

SEND IN THE DANCING MORMONS

GOOD NIGHT, HURRICANE IRENE

More Cherney Journeys, like the continuation of my South Africa saga PLEASE HOLD THUMBS:

CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Don't You F*** with New York!

I find it hard to believe that it's been a solid year since I was in New York City, a trip so magnificent that it seeped into my bone marrow. Not a day goes by that I don't think about New York and at times, I can't help regret that I didn't reside there in my lifetime. But reality is not exactly my specialty. for one thing, I was on vacation and certainly in a different frame of mind. For another, I'm at the age where it's not exactly feasible. When I had youth on my side, New York was still a helluva town, but also a helluva lot different. My first trip to the Big Apple scared the living shit out of me. Talk about your mean streets...

In honor of last year's redemption vacation, here's a piece from IN THE DARK, a little slice of biographical history from me to you, here is the New York Cherney Journey v.1 


There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This isn’t one of them.

Like many people, I always had a fascination with that town that is so great they named it twice-New York, New York. With its legendary status in modern times, it became necessary for me to experience this place that many believe to be not only the greatest city in the world, but perhaps even the center of the universe. Therefore, at the adventurous, youthful age of twenty years old, I followed through on this wanderlust and made plans to take a trip across the United States of America with a final destination point of New York City.

Being a young man of so very few means in the world, my choice of transportation was, once again, my old friend, the Greyhound bus. I purchased a 30-day all access excursion fare called the Ameripass after saving every shekel I could for the trip. By August, the world was my oyster as I boarded the Silver Dog on Wheels and headed for the Apple they call Big. Weeks later, after several adventures of an R rated nature later, there it was it all of its glory…New York City, the Final Frontier. When I got my first gander at the awesome skyline of the city, it occurred to me that I had one little problem. Once I set foot in Manhattan, I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do.

In the Port Authority Bus Depot, I stored my luggage in a locker and got ready to venture out into the wilderness beyond. A decision had to be made. Which way, Jose? I spied a sign stating that the subway was just downstairs. As I descended the steps, it became crystal clear that if I got onto a train-any train-could I really make it back? Stymied by my lack of preparation, another sign caught my eye-an arrow pointing upstairs to 42nd Street.

42nd Street? Where I could hear the beat of dancing feet? The avenue I am taking you to? Finally! A decision had been reached! Without a moment’s hesitation, I breathlessly climbed the stairs in anticipation of the things that dreams are made of only to be greeted with…

What the hell was this?

This, my friends, was pre-Guiliani Manhattan.

As far as the eye could see were adult bookstores, pawn shops, porno theaters, strip clubs, gift shops with signs that read, “WE LOST OUR LEASE! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS TONIGHT!” (Of course they’d always reopen the next morning. One could only assume they found their lease.) Then the people...hookers, pimps, junkies, drunks, crazies, lowlifes…hey! This all looked very familiar to me. This was Market Street in San Francisco…to the nth degree! Where the hell is Ruby Keeler? Oh, there she is turning tricks in the back of Travis Bickle’s cab.

Here I was, twenty years old and I might as well been wearing a diaper. I was no bigger than a cotton swab as it was but somehow I felt the size of a flea as I wandered wide-eyed down to the corner of Sodom and Gomorrah. Up ahead, there was a refrigerator with a head on it heading my way. He looked as though he would crush me in his path and, by the expression on his face, that is exactly what he intended to do. Thinking fast, I turned the corner and…

Everything went quiet. Had I just stepped into an air pocket? The hustle and bustle of 42nd was suddenly muffled and all was very weirdly calm. A handful of pedestrians occupied the sidewalks compared to the flotsam and jetsam that I had just swam away from. I was thankful for the apparent sanctuary I had just discovered. Halfway down the block was a poster for A Chorus Line, the biggest Broadway show at that time. Wait a second… Broadway? Nah, it couldn’t be that close…could it? Treading lightly, almost warily down the street…oh, my sweet Lord…

Times Square! I found Times Square! Way to go, Magellan!

I stood transfixed, soaking it all in. I felt as though I was in one of those 360-degree camera shots in a Brian DePalma movie. Never had I ever been so overwhelmed in my entire life by the sheer majesty of it all. I turned to face the Winston cigarette billboard. A smoke ring the size of a hula-hoop blew out from this now-dead giant smoker’s mouth, welcoming me to the city. Holy smoke indeed.

Once I gained my composure, a time worn cliché became a very stark reality. It wasn’t the heat all along. It WAS the humidity. Holy crap! Sweat was gushing out of every pore on my body. According to my astute calculations, the calendar read August, hence the goddamn heat wave. Since I was beginning to cook in my own juices, I thought it might behoove me to find something perhaps a bit cooler. I entered another of my natural habitats-a bookstore. Immediately, every open pore on my body froze over by the most incredible air conditioning system I’d ever encountered. I didn’t last two minutes before stepping outside again to thaw out, which happened instantaneously.

What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t keep that up all day. Wandering around aimlessly, I finally stopped next to the statue of George M. Cohan to figure out my next move. All I had to do was look across the street for the answer for there stood the DeMille Theater, a legendary Times Square establishment that was currently showing Norman Jewison’s Rollerball. With my mind made up. I gave my regards to Mr. Cohan with a quick salute and set off in the direction of the theater.

To my pleasant surprise, I discovered that the next showing of Rollerball was just about to start. I paid my admission and took my place in a sparse audience, a good location far enough away from everyone to be able to relax and enjoy the show.

After the lights lowered, the first thing on the screen was a NO SMOKING spot. As if on cue, whoever had ‘em, smoked ‘em because they all fired up at the same time. Not wanting to be left out, I joined right in. Something about this blatant defiance of authority really appealed to me. For some reason, I found it rather comforting. It allowed me to loosen up and just sit back to enjoy the show.

Rollerball was only okay as I recall. Norman Jewison certainly directed better pictures in his career as this seemed like it was all paint-by-the-numbers. One of the few things that stand out for me is John Houseman referring to John Beck as “Mooooon-pie”. However, what became memorable about Rollerball had less to do with the film itself and all about location, location, location.

Near the halfway point of the movie, there is a post-game celebration when a Rollerball coach stirs his team up with a pep talk. “We’re going on to Chicago and we’re going to beat Chicago,” he tells them. “Then we’re going on to New York and we’re going to beat New York!”

A tough yet proud voice from the back of the theater exclaimed, “Don’t you FUCK with New York!”

I smiled at this. Damn right. I’m with you. We watch a movie together. We smoke together. Damn it, I’m a New Yorker now. Don’t you FUCK with New York.

Then, at the end of the movie, James Caan as Jonathan is the only Rollerball player left standing after an ultra-violent game that has left bloodied bodies strewn around the track. He holds the ball in his hand but refuses to make the final score. All is very silent in both the arena and the theater. That same voice, the one I had admired so greatly several minutes before, spoke up once again. This time, he didn’t sound so angry, but no less serious.

“Hey! I’ve got a good idea! Why don’t all the black people in the audience go down and kill all the white people in the audience?”

My inner voice said, “Whuh…?”

Near the front few rows below me, someone agreed with my friend in the back by seconding him.

“Right on!” came the retort.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t move. I could only stare at James Caan rolling around that stupid track as the onscreen crowd began to chant, “Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!” Jonathan my ass! I thought. What about me? Oh, my brothers. Things did not look good for your humble narrator. My bug eyes were darting back and forth to see if there was any movement at all in my general direction. I tried to listen for any sounds about me, but all I could hear was, “Jonathan! Jonathan!” Fuck Jonathan! I’m in danger here! He’s got a metal ball in his hand. I ain’t got shit! I held my breath and began to act without really thinking about it. Slowly shrinking in my seat as though I were melting, I slithered out of my seat ever so gently with all the cunning of a ninja. No sudden moves now. The chant grew louder and louder. “Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!” Freeze frame on Jonathan. I chose that moment to duck out of the auditorium to the safety of the lobby. I exited out the doors of the DeMille in seconds flat. I had no desire to catch the end credits, then or ever.

After spending a whopping eight whole hours in the city, I was back aboard a Greyhound bus westward bound with my tail between my legs. I admit it. I got skeered. There wasn’t any massacre of white people at the DeMille Theater that day nor was there ever going to be. Chalk it up to Stupid White Boy Paranoia. Or you could call it a little lesson in humility for a dumb little hick from California from some teachers who weren’t even aware there had been a class that afternoon. They were just being themselves and I couldn’t handle it. The bottom line was that I felt that a big bully had picked on me and I wanted to go home.

Wah.

This vacation of mine, one of many over the years that I’ve referred to as a “Cherney Journey”, must seem to have been nothing but a series of missed opportunities. Au contraire. Leave us not misrepresent ourselves here. I did everything I set out to do. No regrets about this have I. This was a true Cherney Journey, one of self-discovery, enlightenment and a pretty damn fair amount of whoop-ti-do. And, on top of everything else, at least I can always say that I’ve been to New York City.

What did I do while I was there?

I went to a movie.


IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER (SPECIAL EDITION) is available on Amazon Kindle

The New York Cherney Journey: Good Night, Hurricane Irene

Hurricane Irene took me completely by surprise.

Before you say to yourself or anyone within earshot, “What a maroon”, don’t waste your breath. I already beat you to it.

On the Saturday night of the Main Event, I stood gazing out the kitchen window of Lindsay and Chris’ Park Slope apartment as said Stormus Maximus was about to make her grand entrance and introduce us all to what Lindsay sardonically, though rather guardedly, referred to as the End of Days. What appeared to be just a heavy rainstorm, not unlike the same as when we arrived, had the potential to be even more devastating, the very least of which causing major flooding, not to mention what wreckage the winds might incur. Yeah, an honest to goodness extreme weather event and I had a front row seat. Lucky me. And I hardly saw it coming.

Cue Bugs Bunny: "What a maroon! What a gull-i-bull!"

Was I totally oblivious to what was happening in the world at this time and place? Well, yeah. I was on vacation. I made pretty much of a big deal out of the fact that I was going to be “off the grid” for the two weeks we were going to be away…just like anyone on holiday really should. All that really meant was staying the hell off the Internet and all of its ramifications. As it turned out, this also included no TV as well, an unexpected provision of our living accommodations. There were a few passing glances at the days’ events, such as the East Coast Earthquake (much ado about nada), but other than that, ignorance was bliss in NYC. I glanced at some headlines announcing the Big Storm, but I dismissed them as so much tabloid hysterical hyperbole courtesy of the New York Daily News and New York Post. They also carried front page stories on the Kardashian wedding, so why should I have taken them as creditable sources? Besides, once I looked into it a bit, Miss Irene wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the week following our departure. As the time grew neared, so did the storm system and the hype. It even had a name: Irene and she was not only moving faster, but had also become categorized into a full-blown hurricane, Category 1, maybe even a 2. She might even touch down over the weekend.

So? We were leaving early Saturday afternoon. We’d miss it entirely.Uh-uh. Didn’t work that way. Friday around noontime, all flights out of the East Coast were cancelled. We were officially stuck until who knew when. Could be a few days. Maybe even a week or more. This was a hurricane after all. Does the name Katrina ring a bell?

So began my first experience with disaster preparation beginning with mucho shopping for emergency provisions like food, water, batteries and candles from the local supermarket, corner bodega and 99 cent store. At home, we moved our bed away from the windows, then filled the bathtub with water for cleaning and toilet flushing purposes. We also loaded up about a little over a dozen Mason jars with H2O in case we ran out of the bottled stuff, just in case the water system went totally out. The jars were lined up in the hallway and reminded Laurie of an art installation.

At the same time, the entire region was bracing itself for the worst case scenario. On orders from Mayor Bloomberg, evacuations began in the lower lying regions of Manhattan. The subways would shut down Saturday at noon. The lights of Broadway would be dark at least for the weekend. Even the block party (with pony rides!) on Lindsay and Chris' street had been postponed. Businesses taped their windows, some anal-retentively uniform, other very hap-hazard, probably all in vain should the winds really tear through. The streets began to clear as everyone got down to some serious hunkering down.Our evening ended with what might have been the last Chinese food take-out delivery in Park Slope and very soon after that, bedtime at at 8pm. What? 8pm? On a Saturday night? In New York City? What the hell did people do at night in the old days when they couldn't go out or had to do without TV or radio or (gasp) the Internet? Oh yeah. They would read.

I dove head first back into the book I had saved for this trip: Michael Chabon's THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF KAVALIER AND CLAY. I could not made a better selection. Set in New York City of all places, Chabon's American epic of the early days of comic books turned out to be the perfect travel companion. Performing double duty, the story held me in its grasp from page one while providing a running commentary of almost everything I experienced the time we spent in NYC. These tales of a bygone era enriched my day-by-day New York experience even more than it had been already, but eventually I realized that even without this trip, KAVALIER & CLAY stands alone as my favorite novel of the past decade.

After a couple hundred pages, I put my book away since my mind began to wander a little too much to what was happening in the outside world. You'd be a little distracted yourself by the possibility of a tree branch sailing through the nearest window at any moment. That didn't keep me from looking outside. (Shut your piehole, Bugs!) The trees were a'swayin' in those high winds and the rain just kept on keepin' on. (Why do I keep hearing Lena Horne?) Still, it didn't seem to have the intensity that had been promised. It could have been too early to tell, but I began to lower my expectations...and paranoia. There seemed to be a good chance we wouldn't all have to sequester ourselves in the bathroom should the world suddenly come to an end-and that meant all of us: me, Laurie, Lindsay, Chris, sweet baby Aefa and lil' ol' neurotic puppy Millie. We may not have to evacuate to the emergency center set up at a local high school a few blocks over. Frankly, the Storm of the Century wasn't enough to keep me awake much longer. So I too crawled into bed, realizing that things could still get worse at any moment but not at that moment.

By morning, the worst wasn't so bad after all, at least in our neck of the woods. Irene lost much of her oomph by the time she blew into town, downgraded from a hurricane to a tropical storm. It was almost as if this Grand Poobah Bitch-Diva was about to kick open the doors with all her fury when a mighty voice, one all too familiar to me from 36 years hence, suddenly boomed throughout the city:

"DON'T YOU FUCK WITH NEW YORK!"

With that, it was apparent that Irene was full of hot air. tiptoed through town, peeing her pants here and there, then skipped out the back to take her nasty-ass aggressions out on Vermont like the cowardly bully she truly was.

Chris had gotten up a few times during the night to video Irene for posterity, but even had been resigned to the fact that all his efforts were for naught. The end result was HURRICANNA-the world's worst disaster movie.The rain had ceased and the sultry summer weather returned, so I decided to survey whatever damage there might be in the neighborhood. I first came across a sandwich board sign outside of a local tavern that read: I SURVIVED THE DRIZZLE OF 2011. A few branches fell hither and tither, but nothing major seemed to have occurred and a sigh of relief was heard throughout Park Slope and surrounding areas. At least it shut the cicadas the hell up. Ultimately, we all dodged a bullet from Miss Irene's gun, a mere water pistol by the time she reached us. We should just consider ourselves lucky.

But then again, we were pretty blessed the entire trip. We had some setbacks for sure like a medical emergency that turned out like the hurricane: A whole lotta nothin'. This was one incredible Cherney Journey. I am fortunate to have seen the New York City of my dreams and brothers and sisters, does it ever live up to its reputation. I basked in the magnificence of the iconic landmarks I had feasted my eyes upon in the last two weeks: All the major buildings like Empire State, Flatiron and my all time fave, the Chrysler, Grand freaking Central Station, Madison Avenue, Times Square, Brooklyn Bridge, even the Statue of Liberty on the horizon. It went on and on and, like a weathered hand in Palmolive Dishwashing Liquid, I was soaking in it. We were in culinary heaven experiencing, Ma Peche, Mario Batali's foodie playground Eataly, paella in Port Jefferson on Long Island, pork buns in Chinatown, superb smoked fish from Russ and Daughters, delicious cheeses from Stinky, I finally got my slice AND my Nathan's hot dog. And of course, my first Broadway show, THE BOOK OF MORMON. So much more to see, but just like the old show biz adage states, "Keep the audience wanting more."

But naturally, the best parts remained the real reason Laurie and I came to New York in the first place:
the times spent with Lindsay and Chris and of course to introduce to the new love of our lives: My Angel Baby Aefa. This magical symbol of the future combined with all the history and nostalgia I had been surrounded by made for a glorious present.

Just like South Africa had done nine years ago, this place entered my bloodstream. I can still Ol' Blue Eyes belting out:
"I wanna be a part of it...
New York, New York!"

I was a part of it and it became a part of me.

In retrospect, maybe I'm not such a maroon after all.

The New York Cherney Journey: These Vagabond Shoes

I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed with:
I SURVIVED THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN AUGUST-NEW YORK 2011

Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but considering what occurred during my East Coast invasion tour since the moment we landed, these words ring true like the bells at St. Patrick's Cathedral at High Noon. Think I'm overstating it a bit? Consider these disasters and near-catastrophes in just 14 days.
Hurricane Irene
The East Coast Earthquake
Tornado Warning

A near-crash landing
A trip to the E/R
Need I go on? Oh, I will. Trust me. I have a blog.
And so, another adventure begins. FINALLY.

It had been too long of a time between escapades, other than the local kind. Staycations are great in theory, but the truth of the matter is you're going to run out of ideas sooner or later and if even if you live in a place of endless possibilities like my own Portland, Oregon, you're going to need a break. Even the Great Outdoors can seem confining after awhile.

Good fortune smiled upon us once again as we were able to spend (thanks to a generous grant from the Kuhn Foundation) two fun and not cream-filled weeks in New York, New York, the city so great it should be called New York, New York, New York.

This trip turned out to be a be a quasi-sequel to my book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, all about the trip to South Africa for the wedding of my daughter Lindsay and son-in-law Chris. That marriage has spawned a franchise with the arrival of my beautiful granddaughter Aefa on May 31, 2011. Hence, our vacation plans were pre-destined for an end of the summer blow-out in the Apple that is BIG. Like the major dork I proclaim to be, NEW YORK, NEW YORK ( the Kander/Ebb version, not the Bernstein/Comden/Green original from ON THE Town ) kept running through my head prior to boarding our American Airline flight out of Portland...several days prior to boarding. I hummed it. I sang it out loud. I even did a little dance when nobody was looking. At least, I think nobody was looking. I really wanted to go. So did my wife Laurie. After all, we were going to see her baby and her baby.

We departed PDX early Sunday Aug, 14 with lotsa luggage and a bag full o' provisional goodies to eat on the long trip (sandwiches, Clementines, protein bars and the piece' de resistance-wasabi arugula from Trader Joe's, Laurie's personal touch) as we jetted the first leg of our journey, Dallas-Fort Worth for a quick connection before heading off to Laguardia in NYC. This stopover proved uneventful with the exception of a 90 minute delay and a rollicking ride on the D/FW terminal light rail system, Skylink. a transport right right out of LOGAN'S RUN and if we stayed another hour, I would have ridden it a few more times just for shits and giggles. Somehow though, I think the TSA frowns on the ol' S and G.

On flight numero dos, the pilot announced that NYC was in the midst of a rainstorm of rather Apocalyptic proportions (though I'm paraphrasing) so we had to circle about until we got an all clear from Laguardia and air traffic was beginning to pile up like winged hemorrhoids . After another hour of circling we made our descent in storm central and what a ride it turned out to be. We hit the runway with such force that, for all intents and purposes, that could have been the end. It was just that sudden, just that severe. There was no time for goodies. No time for crying. No time to even say "Whoa!" It was more like like a "W---!" Another hard lesson in the fragility of mortality. To make matters even more fun, we hydroplaned across the tarmac until we mercifully came to a halt. I am just now now beginning to exhale from that landing.

Our son-in-law Chris greeted us inside the hot mess known as Laguardia Airport and patiently waited for our luggage to unload after another full hour. As my wife would say, "It wasn't lovely."

The rain had not subsided and the ride to the kids' place was treacherous to say the very least. New York roads are wretched, rutted and decrepit, all too easy to fill with murky lakes of rainwater, further extending our adventurous arrival. Along the way, Chris pointed out some all too familiar landmarks through the rain-soaked windows, a review of the vacation to come. Finally, the showers let up enough for us to make it safe and finally sound in Brooklyn to be greeted by one of my true idols in life, my daughter Lindsay. Afea had been asleep for hours and we were only allowed a cursory glance until morning. Laurie had presented their nervously sweet terrier Millie with a squeaky pink duck, guaranteeing that we had another new love in our lives too. After too much day, we drifted off to blessed sleep.

Bleary and groggy, I awoke in a strange land very early the next morning, Laurie, who had been wide awake for quite some time, said with her big brown eyes wide open, "I wonder if that baby's awake yet."

Sure enough, she was indeed.

Ladies and gentlemen, please rise. It is my honor and privilege to introduce the world to our main attraction:
Her Royal Highness Princess Aefa from the Kingdom of Brooklyn.

My Angel Baby.

Love at first sight.

Gee, does it show?

Coming up next: Straight inta Brooklyn