Visit Me in Brooklyn

Mark your calender, those that care. August 24th is the last time Philadelphia ever sees me. I take off for the Biggest Apple know to mankind, the last great frontier, New York-the city. I'll be burning my bridges so I won't be back here. Literally. First I have to buy the Ben Franklin, Betsy Ross and Walt Whitman, then come up with some sort of fire scheme. And I've only got 18 days to do all this! OMG, as they say in their texts.

I mention this not because I want to alert the Homeland Security people or arouse some type of sympathetic going away party but because I got a call from my future roommate today. This phone call was rather illuminating about the predicament I'm preparing to plunge in to. Incidentally, if you are sad to see me go, then take me out to dinner. Or to a bar. Preferably dinner though. And one friend at a time. You can each individually purchase a meal for me and we will discuss why you're sad I'm leaving and devise a coping plan for you to survive my departure. Some persons might want to come visit me in New York as part of their coping strategy. I think this small bites approach towards Royal Yassings might leave the person malnourished and famished, but I suppose we all cope in our own ways so I won't discourage the famine. If we, as a team, you and me, decide that it's best that you occasionally visit, then I must warn you about where I'll be in New York. It's called Brooklyn.

This past Thursday I was golfing, as I am prone to do-much to Ben Jones chagrin. I was in an affluent area of Central Jersey paired up with a father and son combination. The father upon first meeting me naturally felt awed by my appearance and tried to awe me right back. He hung up his cell phone, turned to me and in as manufactured a manner of non-chalance possible said, "11 million dollar mistake," then pointed to his phone. So this fella thought himself some sort of big shot. And perhaps he is. He seemed to think me some sort of big shot when I told him I was attending NYU for a graduate degree in journalism with a business and economic reporting concentration. He asked me where I was going to be living. I told him Brooklyn, his response was not, "Where in Brooklyn?" but rather a short emotional jolt, a scowl, then "It's wild out there."

I scoffed at this, but perhaps he's right, perhaps he knew about my apartment. I'll be moving in to an apartment that is 2 blocks from the famed Marcy Houses in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. It is allegedly safe outside of my apartment even though it is near this infamous area. Inside the apartment, however, may be another story. When my roommates needed the gas turned on, they needed access to the basement. We don't have a key to basement. When I moved my stuff in I noticed an inordinate amount of people coming and going from the basement. I also noticed an unlocked front door. My roommate saw someone depart from the basement in the process of trying to get access to the basement so we would be able at some point in the year to cook dinner. He asked the person, "What's going on down there?" The fellow responded, "You don't want to know about that." My roommate persisted. "Alright," the fellow relented and took my roommate into the basement of my building where an illegal gambling ring is set up. There is a sports book, slot machines, poker and a few other goodies in my basement. So if you come to visit, just pray, like I will every single day, that someone didn't just lose the rent check and would like immediate elimination of his impending financial woe.

Now if you are lucky enough to make it through the unlocked front door and past the landing with out a gambler harassing you, then you can make the trek up to the fourth floor of the building where I live. Of course you must be careful because my roommate warned me that lately there has been some, perhaps homeless, person in the stairwell at night. He'll ask you for money, but is non-violent. The trick about our stair dweller is that they aren't sure how he gets in at night. When ever the casino closes, they lock the door, so how this guy is posted up, lamping on our steps is a minor mystery.

If you get past him, avoid a stick up from a degenerate gambler, and didn't make a wrong turn into the Marcy Projects, then you should be able to reach the fourth floor of my building and I'll let you into my apartment. The only trick will be I need to hear your voice. You see, someone has been putting tape and some type of goo over the peep hole of my apartment's front door. My roommates have no idea who is doing this. So if you want in, knock loudly and say you're name as I won't be able to see you. From there I can show you around my place, which is rather nice-new kitchen, new hardwood floors, roof access from a fire escape in my bedroom.

I don't recommend you get too attached though, my landlord hasn't given us a lease just yet and we haven't paid him for August's rent because of this. We are going to put our money into an escrow account until we get a lease. My one roommate has called the landlord asking where to mail the rent, the landlord replies, "Oh, right, let me call you back about that," then doesn't call back.

I know this has been a long post, but rather than post away with youtube clips, I thought, since I'm going to NYU to become a journalist, I'd report about my future home in Brooklyn. Sort of a warm up for the real thing. Hopefully Rupert Murdoch reads this blog. If you want to come visit, feel free. That invitation is open to everyone, not just Rupert.