I was having a wonderful dinner at Sushi Samba in midtown. The food was exquisite. The drinks were flowing. And the company was endearing. All was a picture-perfect New York moment when suddenly my phone began blowing up with text message after text message. I couldn't believe what I was reading: Michael Jackson passed away!
And it wasn't just my phone. It seemed everyone's phones were going crazy with random jingles and buzzes. The effect was immediate. Cries of outrage and sadness. The whole rhythm of the restaurant was heightened with confusion and denial.
I left shortly after, walking home in shock. All of these memories came flooding back to me. Humming "Man in the Mirror" with my dad while fixing something in the garage. Roller skating hand-in-hand with my elementary school girlfriend to "Bad." My entire 4th-grade class singing "We are the World" for our parents in the gym. Memories of raw reflection, unadulterated fun and hope-spirited togetherness. Michael had the kind of music that you knew was really good, but that would later sneak up on you in the most poignant ways. You'd realized, "he knew what I was feeling then before I did."
Years later, I had the honored privilege of actually going to the Neverland Ranch. It was truly a paradise for anyone with the spirit of a child. Cotton candy, ice cream, any sweet treat you could imagine was there for the taking. The carnival rides lasted five times longer than you thought they would. There was even a yellow-brick road there, which a client and I skipped down, arm-in-arm singing at the top of our longs, "Come on and...ease on down, ease on down the rooooaaaad." And then at the end of the day, there was Michael himself less than ten feet away from me. We sang happy birthday to him and he, in a fit of passion, shoved both hands into his cake and threw fistfuls of icing right onto us. No walls, no pretensions, just silly, crazy fun.
So it's no wonder than when my friend Yogen texted me telling me to get my ass down to Union Square, an impromptu MJ celebration was happening, that I immediately hopped the closest train there. What I came upon was a group of kids, really. Oh we were across all ages, but we all had the spirit of children within us that night. People were playing whatever Michael songs they had on their phones and we would all sing as loud as we could and dance, dance, dance. And when we ran out of cell phone songs, we sang from memory. Inspiration coming from the back of the ever-growing crowd in the form of, "Where did you come from baby?" Then someone else from a separate corner would shout back, "And ooooh won't you take me there" and off we'd go, the song being passed round and round until the entire square was singing "Pretty Young Thing" in unison. And when we lost the thread of that song's lyrics, we'd simply move on to the next one as someone shouted, "Share that beat of loooove..."
It started out with the classics, the dance songs. But as the energy of the crowd surged there was a decided shift in tone. "Heal the World," "You Are Not Alone," and finally, one that we all shouted over the others. One that made us look at each other, notices the differences in our skin tones and facial features, accept them and embrace them all as one, "If you're thinkin of being my brother, it don't matter if your BLACK OR WHITE!" That's when arms were wrapped around strangers and we swayed as one, hands high in the air, keeping the beat by nothing but the clapping of our hands. Because everything we needed we had already with us: our memories, our voices, our hands and our love. Towards the end I started to get hoarse from all the singing. I turned to the girl next to me and said, "I'm losing my voice!." And she looked at me, smiled and said simply, "It don't matter...Michael can still hear you. Keep singing!"
New York is a city filled with preoccupied people, typically living in isolation among the multitudes. But what you realize is when the important moments happen, they let all that go and reach for one another. And boy how we make up for it then. It's a kind of brotherhood I have very rarely experienced in my life. But one that is powered by an incredible force of humanity that only such a condensed city as this can express.
On that night, Michael gave us that experience again. He went beyond age, beyond race, beyond gender. He was often terribly misunderstood, but I think he understood something we didn't. Something he was trying to tell us all those years with all of those wonderful songs. Something that continues to be impossible to articulate even as this blogger ends this post with a sigh of peace. So I'll just end it with a message from Michael, sung by the people who loved him: We are not alone.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Stairway to Heaven
It's no secret to anyone that's been to my apartment that my guilty, if not bittersweet, pleasure is my six-floor walk-up. Yes, it's a total pain in the ass on days when I'm loaded down like a pack mule. And it's not exactly booty-slimming. But the payoff is when I have visitors.
As soon as I buzz them up, I immediately crack open my door and turn down any music that's playing in the background. I grab my beer, settle back against the wall and just listen, a grin slowly blooming on my face. Oh, most of my friends are younger and they're steadily stomping until floor three. But something interesting happens at floor four. Those stomps become plods. The timing between each consecutive footfall gets longer and longer. By floor five, I can hear their hand slapping the rail and deep gasps for breath. By the time they finally make it up the final flight to my door, they usually have a look of pure hatred on their face. Oh, they're not that mad at the stairs. They're mad at me. Because by that time my grin has become a series of guffaws.
But I also love the strangers you encounter on the way up and down the stairs as well. I cannot remember any of their names and I barely know them. Some float by like ghosts with secrets they lock behind their doors. But the ones I do know are interesting characters indeed.
In the basement is Carlos, our building super. I took to him immediately after I'd been here two weeks and caught him outside decorating for Halloween. Now, Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday and any friend of cotton webbing is a friend of mine. Noticing how I was doing an excited little pee dance, he asked me if I wanted to help. Next thing I knew I was on his step-ladder hanging a gigantic rubber bat from a light fixture. This year we want to find a gigantic spider so the bat has company.
On the first floor are a group of Mexicans who smoke weed constantly. It cracks me up that good old Mary Jane is the first smell to hit you when you walk in my building, in part because I think it's so bold. I commented on this one day and they just laughed and offered me a hit. I didn't accept, but every now and then when I pass by I shout, "Immigration!" and pound on the door. Oh how they laugh! At least when they aren't in a state of wild-eyed paranoia.
On the fourth floor lives a very old, but colorful gay man. He wears khaki safari suits with ascots and a sailor's cap. I'm quite certain he has no boat to speak of, but the simple fact that he looks and acts like a cross between the Skipper and Gilligan is enough to make me love him. When he passes by he always tips his hat, and no matter how antiquated or silly the gesture seems, it always makes me feel like a passenger about to board a luxury cruise ship instead of the Minnow.
Finally, on my floor lives the cutest straight guy. He's literally tall, dark and handsome in that classic Hollywood way. But what's even better is that he always goes out of his way to engage me in conversation when he sees me. He moves beyond the simple "hello" and always asks where I'm headed. This usually sparks a conversation that lasts all the way down the stairs until we get to the front door. Here, he always shouts, "Let me get that!," takes two quick steps to get ahead of me, rushes to open the door in time and holds it while I walk through (taking my time, I might add). While I try to keep myself from swooning straight to the pavement, he just shrugs, smiles and wishes me a great day. I always do seem to have a great day after that, too. But judging by the looks she gives me when she's with us, his girlfriend never does.
A friend of mine recently pointed out that my apartment is only 350 square feet. But to me, it's not the size of the apartment that matters. It's the uniqueness, the character and the environment it sits within that makes me fall in love with it. And with all these fun stairs to climb on the way to my Empire State Building-views, it's no wonder I named my apartment, "La Vela del Cielo"...or "The Candle of the Sky."
As soon as I buzz them up, I immediately crack open my door and turn down any music that's playing in the background. I grab my beer, settle back against the wall and just listen, a grin slowly blooming on my face. Oh, most of my friends are younger and they're steadily stomping until floor three. But something interesting happens at floor four. Those stomps become plods. The timing between each consecutive footfall gets longer and longer. By floor five, I can hear their hand slapping the rail and deep gasps for breath. By the time they finally make it up the final flight to my door, they usually have a look of pure hatred on their face. Oh, they're not that mad at the stairs. They're mad at me. Because by that time my grin has become a series of guffaws.But I also love the strangers you encounter on the way up and down the stairs as well. I cannot remember any of their names and I barely know them. Some float by like ghosts with secrets they lock behind their doors. But the ones I do know are interesting characters indeed.
In the basement is Carlos, our building super. I took to him immediately after I'd been here two weeks and caught him outside decorating for Halloween. Now, Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday and any friend of cotton webbing is a friend of mine. Noticing how I was doing an excited little pee dance, he asked me if I wanted to help. Next thing I knew I was on his step-ladder hanging a gigantic rubber bat from a light fixture. This year we want to find a gigantic spider so the bat has company.
On the first floor are a group of Mexicans who smoke weed constantly. It cracks me up that good old Mary Jane is the first smell to hit you when you walk in my building, in part because I think it's so bold. I commented on this one day and they just laughed and offered me a hit. I didn't accept, but every now and then when I pass by I shout, "Immigration!" and pound on the door. Oh how they laugh! At least when they aren't in a state of wild-eyed paranoia.
On the fourth floor lives a very old, but colorful gay man. He wears khaki safari suits with ascots and a sailor's cap. I'm quite certain he has no boat to speak of, but the simple fact that he looks and acts like a cross between the Skipper and Gilligan is enough to make me love him. When he passes by he always tips his hat, and no matter how antiquated or silly the gesture seems, it always makes me feel like a passenger about to board a luxury cruise ship instead of the Minnow.
Finally, on my floor lives the cutest straight guy. He's literally tall, dark and handsome in that classic Hollywood way. But what's even better is that he always goes out of his way to engage me in conversation when he sees me. He moves beyond the simple "hello" and always asks where I'm headed. This usually sparks a conversation that lasts all the way down the stairs until we get to the front door. Here, he always shouts, "Let me get that!," takes two quick steps to get ahead of me, rushes to open the door in time and holds it while I walk through (taking my time, I might add). While I try to keep myself from swooning straight to the pavement, he just shrugs, smiles and wishes me a great day. I always do seem to have a great day after that, too. But judging by the looks she gives me when she's with us, his girlfriend never does.
A friend of mine recently pointed out that my apartment is only 350 square feet. But to me, it's not the size of the apartment that matters. It's the uniqueness, the character and the environment it sits within that makes me fall in love with it. And with all these fun stairs to climb on the way to my Empire State Building-views, it's no wonder I named my apartment, "La Vela del Cielo"...or "The Candle of the Sky."
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