This is where I grew up and where my mother still lives. It may not look like much, but it is one of the nicer apartment buildings in my Queens neighborhood. My grandmother lived a few blocks away, in a lower-income apartment. When I was in elementary school and my mother went back to work, I went to my grandparents after school. My grandmother made an excellent tuna fish sandwich, with chopped celery and dill.

My father was a physical therapist at a city hospital and my mother still works in publishing, so they never made that much money. They worked hard to put me through two very expensive private colleges, just so I could obtain two completely useless degrees — a B.A. in English and an M.F.A. in Film. I was totally spoiled by them.

I had an excellent childhood growing up in the Flushing/Kew Garden Hills area of Queens. The public school was good, the public library was two blocks away, and the neighborhood was incredibly diverse — blacks, Jews, Puerto Ricans, Indians, Chinese. I’m still good friends with guys from the neighborhood who I’ve known all my life. They’re the first people I see every time I fly into New York.

I am so diverse — here I am with my Jewish childhood friend Barry at the Blue Bay Diner in Bayside last week, which looks exactly the same inside as it did when I was in high school.

When I was a child, Queens felt isolated from the excitement of Manhattan, but it was close enough to travel to by subway. (…ok, first you take a bus to get to the subway) My parents took me to museums and concerts all the time, so I was able to participate in the “high culture” of the city. We also lived near Queens College, which had a symphony orchestra. I spent many weekends in the audience with my parents, falling asleep to Schubert.

Although the stores in my neighborhood weren’t very fancy (still no Starbucks!), you could get everything you needed just by walking down the block. There were grocers, a bakery, a Radio Shack, a cleaners, a pharmacy etc. This was perfect for my parents, who didn’t drive a car. It also created entertainment for me. After school, my friend, Rob, and I could pass several hours just stopping in the Kissena Boulevard shops, or reading the comic books in the stationary store.

I only felt embarrassed about “Queens” once I went to Columbia, and met rich kids from the Upper East Side, Beverly Hills, Boston, etc. They had actually gone skiing in Aspen and visited museums in Florence. All of a sudden, Kissena Boulevard was very small time. I began to feel ashamed of my background, like a Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, moving from the steelmill to the hoity-toity ballet studio. It felt as if the entire borough of Manhattan looked down on Queens. The only reason to visit Queens was to go to the airports or see a sporting event. There was even talk about building a new stadium in Manhattan, so there would even be less reason to travel to Queens. Queens was the home of misfits, from Archie Bunker to Ugly Betty. During snowstorms, Manhattan was quickly shoveled by the plows since it is the center of the business and tourism worlds. Queens was always plowed last. Queens had her big moment in 1963-64 when the World’s Fair was in Flushing Meadows Park, but then most of the fair buildings was just left behind to decay.

“Sorry, we don’t have enough money in the budget to fix the NYS Pavilion.” - Mayor Michael Bloomberg

Eventually, I learned to embrace my Queens neighborhood. There was a cool mix of people on the street, and it felt more “New York authentic” than many of the streets of Manhattan. Today, “Sesame Street” reminds me of Queens, not Manhattan. Big Bird could never afford Manhattan. Sadly, whenever Sophia comes with me to visit my mother, I’m always disappointed that she can’t see the area in the same positive way I do.

“It looks like a slum,” she said recently, as we walked down Kissena Boulevard. This hurt my feelings, especially because, in my heart, despite my romantic view of the neighborhood, I believed the same. At one time, the street was lively, with all sorts of shops and ethnic food. Gene Simmons, who grew up nearby, even named his group KISS, after Kissena Boulevard. Now, the neighborhood has deteriorated almost beyond recognition.

Half of the stores on the block are gated and closed — some stores have been empty for five years! Can’t the management company find any tenants? What happened to the bakery, the pharmacy, the seafood store, the stationery store, the women’s clothing store? Surely some business can make a profit here? People are afraid to walk outside at night because everything looks so abandoned. Why has this happened?

Perhaps the answer can be found on the website of the management company, Pelcorp. On the site, they advertise the entire block, not as available individual stores catering to a community, but only as a 240,000 sq. ft. shopping center. There had been rumors that the landlord isn’t renting out the stores because it’s interested in selling the entire block to a big-box entity like Kmart. This might explain why no stores never seem to be rented, despite having “For Rent” signs plastered on the gates of shuttered stores. Is the management company waiting for the opportunity to unload the entire property at once?

A view of Kissena Boulevard at noon, a far cry from what this busy street used to look like.

The management company has every right to sell the entire complex if they want to, but should they be allowed to thrust the entire neighborhood into a downward spiral? Who wants to live in an area where more than half the stores have been closed for years?

It is pretty sad state of affairs. I remember how The Garden Bakery made the best onion rolls I’ve ever tasted. There was “Sweet Donut,” a little coffee shop/donut store. Dr. Sakow, the friendly optometrist, fitted me with my first pair of dorky eyeglasses in the third grade. All of these stores are now gone, with no replacements.

Even if the management company does want to sell the entire property, shouldn’t they at least be responsible for its upkeep? What about all the garbage and graffiti everywhere? Why should I be embarrassed to show my wife the “old neighborhood?” Why should my mother have to walk past the junk in the parking lot? People still LIVE in the neighborhood.

At one time, the landlord/management company was a local one, headed by a New York builder. He was always seen around the area because he also created middle-income housing across the street. After his passing, his son took over the real estate property, and it didn’t surprise me at all that his management company is based in Palm Beach, Florida! Out of sight, out of mind.

From their website:

Our President, Prescott Lester, is the fourth generation of Builder Developers. He is responsible for building and developing nearly 3,000 residential units in Palm Beach County, Florida. Projects included Lakes of Laguna in West Palm Beach with 2,204 residential units and Cascade Lakes in Boynton Beach having 556 dwelling units.

Mr. Lester’s Greatgrandfather began building in Brooklyn, New York around the turn of the century. He was followed by his son David Minkin who became one of New York City’s Master Builders. Mr. Lester assisted and succeeds his great uncle, David Minkin, in running the family’s building, management and brokerage operations.

Here is a promotional photo of the late David Minkin, Prescott Lester, and former NY Mets (yeah, Queens!) pitching great Tom Seaver, who has apparently sold his New York baby boomer appeal for some hard cash.

Despite a history of New York building, the fourth generation of builders now “specializes in the marketing and sale of luxury properties in Palm Beach County. This includes waterfront, country club, and other estate properties.”

The Kissena Boulevard holdings, one of their four retail holdings still in New York, must be their least attractive holding, compared to their shiny new malls in Florida. No wonder they seem so disinterested in the upkeep of Kissena Boulevard!

I talked to a few people in my mother’s building and they are very unhappy with the way Kissena Boulevard looks. Some say they would even move away, if they could afford it. The shopping area is pretty disgraceful, and much of the blame must go to the management company. They have played a major role in making the area look like a slum. Of course, since Pelcorp is in Palm Beach, and the executives don’t get to come to Queens very often, I’ve included some photographs of Kissena Boulevard for Prescott Lester and his partners to see.

The Pharmacy, now closed, the letters falling from the sign

The Laudromat, closed

The shoe store, closed

The graffiti along the “Wholesale Liquidators” wall

The garbage along the wall, opposite the closed shoe store

The kosher deli, closed

The Rainbow Women’s Clothing Store, closed

The pharmacy, closed, is now a haven for pigeons

The Bakery, closed for years

The fish market, closed

Ugly graffiti and disrepair along the property walls

After writing a post about me finding my fifth grade diary, someone told me about Cringe, a monthly reading series held at a Brooklyn bar.

On the first Wednesday of each month, brave souls come forward and read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas, and other general representations of the crushing misery of their humiliating adolescence.

Leahpeah had organized something like this in Los Angeles, but Cringe is the big momma of this genre.  It is hosted by Sarah Brown, a popular New York blogger, and there is even a Cringe book being published. 

(via Que Sera Sera)

My plan for tonight was simple.  I would attend this reading, my diary in my knapsack.  At a certain point, I would volunteer to read.  I would stand in front of the Brooklyn hipsters and wow them with my elementary school wit.  A literary agent would be sitting in the front row and ask me to write “The Penis Monologues,” which would become a huge bestseller, and I would become so famous that men all over the world would stop calling their members “Dicks” or “Johnsons,” but rather will all call them “Neilochkas.”  Millions of women would be screaming for “Neilochka” each night.

But life has a funny way of changing a person’s plans –

Sophia’s father loved marriage.  He loved it so much, he was married five times.  From everything I heard, he was a nice and exciting guy, but difficult to live with.  Sophia’s parents divorced when she was young.  Recently, Sophia learned that she had an older half-sister who lived in Brooklyn.  The woman, Anya, was born to Sophia’s father and his very first wife, twenty years before he married Sophia’s mother, Fanya.  Anya… Fanya…the whole story is more complicated than Crime and Punishment, or All My Children.

Sophia decided that today was the perfect day to meet her half-sister.  We would meet Anya in a restaurant for an early dinner, and then Sophia and I would take off to Cringe.

We picked Anya up and headed to Spoon, a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach. 

It was a very joyous meeting, which was surprising, because there was a lot of tension before the actual get-together.  It was almost canceled because at first Anya refused to have Sophia come up to her apartment to pick her up, and Sophia was somewhat upset and confused as to why wouldn’t her long-lost sister want to invite her into her home.  Once Sophia understood that Anya was insecure about how her Americanized new relative might judge her modest home, she wasn’t feeling hurt any longer and laid Anya’s worries to rest.  Both women were also nervous about what this meeting meant.  For all their life, they knew nothing of each other.  Are they instant “sisters” now or still relative strangers with little in common?

The jury is still out about where this relationship goes, but Sophia and Anya seemed to bond well.  We all had a lot of fun together.  Anya’s English was decent enough so I could talk with her, and I impressed her by singing the one Russian song that Sophia taught me.  Since we were on Anya’s territory, she insisted that she pick up the tab to the restaurant, and proceeded to order enough food and drink for fifteen people. 

What I look like when I start to get drunk. 

After the huge meal, Anya invited us back to her home for dessert, and to meet the rest of her family. 

At first, I wanted to say no, since this would mean we would miss Cringe, since it was already getting late.  Then I realized that this meet-up was so much more interesting and authentic than reading from a diary to a bunch of strangers.  A diary is all about connecting to the past — but only through words.  Here, the past was coming together in the present…in actuality!  Two women from the same father, both testing the waters to see if this vague family bond matters in any tangible way.  Who needs Brooklyn hipsters laughing at old diaries when I could witness real life?!

At Anya’s house, there was more food, dessert, and more drinking.

Putin may be bringing Russia back into the Cold War, but no one can doubt that Russians know how to party!

To the half-sisters!

P.S. — After all that, when we got home, we saw that the Cringe reading was cancelled tonight. 

How many suitcases are we bringing to New York?  (Remember, Sophia is coming with me.  And she is a woman.  A woman with a lot of shoes.  A woman who isn’t sure what shoes to wear in the snow.  A woman who dragged me along for four hours shopping in department stores for boots, but ended up not liking anything.  Are Uggs waterproof?  What do YOU wear in the snow?)

The person who first guesses most accurately how many pieces of luggage we are bringing to New York for a two and a half week visit will win — get this — a $1000 dollar gift certificate from my favorite retailer, Buyy.com! (that is Buyy.com, not Buy.com, you idiots).  Ha Ha Ha, I love when my own blog post makes me laugh.

Now, bring on the NY bagels!

In a calllous show of one-upmanship, the Los Angeles Times contrasts bundled-up New Yorkers freezing their asses off with nubile young Angelenos in Santa Monica enjoying a carefree afternoon having lesbian sex with popular LA-produced “Rabbit” brand strap-on.

“Have you seen The Tree in Rockefeller Center?”

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?”

“How much do you tip YOUR nanny?”

“I hate all the tourists who come in from Ohio.”

“My parents are taking me skiing in italy! I would never go to Florida.”

“What are you doing with your bonus this year?”

I can’t believe we’re having our Christmas party midtown again!  My wife goes downtown to Ono!”

“I find New York very lonely around now.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Why I’d Make a Good Husband for You, My Female Reader

Neil
Current Los Angeles Resident
New York City, December 4th, 2006

The secret is out:  Here is why New York bloggers are so successful at getting book deals.

1)  They take this “Learning Annex” Free Class I saw advertised on every block in the Upper West Side –  “Make Serious WEB MONEY.  Turn your computer into a CASH MACHINE!”

2)  They blog in their bikini by the pool.   Wait…wait… wait… is this cover left over from when they taught the course in Los Angeles?

I’m off to New York.  I’m very excited because I will finally have the opportunity to see IN PERSON the famous Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Can you believe I grew up in New York and never went to that amazing fun-filled parade? 

A Chorus Line!  Diana Degarmo!  Al Roker!  Santa Claus ho-ho-ho-ing and handing out Macy’s credit cards!

What?  The parade was YESTERDAY?  OY! 

Well, I guess I’ll just spend my time in New York standing in line for a bagel.

(normally, I wouldn’t have written such a stupid post, but I’m doing that damn NamBloPoMo, and had to write something just to impress the girls.) 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Oh no, am I a Racist Blogger?

So let’s see, the Pet Shop Boys, Vince Gill, and a chamber concert all in one week? Dude, my life is so boring. We’ve done Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, the Book Fair, and Drama Club this week. Sigh.

– V-Grrrl, commenting on yesterday’s post

When I was a teenager, my father gave me two pieces of advice on how to deal with women:

1)  Never hurt a woman.

I still don’t really know if he meant physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

2)  Take your wife out on weekends.

This completely went over my head when he first told me this piece of wisdom.  Tickets for the weekend was a central concept to my father’s vision of marriage.  My father was always getting theater and concert tickets “for Elaine” (my mother).   Even though he always said he was getting it “for her,”  I think he got them equally for himself.  My  father was the type of person who could never admit doing anything for himself.  It always had to be for someone else. 

My father was also obsessive-compulsive, so he had a huge bulletin board in his bedroom where he would micro-organize all his tickets to concerts, shows, and events.  He believed that if you bought tickets ahead of time, this would force you to go out, even if you got lazy at the last moment.  He would sometimes subscribe to a theater season a year ahead of time, so he always knew he had something to go to every weekend, and didn’t have to worry about it.  Box offices throughout New York City would know his name when he called up, because he would send his check in the mail before the season actually began.  He subscribed to the Roundabout Theater, Circle in the Square, Lincoln Center, Queens College Concert Series, Theater in the Park, and several others, including discount Broadway show tickets from the Theater Development Fund. 

My parents would go out practically every weekend, frequently taking me along.  There were times when it was clear that no one wanted to go, but we went anyway because we “had the tickets.”   It was my family’s version of being forced to go to church on Sunday morning.  We would travel two hours into Manhattan during a snow storm to see a poorly-reviewed version of an Ibsen play (awkwardly updated to 1920’s Chicago) just because the tickets hung on the bulletin board and the date was penciled in on the large calendar my father kept next to the bulletin board.  My friends would be drinking beer outside on Saturday night while I would be dragged to hear Chopin with my parents.  I  frequently fell asleep during these concerts and my mother would elbow me so I wouldn’t snore.

I realize that when I described my parents on this blog in the past, I created a picture akin to the parents of Seinfeld — real Jewish outer borough types.  That IS an accurate description of them.  But there was one big difference,  My father had an obsession with high culture.  Where did it come from? — I have NO IDEA, but it was important that we immersed ourselves in it. If my mother didn’t have a sense of humor about some of the boring stuff we saw, I would have turned into a hopeless prig.

Years later, though, much of my father’s wisdom has started to make sense — especially about the importance of going out.  In the two weeks since she came back from New York, Sophia and I have gone to three concerts, a Broadway musical, and a movie.  Like my father, we bought the tickets early enough to force ourselves to go out.  We knew that if we waited until the last minute, one of us (usually me) would start copping out, wanting to watch “Dancing with the Stars” instead.  But to be honest, going out is pretty tiring, especially to someone like me, who is happy enough just sitting at the computer, blogging.   Tonight we didn’t go anywhere, which was pretty nice.   After we watched — what else? — “Dancing with the Stars” (dancer Cheryl Burke is so cute!), Sophia turned to me and said, “Remember, tomorrow we’re going to the Improv with Danny.”

“Do we have to?” I sighed.

“Yes,” she answered.  We already have the tickets.”

Some things never change.

When you meet another blogger on his home turf, it is a good idea to meet him in a establishment that mirrors the blogger’s unique personality.

Sophia and I met the sophisticated Tatyana at the Cafe Sabarsky.   Housed within Museum Mile’s Neue Galerie, the restaurant is patterned after the old-style Viennese kaffeehaus. We talked about architecture, politics, and why Austrian cafes serve coffee with a glass of water and metal spoon on top of the glass. 

(The answer:  Viennese tradition bids to serve a glass of water together with the coffee, although this is coming out of use in our hectic days. Originally the water was served as an excuse for the customer to keep his seat even when he had finished his coffee, to be able to read the newspapers provided in the café, or to have lengthy discussions. The latter was important because the “Kaffeehaus” in Vienna was used as a meeting point for writers, artists, etc.)

The next night, we met the mysterious Retropolitan at the Cabana Cafe, a restaurant designed to look like a cafe in pre-Castro Havana.  We talked about 1940’s radio shows, Retropolitan’s perfect radio voice, and the hardships of breaking up with a significant other.

The next day, I met the very professional and talented Amanda at a hip business-lunch cafe near Union Square.   We talked about our blogging “styles,” writing, and relationships.  

One caveat:

1)  Tatyana gave her cellphone number to Sophia, but not to me.

2)  Retropolitan, on leaving us, said, “It was a nice to meet you, Neil.  It was ESPECIALLY wonderful to meet you, Sophia.”

3)  Amanda, on hearing that I alone was coming to see her, “What a disappointment!  I was hoping to meet Sophia.”

Do you see a trend here?   Next time, maybe I’ll just send Sophia with a cardboard cut-out of myself.