Over the holidays I spent time with family at my maternal grandparent’s house in Booneville, Mississippi.  Yes, “Booneville.”  The name’s appropriate for sure, and undoubtedly the landscape of myopia, racism (phrases like “across the tracks” are still spoken during dinner conversation) poverty, and absence of any pretentiousness that the mind conjures up matches exactly what you’d imagine.  I was always under the impression that this was the type of place one should always try to escape from.  I never took time to think that maybe, just maybe, the place would ever refuse to escape you.

      Escape might be too strong a word.  It suggests a flee, an avoidance, which, looking back, is probably exactly what I was doing at the time though that type of avoidance has left me in the past few years.  Though I’d like to think I would never escape anything from my past now, I still know I wouldn’t come back to this place permanently.  Of course, I didn’t grow up in Booneville and I never lived there.  Instead, Booneville is a town of selective memory for me that rests its aged foundations about thirty miles north of my hometown.  This was the place of all those memories you’d expect from time with grandparents–food, weekend sleepovers, family functions—nothing special save for those who have it in their “here’s what childhood was” lockbox that lumps itself somewhere in the center of your brain.

     But Booneville was the type of place, or rather the archetype of place, I needed to get away from, if not for all the reasons above, then for a few extra that I won’t detail now.  But, like I said, I don’t know if I’ve ever really gotten away, or at least it’s never really gotten away from me.

     Before leaving for New York I went to college at the University of Mississippi (known to most as Ole Miss) in Oxford.  For most, Oxford as a town probably wouldn’t be categorized in the same context at Booneville, but for me it always was:  Booneville, Oxford, Tupelo, West Point, Amory, Jackson, all the places of my youth seemed the same to me… at least at the time.  Looking back, I don’t think I could ever romanticize Booneville, but Oxford had its charms.

     Oxford’s charms are those types of charms that you can’t see unless you have the ability to “look past.”  If you’re able to look past the pastel colored Polos and pleated khaki shorts you might just see William Faulkner’s charming, and rather beautiful house just off of Old Taylor Road.  If you’re able to look past the BMW’s and college football obsessions you might just see a lack of commercialization.  Unlike Tupelo, Oxford is impressive for its satisfying amount of local restaurants, cafes, and shops.  And if you are willing to see beyond the record DUI citations on a Friday night, you may just see a small coffee shop in downtown Oxford once called “Uptown Coffee.”

     Tapping espresso shots and slinging lattes as a barista at Uptown was my first college job, and still my favorite thanks to incredible people I worked with, and the ease of the atmosphere.  I left Uptown, and Oxford, in January of 2007 to come to New York.  Since then I’ve always held it in my mind that the two—Mississippi and New York—were separated not only by distance, but by chapters in my life:  the former was my past, the latter my present.  I guess it’s one of those things everyone learns soon enough… sometimes the past just won’t stay put.

     Just before leaving Uptown, the owner was preparing to franchise his store based on local success.  Our roastery, High Point coffee, and Uptown, thus set out to do just that.  The two converged and Uptown’s name was changed to High Point, and the subsequent franchises spread “High Point Coffee” around the U.S.

     A few weeks ago my roommate and I were walking in our neighborhood when we saw a sign:  “Coming Soon, High Point Coffee.”  After confirming with a friend back home I learned that this was indeed a product of franchising rather than coincidence.  It’s a bastardization of the Uptown Coffee I once knew; it’s too big for its own good and it more closely resembles a McDonald’s than an arthouse coffee shop, but the one-pound coffee bags say Oxford, Mississippi and the pastries in the display case are all too familiar.  It has since opened for business, and I pass by it everyday while running my errands.  There it stands, just five blocks from my apartment, closer even then the grocery store where I buy my cage free eggs and organic blueberries, like a testament to some universal truth:  home follows you wherever you go.  

Everywhere else, Saturday marks a day of tasks to be done: go to the store, pick up dry cleaning, hair appointment, root canal, investigate government conspiracies via Wikipedia.  In New York it’s all that plus the nagging guilt that not only are you avoiding doing any of those tasks, you’re also Not Taking Advantage of the City.  And the guilt isn’t entirely internal.  When a friend gives the name of a bar, an exhibit opening in a museum you’ve never been to, a two-block radius in Queens that just might have the best falafel in the city or a homeless guy that strips naked every Saturday and Sunday between 2 and 6 P.M. at the corner of Broadway and Prince and then asks, “Have you been to see it?” as though asking “Have you saved any African orphans lately?”, it’s a pain to say no.  And then there’s the line: you’re ‘Not Taking Advantage of the City’ said with the same zeal as you’re Not Taking Advantage of the Woman in the Bar Who Came Up To You and Said, “I’m not wearing any underwear and I’m bored.”

Oh, sorry, I was busy sitting on the couch in my pajamas and picking my nose all day.

This morning I read a review in the Times of a new book from a guy who read the entire Oxford English Dictionary.  Why am I not spending my Saturdays reading from the OED and then getting a fat check to write a book about it?  Oh, because I was too busy not reading the OED to have time to do that.

Even a blog posting on a Saturday is a milestone of Saturday achievements for me.  I put it on my list of things to do today, which, of course, means that it wasn’t supposed to get done at all.  And yet, here I sit typing away.  Of course, now I’ll spend the rest of the day feeling so “accomplished” that I won’t be bothered by doing anything else the rest of the day until someone asks me on Monday, “What did you do this weekend?”

“Oh, I updated my blog.”

“Oh yeah?  What else?”

“What do you mean?”

My Saturday now consists of twenty minutes writing my blog and 23 hours and 40 minutes of not writing my blog.

So imagine me next, in the grand splendor of ‘the greatest city on earth’, lying in bed in my boxers and there you’ll see an accurate picture of life in the fast lane.

My bed(room)

Photographer becomes subject. Mayhem ensues.

Notice the exposed brick. Tre chic. Notice Ryan's face. Tre scary.

Another scary face. Lindsey has herself to blame for this one.

Brian makes couscous.

A giant telescope at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. Look through it and you can see London.

Memorial Day weekend was the Brooklyn Bridge's 125th anniversary. We walked across to commemorate.

A statue of Michael defeating the devil from a church near Columbia University.

Aboard the PATH train on my first trip to New Jersey. And I survived to tell the tale.

Well.  I have plenty more where that came from but these pictures take quite a time to upload into a blog post so I’ll leave it at this for now.  I do hope you come back for more soon.  And, as always, please leave comments.  I love to hear from you.

Polina alias Paola Knickerbocker

Polina is a recent Vassar grad with an oral fixation so severe that New York’s trash could be compacted and compressed by her jaws to only 14% of its current volume ending both global warming and New York’s real estate crisis.  Indeed, Polina’s fixation is so severe, anything that she can get her hands on and mouth around inevitably disappears.  I, myself, have had to get twelve new keys made in the past two weeks due to repeated “disappearances.”  Ironically, she does not eat meat.

Brian alias Byron Sandwich

Brian is an NYU grad who recently brought about the end of capitalism by sticking it to the man.  What ‘it’ is and which man it was stuck to is still unclear.  Suffice to say, most of you will soon be reaping the benefits of a socialized health care system and you will be receiving your complimentary copy of the lesser known Engels solo publication, “So your country has realigned its political structure thanks to another liberal idealist and all you got was this lousy pamphlet: Now what!?” in the mail shortly.  When he’s not in the throes of defeating fascist regimes, Brian can be found reading “The Mists of Avalon,” “Chicken Soup for the Recent Graduate’s Soul,” and eating gefilte fish.

Lindsey alias Leisel Johnson

Lindsey is Brian’s girlfriend.  I define her only as such because Lindsey believes a woman is not wholly defined without a man.  A Home Economics major at NYU Lindsey once claimed, “I don’t think women should be allowed to go to college, but it’s the only place one can find a suitable husband.”  When she’s not fighting against women’s rights Lindsey can be found cooking and cleaning the apartment with the zeal only a woman can muster.  Though a general treat to live with due to her unyielding submission, Lindsey has also become what an addiction anonymous meeting would title an “inhibitor.”  The following is an example of such behavior:

Drew:  I really want to go to the gym.

Lindsey:  I could go for something sweet.  Hey Drew, instead of going to the gym let’s go to the bakery and get chocolate.

Drew: No.

Lindsey:  It’s too hot to go to the gym, we need to get chocolate.  It’s really healthy for you.

Drew: Sigh.  Okay!

The Others:

Ryan

Ryan, known to the natives as Wakanantento (meaning “Man with many abdominals who ride skate board”) is Polina’s boyfriend and our fifth roommate 2-3 nights of the week.  Ryan work’s for the Civilian Complaint Review Board where he takes complaints from civilians against officers of the law.  If you think a call from Zsa Zsa Gabor isn’t enough (“But I only slapped him because he said my outfit made me look fat, dahling.  He is ze one who deserves the community service!”) try dealing with this six times a day: “But she really did look like a hooker!  That’s entrapment, isn’t it?!”

The Apartment Ghost

Though she may not actually be dead, an ectoplasmic spirit of the short-lived roomate remains among us.  Mallory, the unfriendly ghost and roommate briefly (caused by an unfortunate sub-letting situation) still haunts us to this day.  Aside from blowing out the stove pilot light and habitually ruining our water pressure, we awoke one night to terrifying scratching sounds coming from the living room.  Upon inspection, there in the witching hour of the night, we found these words scrawled upon the walls, written in blood:

“Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.”

And those are my roommates.  Now enjoy these pictures of our apartment along with others from around town!

Putting together a bed... or a home?

A Ukrainian Diner

Diner again.

Don’t worry.  There’s plenty more where that came from.  Check back regularly… and leave comments!

I’m probably exactly what you expected (considering that all of you know what I look like by now.)  But I am inclined to put a picture up since this is, after all, an introduction.

Speaking of introductions… Should this blog turn out to be what I hope it will become (a way to stay in touch with friends and family) I intend to cater to all theoretical parties involved.  In short, I hope most (if not all) of my family members, young and old, will be reading these posts.  So I have decided to bear in mind that not all members of my intergenerational family may know how to use a blog (or, for that matter, what a blog is.)  I shall start with the basics:

A “blog” is a weblog, or an online journal.  I’ll write posts on this website (probably on a weekly/bi-weekly basis) and they’re yours for the reading.  It’s that simple.  You can also reply to me on this blog by leaving me comments.  To do this, scroll down to the end of the post and there will be a small link (at the end of each post) that says “comment.”  When you click on that link you can write a short message back to me.  I encourage all of you to do so, and on my grave I will read them all.

That said, please enjoy my blog.  I’ll be back in touch shortly.