Ridiculous in the City

Yesterday’s blaze in the East Village left an entire corner decimated, numerous people injured, several missing, and businesses and apartments destroyed in a scene that was exceedingly scary to witness. Scary because any disaster that fills the skies over downtown New York City with thick black smoke conjures images of another horrific day, and scary because it took a while to understand the full extent of what was happening. People walking around, confused looks on their faces, breathing in the hazy, ashy air as it filled the cavernous blocks that stretch uptown; straining their necks to see downtown and up, the smoke blurring out anything in view more than two blocks away.

The Empire State Building, which is somehow always with us, was no longer visible to the north. Freedom Tower, which rose from the ashes of the greatest tragedy NYC has ever seen to literally tower over downtown, obscured by the smoke which has washed everything in a dingy gray, the color of smoked cigarettes butts floating in water.

Closer to the blaze, the result of an explosion caused by work to a gas main, people stood in droves, inching their way as close as they could get towards the blocks that neighbor 2nd Avenue and East 7th Street. The police had the area on lockdown, trying to prevent unnecessary bystanders from entering. What seemed like hundreds of fire trucks filled the streets.

You could see multiple ladders of firemen high above the blaze, aiming their hoses at the inferno. The FDNY was indeed all over it, as they have been so many times before and will be so many times again. People stared up, covering their mouths in shock, some cried, some leaned against buildings like they couldn’t stand on their own. Sirens whaled continually in the distance as if on a timer. Phones were thrust into the air, the effort to snap the perfect picture of the blaze in full swing. Surgical masks began popping up on passersby. It was a now a situation.

In front of me, a man was explaining what happened to two younger guys in blazers and backpacks, conspiracy theory already in action. “A man went into the bathroom of the sushi place. A few seconds later he ran out. The explosion happened literally two minutes later… I saw the lady from the sushi place trying to tell someone on the street, but the cops snatched her up quick. They don’t want that out, don’t want her talking to anybody.” God love the East Village.

Yes, it was scary to see the raging fire, scary to see the destruction, scary to be reminded of disasters past, and have a window on those yet to come. It was scary to think about the people who had lost their homes, their businesses and worse, possibly their lives. It was sad to see neighborhood landmark, Pommes Frites, reduced to rubble. But the scariest part was watching the devastation happening to my beloved East Village.

The minute I understood what was going on and where it was going down, I felt a pang in my stomach. I was worried, uneasy, saddened by the loss that had not yet fully occurred. Just knowing the East Village was being threatened was an affront. I love the East Village like I love my parents, my first love, Depeche Mode, my childhood dogs—deep in my bones. My whole self: mind, body, pores, ridiculousness is at total peace in the East Village. There’s something about the feel of it. The air changes in the slightest way as you cross Astor place or slip below 14th Street. It feels good, like you’re breathing in relaxed positivity and exhaling your best self, a self who just happens to be exceedingly awesome and absurdly at home in their own skin.

The energy of the East Village, the Easy Village, the EV, the 10003, is alive. Alive in a comfortable, laid back way that is electric and energizing, but not in your face or irritating. Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks, Avenue B, the little community gardens, Odessa Café, it’s a place where life feels hyper tangible, where you can observe anything and anyone at anytime on a given day. Fifteen minutes on a bench in Tompkins Square will change your outlook and maybe your life. Beware the sketchy dog run though.

When people say, “I hate New York,” I say go to the East Village on a Tuesday afternoon and wander around, that’s New York, not fucking Midtown.

New York City is a place where freedom and individuality underscore so much of daily life, but nowhere is that more evident than the East Village. Little kids, groups of old men, musicians, newbie New Yorkers, seasoned EV lifers, all of them make up the neighborhood; a place rich in history and culture and “cool” street cred (hey man, it’s the truth).

I wax ridiculously poetic on the East Village because it’s where I began my New York story. Luck or the gods, or just the spin of the Craigslist wheel, landed me in my first place off of Avenue B. It was a shit hole, but it was my shit hole, the greatest NYC shit hole ever in my ridiculous mind. And that’s where my obsessive affection began. I knew no one, had no idea what life might become, but I had the East Village and together we made our way. Many years and many East Village apartments later, I remember every inch of it, burned into my brain and the well-worn soles of my less-than-desirable early NYC walking shoes.

I hope I’ll always have the East Village. I can promise the East Village it will always have me. Perhaps that’s why yesterday’s events struck me with such a sad tone. The East Village is my touchstone, the place I always know will bring me back to myself, my self. It feels like home and heaven, and a $4.99 all you can eat prime rib buffet with horseradish sauce. In short, it’s paradise. But yesterday reminded me that nothing is forever, not even my beloved East Village, though it will surely outlive my ridiculousness.

Ridiculous in the City was born in the East Village. One fateful night I saw a toilet bowl someone had placed underneath a “dead end” sign on 13th Street and Avenue B and I knew the EV and I were soul mates, true soul mates. And so, today I pledge to keep the East Village at the forefront of Ridiculous in the City. An occasional love poem, nostalgic photo montages, the possibilities are limitless, just like the EV’s own special brand of ridiculousness. I owe that to the East Village and my love and I are up to the task. Ridiculousness lives everywhere in this city, but we can never forget where we came from.

I love you, EV.

Dear Tina Turner,

This Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of you. To celebrate you, my special lady, I have composed a Valentine’s poem made up entirely of song titles from some of your greatest hits. Of course, Tina, you don’t need me to tell you that they’re some of your greatest hits—you know how boss you are. It’s entitled, Tina Tina Bobina.

Tina Tina Bobina -

Two People. Nutbush City Limits. We Don’t Need Another Hero. Typical Male.

Private Dancer. What’s Love Got To Do With It? Complicated Disaster. I Don’t Wanna Fight.

Look Me in the Heart. What You Get is What You See. It’s Only Love. Better Be Good To Me.

Proud Mary. Let’s Stay Together. Open Arms. The Best.

Today and everyday, Tina, I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Ridiculous