Oct 21, 2015 21:47
I've finally gotten my ass to the boxing gym up in the Bronx. Right on Westchester Ave, a block or so from the 3 Av-149th St. stop on the 5. It's like someone took that original 2nd floor Hartford location and moved it 100 miles south, southwest. When I shelled out for my first three-month stint, the rates were even identical. And a blue facsimile of the water-pear bag Poppo had recently installed back in that Hartford warehouse had somehow found its way here too. The woman working the desk alluded to a previous connection with Hartford boxing gyms and I thought to ask her about Poppo--both places being proudly Puerto Rican--but I thought I'd wait. Anyway, signed up yesterday, worked out today, and am looking forward to making it a regular after-work routine. It's swifter trip by train, but that also involves three different lines. The Bx19 is a straight shot, but you have to contend with end-of-day traffic.
These bits of filling the day so that life gets as simple as can be managed have all managed to coincide with a recent curmudgeon-y streak. For odd reasons rather beyond my control, there's a lot of weed smoke in my neighborhood, and loathe as I am towards expressions of prejudice, I've already started prejudging the expellers of such odious stench lazy, indolent souls of low moral character. A good friend from Crown Heights, in recent conversation, lamented the gentrifiers seen scurrying up and down her block. "They're in my building," she said, palm to chest, in genuine, unironic horror. And they've brought weed smoke with them.
I'm turning into young Old John Brown.
new york,
life after yale,
life