Sounds of the City

Living here is so unlike living anyplace else. Yes, you could argue that it is just like living in any other city. There is a Starbucks one block away, the city bus comes by every 15 or so minutes, there is a pattern to the traffic and the sounds that surround you can be found in many other metropolitan areas. This even includes the occasional mental patient who walks up the street screaming about Jesus, talking squirrels and the aliens that are surely following him. But here we have a few oddities that you are unlikely to experience anyplace else.

For one, there have been many sparkling mornings where I have sat on my balcony with my cup of coffee just to eavesdrop on the monkeys. These beautiful mornings are why everybody else in the country wants to move here and why we pay such ridiculous amounts of money to live here. Some call it the sunshine tax. But on these special mornings, early, before the traffic starts, and when the atmosphere is absolutely still, you can here the animals in the zoo stirring. Usually it is the Howler monkeys. They really vocalize. But I have heard the Sea Lions once or twice as well. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it tickles me. Of course there are our famous flocks of wild Parrots that cruise through every morning and every dusk. Their calls are distinct. If you don’t see them, you definitely hear them.

We can also hear the sounds of the waterfront. The cruise ships coming and going. Their horns announce their departure with 3 short blasts and one long one. My favorite is the fog horn. It is rare, but on those special foggy nights, its call is always soothing. Then there are the trains. Thank god we are far enough away where we don’t hear every passing train. (I have to deal with that at my office every day.) But at night, again when it is still, you can hear the random train horn from just down the hill.

Some Sundays there are drum circles in the park. This is one of my least favorite sounds of the city. It’s hard to concentrate on my tasks at hand with an unsteady beat penetrating my windows, but luckily the circles seem to spend more time on the east side of the park these days. Which leads me to one of my favorite sounds…The California Tower bells. Every 15 minutes the bells toll. At noon everyday, a whole song is played on the bells. It’s always a welcome sound.

There are also the planes, evening firework shows in the summer, men playing Rugby in the park, the shouts of a man one block away who yells at the televised football games, dogs barking, cars honking at random protesters on the corner where the bridge comes out of the park and meets 6th Avenue, ambulances making their runs from downtown to the local hospital, and the mysterious bagpipe player who pops up a few times a year to play outside our building…All of these sounds can be heard from the comfort of my apartment at the Imperial Tower. I live in my own urban symphony. While some sound are nice, and some obtrusive, I wouldn’t give it up for the quite of the suburbs. That would surly be the death of me.

Why I Don’t Go To Clubs-Reason #243

Many people over the years have judged me for hanging at the dark and dated Imperial House lounge. I’ve been told that I’m missing out on meeting young, wealthy, movers & shakers my age by not spending my time in the downtown clubs. First let me say, I’m not impressed by anyone who will pay $400 for bottle service on Vodka I can get down the street for $20. Second, I don’t own a pair of Lucite heels, and third, while the downtown scene has great moments I’m sure, but I prefer to drink and socialize without the deafening “thud, thud, thud” of a blown-out bass in my ear.
That being said, it might not be pretty or glamorous at the Impy, but if I was downtown when I met Serge I can pretty much guarantee we would not be friends today. We would have maybe exchanged small talk before I blew him and his button down Banana Republic dress shirt off for someone with tattoos and cynicism. I would have put him into a very small box along with all the other downtown yuppies (if that is a term still being used) and moved on not knowing what a good friend I could have found.

Serge doesn’t live in the building, but he lives a block away and he frequents the Impy. He has been around for years, and because of that he gets honorary Imperial Tower status. I can’t remember the exact moment or year we met, but he is a regular and even more importantly a friend.

Serge is special in that he is my sparring partner. Let me preface by saying he is one of the smartest men I know. I don’t just spar with anybody. East coast transplant, businessman, published author, foodie, and political junkie, we are well matched for debate. And while we fall on different sides of the political lines, nothing is more fun than having a good row with him.

I refuse to debate with the uninformed. There is no fun in that. No challenge and no respect. But my dear Serge worked both sides of the political lines before coming to the beliefs he holds today. And while I disagree with most of his beliefs, I respect them immensely. Debate for us is a weird form of nerd foreplay. Now don’t get me wrong, we are not involved. We do however both get a weird satisfaction out of debating each other. (I can only speak for myself, of course.) Election years are of particular fun to us, much to the dismay of those who happen to be within earshot of us. The bartender on many occasions has interrupted our conversations and told us we have to change the subject. Serge and I would take a break from our banter to plead with him and try to convince him that we were only having fun and that there was no need for concern. A mutual respect keeps things in check. Unfortunately the bartender doesn’t follow politics at all and thinks that any political discussion will end in a bar fight. Regardless, much fun has been had in and out-of earshot of our dear bar manager.

Sadly, Serge is planning a move back to the east coast. After many years of debating together, drinking together, even a weird incident where I had to help him out with some thugs who wanted to fight, Serge may be leaving. I wish him the best! A house on the east coast to be closer to his family, settling down and maybe even starting a family of his own, Serge will be leaving before the year ends. I hope that in the coming years we will be able to keep in touch. Who knows…I try to get to New York at least once a year. Maybe we can catch up and continue our tradition over drinks in the village, or at his new home with wife, kids and dog by his side. All I know is it won’t be at some club. And quite frankly, I’m okay with that.

The Legend of Rick Lyon Begins!

It all started one night when a friend and I were enjoying a drink at the bar. Rick had the crowd going and as we sipped our cocktails, a small group came and stood by us. One of the men started telling his friends about Rick and how he came to play here at the Imperial House. I eavesdropped on the tall tale, which was full of exaggerations and creative license, but wildly entertaining just the same. My friend and I discussed this tale we had just heard and laughed at how many wild legends must be floating around out there about Rick. We thought what a great idea it would be to try and round up these legends as a gift to Rick.


I ran the idea by Rick and he loved it! He thought it would be fun to hear what people thought they knew about him and we decided to ask for submissions of what his fans knew or thought they knew about his life story. How did he come to play music? Was he always here at the Impy? How does a legend like Rick come to be? We also realized that some people also might just have great memories to share. So we decided to ask for stories in two different categories.

Category #1-The Legend of Rick Lyon: Write a story about Rick. Who is this man? Is he the love child of Janis Joplin? A secret CIA operative? Or just a guy with great talent? Write what you think his story really is or just get creative and perpetuate his myth. Rick is curious to see who gets the closet to the truth, and I am curious to see how wild some of the legends are.

Category #2-Memories of Rick: Share with us one of your favorite Rick moments. Was there one night in particular that stands out? Or is there something that you experience with him at each visit that you want to share?

Rick’s favorite stories will be published here, and we are working on a special treat for one big winner. Stories can be emailed to peanut5f@hotmail.com . Please put “Legend of Rick” in the subject line so you don’t end up in the junk mail box. Let us know which category you are submitting for as well. You are also welcome to post any brief comments below. Thanks and good luck everybody! We look forward to hearing from you!

P.S. A special thanks to Lovers of Lyon: The Rick Lyon Club.  Thanks for posting about this endeavor!  And thanks for starting the club. It means the world to Rick! 

The Scent of a Woman

One hot summer day, the electric company had some problems, which resulted in problems for our whole neighborhood. Not quite a blackout, a brownout occurred. If you haven’t been through one of these, it is much less fun than a blackout. Appliances buzz and hum with the strangest of noises. Noises that you know are not good. And while there is a slight current of electricity, it is not enough to make things work. If anything it just messes everything up.

This particular day the brownout lasted for what seemed like hours. With the ridiculous heat in our apartment, Phil and I decided to take the nine flights of stairs down to cool off in the shade of the big tree in front of our building. We ran into our friend and building manager who was busy on his cell phone fielding calls from upset neighbors who didn’t understand that this was out of his control. Just when I thought his day as tough, our oldest tenant got out of a cab with bags of groceries. She had no idea of what had happened, and at 94 she had a decision to make…take the stairs and get her precious cargo into her slightly working fridge on the fourth floor, or rest her bones under the tree with the rest of us until the elevator eventually got full power again. She was a bit distressed about her groceries. But climbing the stairs with heavy bags was not an option.

Phil offered to take her keys and groceries, and bring them upstairs on his own. She was having none of that. Ultimately we talked her into letting him carry the groceries while she and I slowly ascended the stairs behind him. My job of course was to steady her and hold her hand on the way up. In the heat we started our journey. She took the stairs one at a time, resting on each platform. I tried to distract her with conversation on the way. She always smelled strongly of a distinct perfume. I had noticed from encounters in the past that her uniquely strong scent could be detected long after she had left a room. I commented how pretty it was and she happily told me that her signature sent was Clinique Aromatic Elixer. Four flights of stairs and lots of small talk later, we got her settled in to her apartment.

The next day when I came home from some errands, I noticed a small gift wrapped box on my doorstep. She had bought me a fresh bottle of her signature scent. It is not a scent that I would choose for myself, but I was touched by her present. I tucked it away, and smiled.

This past December, we met in the laundry room. There she was (now at 98 years young) doing her laundry on her own, and smelling of her beloved Elixer. We chatted a bit and I was pleasantly shocked to hear she remembered me. We caught up as we folded clothes. She was very inquisitive and asked about my job, my ex-husband, holiday plans, how life was in general. Her Irish eyes sparkled when she started talking about her life here in the building. She has cherished living her for well over 30 years now and was very proud of the fact that at 98 she still can manage quite well.

Just last night I ran down to the bar to drop off some sunglasses I had found. As I exited the elevator I was met by her smell. I looked around and couldn’t find her. I delivered my goods to the bar, and returned to the lobby to catch the elevator backup to the apartment. Just as the elevator doors slid open, she came toddling off the street into the lobby. I opened the big glass security door for her and welcomed her home. She asked if I could hold the elevator while she checked her mail and I of course obliged. Up we went. Again she was full of conversation. At one point she said “I guess I’m not doing so bad for 99.” “Oh!” I gasped. “Did you have a birthday recently?” “No, no dear! It is in February. I will be 99 and I’m quite looking forward to it.” I reassured her that she was indeed, doing amazingly well. She exited the elevator before me, scent still lingering.

I guess the best way to end this story is to share another gift she gave to me…perspective. Today I got home from yet another bad day at the office. I fed the cats, took out the trash, and sorted mail. All of which were done while obsessing over the injustices I perceived myself of having gone through of late. Exhausted, I soaked in a long hot shower. I put on my plushest of winter pajamas, and then dug around under my bathroom sink for that special small box. (Yes, I have kept it all these years.) I spritzed on a bit of the Elixer she gave me. I'm pretty sure the cats immediately started sneezing, but there was something about that scent I couldn't resist on a night like tonight. While overbearing at times, it somehow just made me feel better. Much better! Perhaps that scent is the secret to her longevity.