Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 34

“I was the most talented dress designer that ever lived. Diane...

“I was the most talented dress designer that ever lived. Diane von Furstenberg? With her one wrap dress? Give me a break. I designed everything that Vanna White wore on Wheel of Fortune. But instead they’re gonna celebrate this high-fashion, runway shit that nobody wears. You seen this stuff? These people look like aliens, Martians. It all stinks like a bad fart. But that’s the stuff they’re gonna recognize, give me a break. Not that recognition matters. But it fucking does. Cause it sucks when nobody knows you. Go ask the Syrian Jews in the garment district, ask them: ‘Who made the best shit?’ They’ll tell you. ‘Wayne Diamond made the best shit, that’s who.’ I made dresses for the regular woman. At moderate prices. And I made an absolute fortune in the seventies and eighties. I sold five million hanky hems alone. I was one of the disgusting ones. I built a huge mansion in Old Westbury. Everything had to be the biggest and greatest. I went to all the Bar Mitzvahs. All the parties. I had hundreds of make-believe friendships: every buyer, every client. I didn’t even like these people. I hated them, really. Just buy my shit and leave me alone. But for some reason it all seemed so important back then. The dress business went south in the late nineties, cause women started wanting jeans. I was barely breaking even at the end of each quarter, so I had to shut things down. I ended up getting really depressed. I spent five years sulking by the pool. Eating like an animal. Too much sun. Too much alcohol. I had a lot of time to think about my life. And I realized something important: it’s the simple things that matter most. Less is more. Less sitting by the pool, more cocaine. But in all seriousness, I’m a much better person now in a lot of respects. I’m not into making money anymore. I stay far away from it. It takes my mind off real life. I am getting older, which sucks. It takes a lot of pills to get me going in the morning. Some shit is going on with my body. But my brain still works. My dick still works. I’m doing fine. This is what I do all day. Eat food, drink wine, make friends. And I never ask a person what they do. I don’t give a fuck.” #comebacknyc

“In Palestine I thought I knew something about music. My dad was...

“In Palestine I thought I knew something about music. My dad was open-minded for that part of the world, so we had a few extra freedoms. I had a little radio that I took with me everywhere. A lot of my friends were listening to Arabic music, but I listened to Madonna and Michael Jackson. So I felt pretty cool. But when I came to New York at the age of seventeen, I started working at my uncle’s record store. Customers would come in asking about Bob Marley, Barbara Streisand, Louis Armstrong. I knew nothing about these people. And suddenly I didn’t feel cool anymore. I felt like an outsider. So I made a promise to myself: I was going to learn all of it. I began spending my salary on music magazines. Everything I came across, I wanted to know more. Who’s Sam Cooke? Who’s Marvin Gaye? And I didn’t just want to know it, I wanted to live it. My friends would wait for me until the store closed at 10 PM, and we’d go to clubs in the Village. Music became my way of engaging with people in this new society. In 1994 I opened my own store called Village Music. Yes it was my business, but it was also a gathering place. So many people came in just to talk. About Bob Dylan, or Zappa, or Mozart. I can talk about any type of music, really. Because I made it my mission in life. It’s been my way of connecting. If I wasn’t around music, I’m 100 percent sure I’d be gone. I’ve had too many issues. Too much depression, too much stress. Music is what’s kept me alive. When people come to my store to learn about music, it’s like a mirror. I see myself in them. And it’s a beautiful connection. It’s not the easiest business to be in, especially the last twenty years. I’ve suffered a lot. And I’ve fought a lot. Because I never wanted to let it go. But in 2017 I couldn’t take the stress anymore, so I closed my doors. I traveled for a month because I was really depressed. I spent a lot of time thinking. And I decided that I couldn’t close the shop. I just couldn’t do anything else. I needed music in my life. So I sold all the property I had, and I got a new lease. Everything I kept the same, except for the name. It’s not Village Music anymore. It’s Village Revival.” #comebacknyc

“It’s not instant. It’s something you do over a period of time....

“It’s not instant. It’s something you do over a period of time. It began with green accents. I’d mix green into my nail polish, and put green streaks in my hair. There’s a small school across the street from our house. And whenever I walked our dog Dylan, I noticed that the children responded to the green. They’d give me little, timid waves. Oh, I love children. Little, happy people. They’re just so naturally there. And they love green. They’re drawn to it. Children are always bringing me green things, and dropping letters into my mailbox. Sometimes I can’t even read the handwriting, but it makes me so happy. People make me happy. They’re always so loving and sweet. I’ve never met a negative person, I just don’t bother with that part of people. When someone approaches me on the street, I give them a hug, and say something nice. It’s all that I’m looking for. And it’s all that I find. It really makes a big difference in life, not to be closed up. It’s a way of life. Whether you become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a green lady, you’re accomplishing what’s in your heart.” #comebacknyc

“It was the day I was supposed to die. I was fourteen years old....

“It was the day I was supposed to die. I was fourteen years old. I remember my father was correcting exam papers on the couch. My brother was sitting on the bed. And I was lying on the floor, pretending to study Algebra. But secretly, out of the corner of my eye, I was watching television. Because the news bulletin was about to finish, and afterwards came ‘Mork and Mindy.’ It was my favorite program because I loved Robin Williams. So when the bomb went off, I was thinking of Robin Williams. We saw the explosion before we heard it. Because light travels faster than sound. My brother looked up toward the window, and the shrapnel hit him in the face. He ended up losing an eye. And on that day darkness fell over our house. My father grew inward, and silent. The only game he allowed in our house was chess. Not cards. Not backgammon. Only chess, because it was a game of reason. And my father had no use for luck. We had a neighbor who didn’t fear the snipers. After dark he would walk to our house, feeling his way along the walls, clutching his chess set. And all night long he’d play with my father. Our whole family would gather around to watch. And I grew to love the game. When I came to America as a young man, my first job was in a chess shop. And eventually I would come to own my own store. Many years ago my father came to visit me in New York. We played a lot of chess together. And one afternoon we decided to take a walk through The Village. We were walking down Houston Street when I saw Robin Williams coming toward us. He was escorting his young daughter. I was escorting my old father. And we shared a ‘parently’ moment. We smiled at each other. But I didn’t speak to him, because I was too shy. But I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him about a young Palestinian boy who was supposed to die one night. But in that darkest of moments, on the other side of the world, he was thinking of you. He was waiting for you. Because he wanted to forget about his problems, and smile. I wish I had told him that. Maybe he’d have realized the impact he’d had on the world. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed himself. But if he had, at least he would have died with that memory.” #comebacknyc

“I was kicking rocks when I first started working here. Don’t...

“I was kicking rocks when I first started working here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been proud of the place. They filmed Saturday Night Fever here, so it’s kinda famous. But I just didn’t feel like it was my purpose in life. I’d gone to college to be an artist. I wanted that freedom. I planned on illustrating children’s books. But I knew my dad needed me here. And I knew how much he’d sacrificed for us. It’s not like his purpose in life was to open a pizzeria. He had his own dreams growing up. He once told my grandfather he wanted to be a doctor. But his family back in Italy needed help, so he did what he had to do. He wasn’t home much when I was growing up. His presence was always there. My mom could say ‘I’m calling your father,’ and we’d all get quiet. But physically he was always here, at the pizza place. It was his life. And now it’s my life too. It’s been twenty years now. Fourteen hours a day. So I guess I did lose my freedom in a lot of ways. But it’s been real. It’s been really real, that’s the best way to put it. I never expected all these little transactions to turn into a lifetime of friendships. I’ve got this guy coming in here, he’s 84, been in two wars, three toes shot off. But we can still eat a slice of pizza and find commonalities. You don’t get that sitting at a desk with a bunch of other 40-year-olds. Those moments add up to something. One of my favorite customers was a lady named Marlene. She’d been coming here since she was a kid. Smart? Forget about it. But Marlene was scared of everything: bridges, trains, steps, you name it. She always took the same street to get here. She’d hug the wall so she didn’t fall. But she made it in here every single day, for a slice of vegetable pizza. Marlene passed away from Leukemia several years ago. And I took off work so I could drive out to Long Island for her funeral. I hit a little traffic coming from Brooklyn, so I ended up being fifteen minutes late. But when I arrived the whole family was waiting for me. They wouldn’t start without me. Come to find out I knew Marlene better than anybody. This lady was just coming into get a slice of vegetable pizza, every day. But those slices add up.” #comebacknyc

“I like this other stuff you’re posting, but let’s get real. We...

“I like this other stuff you’re posting, but let’s get real. We gotta keep this thing going. There’s like a million people who were really famous, then something else came along and now they’re nothing. That ain’t happening to me. I’m not gonna let things die down so somebody else can start their own parade. Trust me, baby. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been doing this all my life. Last week I was handing out business cards nonstop. And let me tell you, now that everybody’s got their shots, it’s getting crazy out there. People are stopping me left and right. I think it’s the hair, $39.95 at the wig store, but they don’t know that. I’m taking pictures with everybody. I’m telling them that this Tanqueray shit is just getting started. There’s gonna be TV stuff, and books, and they ain’t seen nothing yet. But you’ve got to pick up the slack. You’ve gotta post something about Tanqueray. Just a taste to keep ‘em hungry. This morning I found two rolls of 35mm film underneath my couch. And they look old as shit, so who knows what’s on there. Those could be good for money. After we leave here I’m going to get them developed. Then I’ve got to go uptown to get my sewing machine fixed, cause I’m gonna start making hats and masks, that match. It’s going to be huge. I’ve got a slogan and everything: ‘It don’t mean a thang if you don’t got that Tang.’ People are gonna go fucking nuts for this shit. Also, I’m taking you to this place downtown where I buy my candles. They got a guy there who reads cards. He’s young, which I don’t love. But he reads good, and you’re gonna get a reading. I’m paying. If you’re riding with me we need to know if anyone in your life is trying to fuck you over. And while we’re there, I wanna find out if my last boyfriend is ever gonna come back around. The movie producer. I think he’s got Asperger’s or some shit like that, but I kinda miss him. And let’s be honest. I ain’t exactly a summer breeze.”  #comebacknyc

“I was more nervous than dreaming. I came to America with my...

“I was more nervous than dreaming. I came to America with my mother in 1982. I had no English. No skills. And I didn’t know if I could survive. My first job was selling umbrellas on the street. One of my regular customers was the owner of this Army Navy store. He was an older man. So sometimes I would help him with his customers, just to give him a break. He liked me very much. He said: ‘Henry, come work for me.’ And right away he trusted me. He would let me handle the store by myself. And the customers loved me. They kept coming back, again and again. Our price was a very good price. But most important I think, was me: nice to people, always honest, treat customer like family. I was a very good worker. After seven years the owner says to me: ‘Henry, I’m old now. Please take the store.’ And he gives me the keys. Can you imagine? I was luckiest man. It was beyond dream come true. All of my customers were so happy. They say: ‘Henry, we want you to succeed.’ They come back again and again. Nothing makes me happier than a repeat customer. To see them walk in the door, you can’t imagine. I get so excited. When a customer leaves without saying anything, I feel nervous. Did I do something wrong? But a repeat customer means I did something right. I am OK. I am good at my job. Being a boss is the toughest job in the world. The worries, you can’t imagine. For so many months we were closed by the pandemic. Then when we opened again the city was like ghost town. No traffic. No tourists. On some days two or three hours would go by, and no customers at store. There are months when we sell $2,000, and the rent is $6,500. You can’t imagine. What am I supposed to do? My customers tell me: ‘Henry, we love you. We hope you survive.’ These words give me confidence to keep going. But how do you keep going? And what do you tell your family? I have three children. What do I tell them? Maybe I can drive uber. Or become a waiter. But what about my customers? I have customers who love me. Some of them I have not seen for a very long time. What if they come back and not find me here? And I never even said goodbye. Or thanked them. For all these years. For always coming back.” #comebacknyc

“It all began when my Grandpa Moe made a wrong turn. He was 93...

“It all began when my Grandpa Moe made a wrong turn. He was 93 years old, but he was still driving to and from his butcher shop. And one night he missed his turn in the dark. That’s when I offered to start driving him home. But I think he misunderstood me. Because the next morning he called at 7:30 AM, and asked: ‘When are you picking me up?’ That was the beginning of me coming here every day. The shop has been in our family for a very long time. But it was barely running by the time I arrived. Moe could still cut and prepare the meat, but I’m not sure people even realized the place was open. He saved every piece of paper, so even the refrigerators had files in them. But thankfully he had guardian angels in the neighborhood. People were always stopping in to make sure he had water, or coffee. And there was always a neighbor to sit with him while he closed the store. It wasn’t really making money, but I think this shop is what kept him going. My first priority was to clean everything. He didn’t like that very much. He thought I was ‘messing everything up.’ He’d already started to lose his memory, which frustrated him. He’d always prided himself on telling stories and remembering names. But he was still so young at heart. We’d put on records from the 40’s and 50’s, and he’d remember the songs. And he was so gentle with me while I learned the business. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, he’d say: ‘piano, piano,’ which means slow in Italian. He taught me how to saw a lamb in half. And how to pick out meat at the market. He could get impatient sometimes. But if he ever lost his temper, he’d always apologize before the end of our car ride home. We worked together for 2.5 years. But during the first week of quarantine, my whole family got COVID. And Grandpa Moe passed away two weeks later. It was right before Easter. And when I came back to the store, there were so many flowers at our door. It was a little scary because the streets were empty. And I kept the door locked because I was all alone. But loyal customers kept stopping by, to see if I needed anything. And at night, when it was time to leave, there was always a neighbor to sit with me while I closed the store.” #comebacknyc

“Crowds were the worst. Any little person will tell you that....

“Crowds were the worst. Any little person will tell you that. There’s nothing worse than crowds: getting looked at, getting seen. People making fun of my family. All three of us are little people: my mother, my brother, and me. My mom raised us on her own. With no help. But she knew the struggle, and she would build us up every time we got bullied. Sometimes I’d even feel like killing myself. But she’d say: ‘You’re special. Your mother loves you. Your brother loves you.’ But my mom was also a thug. She was the muscle in our family. If we complained that people were staring at us, she’d say: ‘Look right back. Talk your shit.’ Whenever I got in trouble for fighting, she’d never get mad. She’d say: ‘You defended yourself. That’s good. Now do it again.’ She encouraged us early to play basketball. First it was my older brother. Then it was me. There was this center in our neighborhood where a dude named Hammer ran a program. He’d make us read a book for thirty minutes—I hated that part, but then we’d play basketball. And that’s how I learned about my size abilities, not disabilities. If you’re a six or seven footer, and you aren’t perfect, I’ll time your dribble. I’ll steal it the moment it hits the ground. So you’ve got no choice but to dribble low. You gotta come down to me. And I’m already down here. This is my world. This is where I live. The guys in my neighborhood grew to respect me. I was never getting trash talked in the Douglas Projects. But when I started playing in high school, and we went to other arenas, the crowds could be cruel. My teammates would try to protect me, and motivate me. But there’s not much you can do with three hundred people chanting ‘midget.’ I hated walking out to the court. Any little person will tell you, crowds are the worst. But as soon as I made that first shot, they’d get quiet. Then I’d do it again, and again, and again. Then eventually the crowd would start to get on my side. Cause they’d never seen anything like me. They’d start cheering for me even though I was on the other team. And my mom would be in the stands, talking her shit. Saying: ‘My son is smaller than all of you. And he’s kicking your ass!’”  #comebacknyc

“My favorite show growing up was called Solid Gold. It was a...

“My favorite show growing up was called Solid Gold. It was a little like American Bandstand, but with a dance team. And the lead dancer was named Darcel Wynne. She was a black, regal woman. Long ponytail. Long fingernails. Body shaped like an hourglass. Even her movements had curves. Nobody could dance like Darcel. She’d kick up high, then next thing you know she’s touching the ground. I used to jump off the furniture trying to copy her moves. But there weren’t too many places to dance in Omaha. Not like they danced on Solid Gold. The closest thing we had was the American Legion Fashion Show. The American Legion was like a gang. They had their own colors, their own emblem. And once a year they had a fashion show. My Grandma was on the organizing committee. She was always recruiting. She’d walk up to every woman on the sidewalk, and say: ‘Look at those hips. You belong in the fashin’ show. Ooooh Weeee!’ It never took much to make Grandma say: ‘Ooooh weee!’ Because these weren’t no dime pieces. These was just regular women on the corner. But next thing you know they were at the American Legion clubhouse rehearsing for the fashion show. We had a former model named Ms. Darlene who would show us how to turn. All the other little kids were just doing regular turns. Simple stuff. Because they weren’t watching Solid Gold like me. Darlene taught me this turn where I would stick out my arms, just like this, and tick around like a clock. Tick, tick, tick. Like Diana Ross in Mahogany. On the day of the show, when it was time to walk the stage, I did the clock move. Tick, tick, tick. I’m just a little kid. And that’s an adult move. So the whole crowd went crazy. They jumped out of their seats and started screaming. Everybody’s cameras were flicking. My Grandma was out there somewhere, shouting: ‘Oooooooooh weeeeeeee!’ I still use that move sometimes, even today. I like to dance a little bit when I’m auctioning my clothes on Instagram. Just a little something to keep it interesting while people are joining the live feed. And guess who follows me on Instagram? Darcel Wynne. She’ll be watching the stream, writing in the comments: ‘I see you! I see those Solid Gold moves!’”
#comebacknyc