The winter I turned 20, I had a sublet on Henry Street in Brooklyn Heights. Despite being a block from the Clark Street stop on the IRT (that's the "red line" for you New York newbies), it felt much too far away from the clubs and fun in Manhattan, and I quickly moved back across the river.
My parents grew up in Brooklyn, and one of my sisters now lives across the street from that sublet. I have spent many hours in the borough since I returned to my hometown, but have persisted in thinking of it as a place you come from instead of going to.
That may be changing. The other night, I went to see Teddy Thompson at a club in Williamsburg not far from my dad's childhood home. I was accompanied by my friends Bill and Jeanne, deeply smart people, each highly creative and accomplished in several fields, who live a few blocks from the club in an amazing "Scando-Monican Brutalist" house they built themselves.
Thompson, the scion of folk-rock royalty (his parents are Richard and Linda), is a tall, clever British transplant who writes intelligent, moving pop songs like "In My Arms" and has a beautiful voice that reminds me of Rufus Wainwright's. It was an swell show, and I truly appreciated Teddy's look: Black shirt, white jacket, dark cuffed blue jeans and immaculate white bucks. And an insouciant smile.
(Photo of Bill and Jeanne's house by Fred R. Conrad for The New York Times.)