Little Brett, Big City

  I keyed into my dark room at the Sloane House YMCA and felt for a switch on the wall. An overhead light clicked on. Nothing scurried across the floor or bed. Good start.  The powder blue room was about seven feet wide. I bet I could lean to my left, touch that wall with one hand, then push off to touch the other one with my right hand.  I dropped my bags and the World's Heaviest Briefcase on a twin bed along the left side. A cheap pine armoire filled one corner at the foot of the bed. A wide, white Formica shelf on the right served as desk and home base for a 12-inch black and white TV. I didn't see any cable.  The far wall was bisected by sooty oilcloth drapes. I opened them, fully expecting a brick wall or an old man clipping his toenails like you'd see in a movie. But the actual sight caught my breath. I had a clear view straight down to the World Trade Center towers. Their windows were lit up pretty strongly for a Saturday evening. A beacon at the tip of Manhattan, th

  When I saw my photo in Rolling Stone magazine, I thought God was telling me to move to New York. Here I am in the October 6th, 1988 issue. A poor man's Bowie, sitting with other members of my "History of Rock and Roll" class, part of my pop culture minor at Bowling Green State University. (Group photo below) At the time, BGSU had one of the only academic popular culture programs dedicated to America's most influential global export.  Far more serious than it sounds, the course laid out how rock was born from the blues and country (and folk, and gospel, and jazz...) and exploded during the cultural revolution of the prior four decades.  Sure it was fun, but it was also a lot of papers explaining how America's greatest export reflected the good, the bad, and the angst in our society.  Rolling Stone decided to spotlight the program and sent writer Anthony DeCurtis to observe our class and interview some students afterwards. I was invited and even got quoted in the

Oh, how I missed MTV when I stayed at the YMCA. My room only had a black-and-white TV, no cable.  I kept up with music thanks to the AM/FM clock radio I had packed to wake up for early job interviews. New York's airwaves in September 1989 were broader and funkier than northwest Ohio's, thumping with Latin, dance, and R&B. I liked it.  After my first couple days in the city, I heard a familiar voice over big, syncopated beats. Janet Jackson had returned with "Miss You Much," produced by music partners Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. It sounded like home in my hot box of a room over a sketchy stretch of West 34th Street.  Another distinctive voice pumped out of my clock radio too: Madonna, cherishing the joy a particular boy was bringing her. Sweet, like a 60s pop song, it sounded like a calculated pivot from the boldness of "Like A Prayer" and "Express Yourself" earlier in the year.  It wasn't until I moved in with my roommate two months later th