Little Brett, Big City

You can't talk about 1989 without talking about Milli Vanilli whose debut album hit #1 Christmas Week 31 years ago. And for the second time -- it had already reached the top albums spot on September 23.  I'm not going to dwell on their tragic status as the world's most notorious lip-synchers. But I still giggle when I see the video of them on a Club MTV tour and the backing tape kept skipping, "Girl you know it's-Girl you know it's-Girl you know it's..." Their second time at #1 was driven by single "Blame It On The Rain" which became their third #1 single off of their first disc.  I didn't add any of their hits to my cassingles collection (think more B-52s' "Love Shack" or Soul II Soul's "Back To Life.") But you couldn't deny that Milli Vanilli certainly had their moment.  Like prehistoric fossils, 80s videos preserved fleeting yet beloved moments of pop culture that have since crystallized into pillars of

The most important thing I brought to New York was my resume. I spent a semester drafting it, re-writing it, asking friends to read it, and then proofing it over, and over, and over.  Laser printers were a recent, blessed phenomenon in 1989 so I was able to print out copies on deluxe letterhead for free in Bowling Green's journalism lab.  My resumes had to be absolutely perfect. They were the keys to unlock my dream job in New York City.  Once there, I pulled out a copy from The World's Heaviest Briefcase at every job interview, proudly pointing out my accomplishments and my GPA. Until I met Hope, a seasoned recruiter at one of the many personnel agencies I visited.  "So you typed these, right?" she asked. I nodded as she took a drag off of her cigarette and turned her tight charcoal curls to blow smoke at the closed window. "Uh, well, I wrote them. On a keyboard...so yes, I typed them."  "Good. How fast do you type?" "Well, I'm a writer ,

The marquees over theaters got larger the deeper I walked into 42nd Street that first, bright Sunday. Flashing lights illuminated big X-rated movie posters, beckoning the curious and the horny. Puffy men with cigars called out, promising nirvana if you entered their theaters. I ignored them, walking closer to the curb to avoid direct contact. But I couldn't avoid everyone.  "Hey, Sugar!"  A woman's gravelly voice called out from behind me. When she repeated it closer, I knew I was "Sugar."  "Hi, Pretty Boy. What's your hurry?" Now she was walking beside me, keeping up with my quickened pace.  I looked straight ahead and just shrugged. Do not engage, do not engage. Her faded tank top hung loosely from exposed shoulders. Her collarbones popped up against each cotton strap. Her thick, dry hair -- or was it a wig -- had been straightened into a long bob and flipped up on the ends. Like Janet Jackson's when she was Willis' girlfriend in &quo

  Photo: CinemaTreasures.org After my first New York lunch of "dirty water dogs" on the Post Office steps near Penn Station, I headed up to the belly of the beast —Times Square.  I didn't need my map to know when I entered the zone. The donut shops and check-cashing stores on 8th Avenue gave way to porn emporiums around 39th and 40th Streets across from the intimidating Port Authority bus station. The number and sizes of the shops swelled as I got closer to 42nd. Each one was lit up with bulbs and neon in all colors of the rainbow. The storefronts didn't have names, just descriptions of what they offered:  XXX MAGAZINES HOT PORN VHS N BETA PEEP SHOWS 25 CENTS Windows were decked out with magazines and video boxes of naked women displaying all of their wares to equally nude men. I had seen my share of (straight) porn in high school and college, but I felt naughty seeing these images out on a Sunday afternoon. Like I was going to be caught by a cop and reprimanded for