DISCLAIMER-As much as I appreciate the abrupt turn this blog has taken towards political discussion, I will continue to provide this blog with what I believe makes it unique: meandering thoughts from my uneventful life.

When we moved out here to Brooklyn so long ago, we preferred to have a place ready for us when we came out, saving us the hassle of looking for a place while homeless. We prayed to the almighty Craig to deliver unto us his List, what we found was The Opera House. If you click on the link, you’ll see that the Opera House is sold as a quirky, renovated building in “East Williamsburg”, close to all the action of the burgeoning scene in Williamsburg. The pictures show a beautiful view, friendly staff in their mid-20’s, and the assumption that this place was sanctuary. I made some phone calls and the necessary arrangements were made; we moved into the Opera House on June 1st.

We loved the quirky building. Its windows from long ago covered with brick and mortar, the gigantic basement complete with pool table and ping-pong (a cafe, yoga studio, and rehearsal space were supposedly on their way to completion), and the beautiful view of Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn from the roof. We were happy.

We soon found the Opera House was not all it was cracked up to be. “East Williamsburg” was just a clever euphemism for “Bushwick.” And for those of you who don’t know, “Bushwick” is another term for “the ghetto.” Yes, the long-fabled ghetto of hip-hop lore and movies about black bums changing places with wealthy white men. We didn’t mind tho. in fact we embraced the welcome change from suburban California as a strong dose of reality. The prostitutes on the main street, the crack dealers yelling after us as we walked by, it was all so….real.

The residents of the Opera House were all very friendly. This wasn’t like any other apartment complex, each of the residents knew they were part of something special. The vast majority were in their 20’s. Music was constantly ringing in the hallways. Our neighbors on both sides of us were musicians. Freddie and I used to sit at our computers and listen to Rich, who lived next door, practice his songs, trying hard not to sound like Bradley Nowell. The walls were paper thin and Rich’s music came through so clear, he might as well have been in our apartment playing. Neither Freddie nor I ever got the courage to tell him that we didnt think people in New York wanted to hear tired songs about going to the beach and laying out in the sun all day (they do, however, want to hear songs about mountain climbing with authentic Indian singers??) We still listened to Rich, tho. We knew his songs by heart. It was great, even if his songs weren’t.

The residents were so down for the cause that we were able to get away with band practice inside the apartment. We made no effort to keep the noise down, and we never got any complaints. In fact, we found a drummer just by playing loud enough to be heard in the hall (he later turned out to be a psycho who invited Freddie and I up to his apartment to jam, where he threw back an 8-ball on his own without offering Freddie and I any.) Even Jake didn’t mind. It was home.

Shortly after moving in, however, we realized just how dangerous our neighborhood was. The building is protected by a heavy iron gate which residents open with a grey magnetic key, or by punching in the door code on the keypad. About a month after moving in, we found out some thugs had somehow gotten thru the fence (which is topped by razorwire) went downstairs into the basement and smashed open the change machines and washing machines in the laundry room. The thieves made out with huge bags of change. Odd, we thought. But soon it escalated. Residents were getting mugged, beaten. A man grabbed a girl as she turned to walk down our street, dragged her back to the main street and tried to rape her. the girl somehow pulled a knife on the man and got away. One resident was pistol whipped while walking home by the projects which were uncomfortably close to the Opera House; he had to get stitches. An apartment on the first floor was broken into. One of the girls woke to find a man rummaging through her stuff and threatened her with a knife if she said anything. He got away. “well the first floor is much more dangerous,” we comforted ourselves in the fact that any thieves would have to go up to the second floor to get us. “It’ll never happen.” Breakins continued on the first floor, residents were organizing against the lax landlord but to little avail. Then one night we got the news about Monkey, our buddy who lived down the hall. One night, someone broke in, stole laptops, cellphones, and even Monkey’s stash (which he claimed only two people knew where it was); the four residents of the apartment slept right through it. This hit home. Monkey was everyone’s pal, and he was on the second floor; now no one was safe.

It wasn’t so much that the neighborhood was bad (which it was), it was a culture clash. The residents of the Opera House stood out against the cruel backdrop of Bushwick. Whenever walking around the area, if one were to see a young individual who was not african-american or hispanic, it was safe to assume they lived in the Opera House. Frustrated neighbors who were forced to live in these enormous housing projects in poverty would see these young, well-groomed artist-types walking the streets enjoying it ironically. The residents who had lived here all their lives now saw their territory invaded by these freaks. The same thing happened in Williamsburg: the artists drove the residents out and drove price of living up up up. Bushwick, however, was going to put up a fight. One night, while Freddie and Jake were walking to the corner to pick up some beer, a couple of gangsta boys passed them commenting loud enough for freddie and Jake to hear, “all these fucking white people,” referring to Jake. The natives were getting restless and they were going to vent their frustration on these foreigners.

After Monkey’s apartment got hit things changed. Morale dropped. Our neighbors began complaining about the noise, we could no longer have band practice in our apartment. People were constantly looking out their doors to see what that noise in the hall was. But then it got worse.

In the late hours of October 30th, around 4 or 5 in the morning, two residents were walking home, approached the iron gate, when a group of four or five “kids” tried to jump them. The two residents ran down the street and called the police. The next two residents who came by weren’t so lucky. The next day Freddie, Jake, Paul, and I were on our way out when we saw a crowd in the courtyard. One of the residents told us that the two guys had been jumped as they were coming in the gate, but somehow fought off the attackers. He then pointed to the pool of blood being covered with sawdust by the maintenance man.

This was the final straw. Me, Paul, Rajeev, and Freddie had only come home an hour or two before the attack took place, it could’ve easily been us (which would have put a damper on Paul’s trip as he had just arrived that night). We had to take action. From then on, whenever we turned off the main road onto our street at night, things were different. No talking, keep your eyes open for anyone, ears for any sound. Freddie takes his knife out. We flank the gate from different directions to avoid being jumped. We quickly scan the grey magnetic key and open the gate, scurry inside, and shut it behind us. The adrenaline drops, we’ve made it safe. We did this every night we came home late. One night when Paul and I were coming home from the corner bodega, we turned onto the street and saw a man standing next to his car. As soon as we were within his sights he began whistling; not a song, but a signal. He was calling someone, to tell them something. I stopped Paul and we turned around and headed back to the main street. We didn’t know what to do. We waited a few minutes, then tried it again. The man was still standing there, he was talking to someone inside a house. We hurried inside. Maybe we were paranoid. Either way this was no way to live. We decided we had to move, lease be damned.

That brings us to the present. It is Friday night, our last night here with all our stuff in tact. Tomorrow we begin packing, and Sunday we vacate. Freddie is moving to Long Island City which is north of Brooklyn. His girlfriend from San Diego, Monique, is moving in with him in January. Jake is living with him until then (under the assumption that he will find his own place before Monique moves out here. can’t wait til that falls through and its freddie, jake, and monique living in a one bedroom apartment.) I am moving to Williamsburg, the area where I spend most of my time when I go out, and where our rehearsal space is. I’m sure I’ll hear from Freddie every now and then, until his girl moves out; then its “hey freddie” at band practice and “see ya freddie” after practice is over. oh well. As for the Opera House, many tenants are jumping ship, but many are staying, including Monkey. I suppose he figures the chances of him being robbed twice is close to nil…we wish him luck with that.

Its very possible that the same thing happened in Williamsburg before it became the artist’s-haven it now is. Transition is always difficult, perhaps years from now Bushwick will fulfill the dream the Hassidic owners of the Opera House had envisioned when they opened it in 2003. Perhaps one day the Opera House will be looked on as an institution, and its original residents as pioneers fighting the good bohemian fight….but not bloody likely. What is bloody likely, however, is that things are going exactly as the Hassids planned: redirect the filthy, godless artists into the ghetto and take back Williamsburg.
Well good luck to them. in the meantime, this filthy godless artist is going to Williamsburg.

This is El Moreno, coming to you from the Opera House one last time…goodnight, america.