12ozProphet

Every apartment I’ve had from Chicago to New York, no matter how humble, has been a good old friend. When you first meet them, its kinda wierd. There are little details that bug you and yeah it may not be perfect, but slowly, you get to know eachother. The years go by, and before you know it, you can’t imagine life without them. 153 Norfolk was one of those good friends.

So many friends and family came through over the years, the door was open if you needed a place to stay for a couple of nights. Or if you just wanted to come up have a beer and smoke a spiff, listen to some records, work on your bike or set your board up. The building had some native characters too: 80 year old Marge in 4E who accidentally walked into to my apartment one day in a panic because she locked herself out, then proceeded to sit on my couch and tell me her life story for 4 hours (never married, went to music school in Queens and wanted to be a piano player but instead settled for a secretary job because “thats just what women did back then”). The crazy (often drunk) middle aged woman who, rumor has it, was boning half of the cops at the local precinct and would let her dogs piss in the hallways as they pleased. The Puerto Rican teens making-out after school in the staircase, and the mysterious “screamer” on the first floor. And up until a couple years ago, you could even get a dime-bag in the building. 153 had it all. I’m sad to see it go, but psyched to get to know a bigger and better space down in Chinatown. We sure had some good times 153 Norfolk, see you around.