That One Night in NYC

A long, long time ago, (before "really" smart phones with GPS and maps, before Uber, Lyft, and AirBnb) at an airport in a city far, far away, (from Las Vegas) a young couple hailed a cab to the rental their friends had procured for three couples to share while they supported the galaxy's greatest collegiate a capella group, Vocal Point.

This couple was to arrive after the other two, so a key was left at the front desk of the apartment building (where the friends rented a 3-bedroom at a smoking deal) for them, so they could quietly enter once they arrived. Certainly a taxi was the best option at 1 am in New York City for finding the destination, right? They gave the address to the cabby - 243 W 63rd Street. "It's just near Lincoln Center," they confidently explained.

In retrospect, the driver didn't seem all that excited about his destination, but he drove the couple to Amsterdam and 63rd - the arrow on the picture below.

He found that he couldn't turn onto 63rd, for it was just a walking thoroughfare. Naively and foolishly, the couple told the driver he could just drop them off there and it would be okay. Oh, would it now?

The taxi sped off.

The couple's view (sans construction...and darkness, except the streetlight):

This was the entrance of the Amsterdam Housing Projects.

Home to Poncherello and Aunt Viv.

Erik Estrada

Daphne Maxwell Reid

Only, they weren't there on this night. They don't live there any more.



Behold the 4 journeys of Matt & Nicki:

First Journey- We were on 63rd, so it surely just had to be straight through here, right? Pulling our suitcases behind us, we started in. We turned around at the view of the playground (and really it was further than we should have gone, probably). This is NOT what the scene looked like to us:

No, no. This wasn't Philadelphia. This was way different. 

It's NYC. I could imagine what might happen. I was well versed in the crime scene of the Big Apple. I had watched NYPD Blues, Law & Order, Law & Order SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Law & Order: Trial by Jury, CSI: NY, The Equalizer, Cagney & Lacey, Night Court, Seinfeld and Friends.

We were...nervous. A little bit.

Okay, more than a little nervousness coursed through our bones, blood and skin.

The...um...youth on the playground in their hoodies and sagging pants seemed to perk up a little on our entering their neighborhood and were undoubtedly more than slightly curious about us.

Second Journey - Okay, so maybe if we walk toward 62nd, we can find the way there? This just doesn't look right, though. By this time, we both were redialing our friends - constantly. Did I mention it was 1 o'clock in the morning?

Third Journey - Let's just try 63rd again. Okay. Let's not. While Nicki continued to redial, I put 911 into my phone and held it to my ear as though I were talking to someone, with my finger ready to press dial, if needed.

Because, as everyone knows, if you are talking on the phone, then wrong-doers will not attack you. After all, the person on the other end might hear what's happening and call the police. This was a sure-fire defense method I learned in...my head right during that moment. It was the only thing I could think of.

Fourth Journey - We left with heading up to 64th to see if it goes through. Oh look!! It does!! (We might just not get killed.)

"Look straight ahead, not toward the playground on the left in the projects. Straight down 64th street," I keep thinking to myself.

Left on West End. West End is a two-way street. There is no reason the taxi couldn't have taken us down this road. What the crap?

Left on 63rd.

A couple of doors, both locked. No address markings. Ahead of us:

Finally, what looked like a front entrance:

We were buzzed in.

Alive. With all our belongings.

Hearts perhaps racing at 400 beats per minute.

When our friends awoke in the morning to about 6,000 missed calls, concerned, they peeked in the room they had left for us. They decided to let us sleep in, which was very kind of them.

The moral of the story: Don't get out of your cab until you are actually right in front of your destination.

I Feel Safer Now

Nicki and I had the opportunity to go to New York a couple of weeks ago. So we went. The purpose of the trip? To support Vocal Point in the final round of the International Championship of Collegiate A cappella. The ICCA.

The Kids with VP after ICCA Semi-Final win

What's Vocal Point you ask? You shouldn't have to. But if you are and I haven't sufficiently offended you by making you feel ignorant and out of touch with all that is good in the world to the point that you are actually still reading this, Vocal Point is where Nicki and I met.

Oh, and it is also the BYU-sponsored 9-man a cappella group. You can see some of their more recent performances on YouTube here and here. When I was in it (and Nicki was choreographing for the group), there was no YouTube. There was "Yo Dude," however. Very close relative of YouTube. I'm not even sure how many our performances were recorded by VHS video cameras in those days. I think I know how many Beta cameras there were, however.

The trip. Yeah. So, we had booked our flights on US Airways. Motto: "Fly the skies. Or not. We can't actually guarantee you will ever get off the ground, let alone to your final destination." In all fairness, we didn't know their motto at the time we booked the flights.

However, 3 hours before we were supposed to leave, we began to learn. The flight was going to be delayed and we would miss our connection in Phoenix. On the plus side, they seemed to be very customer friendly by trying to arrange other ways for us to arrive at our scheduled time. They even put us on a direct Continental flight. I was quite impressed with US Airways at that moment.

Then, on the way to the airport on Sunday, we received another phone call. Our flight was going to be delayed and we would miss our connection in Charleston. This time, no help to get home that night. So, we spent an extra night at my brother's house. Which, of itself, was fine. We were happy to have a little more time to spend with them, especially since we got to go with them to the Cherry Blossom festival. Those cherry blossoms are kind of cool.

I think, perhaps, that some of my discontent might have been colored by the TSA. Motto: "Privacy, shmivacy."

The night we left, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would be "randomly" selected for the naked body scan. I had been "randomly" selected EVERY time since it was instituted at McCarran.

Nicki was also "randomly" selected right before me. I know they don't send every person through it, because I saw several people pass by me on either side who just did the metal detector, as I waited at the end of the chute exiting the naked body scanner. A TSA agent waiting at the end eyed me with suspicion, said, "Copy" into the radio on her shoulder and raised her hand to me to signal, "Stop."

So I stopped. And I waited.

She said "Copy" at least twice before she left me, without any instruction that I might proceed. But, never fear, another TSA agent signaled "Stop" from the side. They were courageously doing their duty keeping Matthammed Bin Laden Al Zawahiri detained.

I waited. And waited.

No words, just looks of suspicion and disapproval. Then an agent pulled the red tape across the end of the chute in front of me, in case I had the urge to bolt. "RESTRICTED," it read across the bold red tape.

Please, just put a neon sign over my head that says, "Criminal detained! Everyone, look at the criminal!"

Nicki kept giving me questioning looks, for which I had no response, no answers.

Finally, two TSA agents (are they actually agents, really?) approached me and asked where my bags were. I pointed toward Nicki. The senior companion (at least, I assumed by virtue of his thinning comb-over and the other one didn't ever talk) stated that they had detected an anomaly and needed to do a bio-scan.

At this point, I thought they meant rub their little acne pads over the zipper of the bag and do a test, like I had seen (and had) done many times before. Why did THAT decision take so long?

"Please, sir. Go into that room."

Nicki says, "Um. I'm going in there with you."

Incredulous looks from the TSA guys, but they didn't try to stop her. Good thing. I guarantee we would not have made our flight had they tried.

I started thinking, "Wait a minute. This guy is going to give me an enhanced pat down. What the crap?" I promise I even thought "crap."

What follows is a direct transcript of the dialogue that occurred as the junior companion, who remained silent the entire time because he likes to just watch, closed the door behind us.

"Sir, the scan revealed an anomaly and I need to sexually assault you."

"Anomaly?" responded Nicki and I. "What sort of anomaly?"

"I'm not allowed to say. At this point, I would really just like to molest you."

"Can you see that I am wearing pajamas? What would I possibly be hiding that you couldn't actually see when you looked at my naked body in the scanner?"

Nicki: "This is unbelievable. It's wrong. He has done nothing wrong."

"Well, ma'am, you are welcome to call Washington and see if you can get things changed. But as of this evening, I still get to legally assault your husband sexually in front of you and there is nothing you can do to stop me, unless you and your husband want to go to jail and miss your flight altogether."

Nicki: "This is what male cows leave on the ground."

"Nicki, this will get us nowhere. He is going to get his supervisor and have us arrested if I don't let him molest me." (To agent, as I raise my arms in the air) "Go ahead, touch me where ever you want to. Get it over with."

He then proceeded to describe in detail how he was going to sexually assault me and followed through with his promise. I can't describe it as anything else, because it's how I felt - honestly. He "touched my junk" (to borrow a phrase), not once - but 4 times.

I am glad it wasn't a family trip where one of our children was selected for this "safety measure." Nicki and I would probably still be in jail.

Is there anything you can do about it? Not if you want to fly anywhere. You have to buck up and take it. But it is crap. Definitely crap.

Glory Days

This past weekend, my family and I celebrated, along with 74 other alumni and their families, the 20th Anniversary of BYU's Vocal Point.

I was in the group from 1995 to 1997. And enjoyed performing in front of millions of screaming women - perhaps not millions; one or two, perhaps? - dying to hold my hand. It was BYU, after all, and certainly there would be nothing beyond that sought after or desired by either party. (Please no Brandon Davies jokes).

It is always a particular rush to perform on stage when the crowd is enjoying it and for a brief moment you are the focus of their attention. Let's be real. We each got an 8-10 minute opportunity to do it again during the afternoon concert.

But performing on stage simply cannot compare with this:



Watching that live (twice) caused my heart to grow many, many more times than the Grinch's did. I cannot put into words how awesome it was to watch 3 of my children perform in front of a sold-out 670 seat theater.

That evening, though, reliving my glory days collided with reality. After the current Vocal Point group did their evening show, I was congratulating them on their show and on how quite very good they are. (WAY better than my years were.)

"Thanks, Brother Avery. I was 7 when you were in the group."

CRASH!