Branding

Nothing lasts forever

Author
Marc Davison
No.
131
Date
01/11/08

Sometimes, during the course of the here and now, we transcend forward in thought.
We take what is and ponder what could be.
We’re taught this is how to fashion our future.

Sometimes, the stress of the present or the fear of the future forces us to go a different direction.
To a place of comfort. Where it’s safe. Where we are reminded of who we are in the face of losing ourselves in the swirl of the moment.

The past. I found myself back in time last week at Connect.
I found it to be a worthwhile endeavor.
If only for only a brief moment.

It gave me the running room I needed to blast forward.

Nothing lasts forever

It’s early Friday morning. Just past 1:00 am. The second long day of Connect 2008 under my belt. Earlier, dinner at the Noho Star was as it always is. It’s a place that never lets me down.

Down the street, east from the restaurant, sitting boarded up under a dimly lit streetlamp was CBGB’s. While our group contemplated our next destination, I stood facing my past in silent memorial. I’ve seen more shows there than I can count during the 70’s and performed on stage there more than I probably remember during the early 80’s.

Like so many things that once define us then fade into the past, this one was particularly hard to reconcile. A club among a sea of clubs, it rose to great importance. It became a symbol for an entire generation. My 6-year old now wears his CBGB’s t-shirt as a fashion statement. Back then I wore one because it represented change. And gave birth to something new.

CB’s is now a memory. Gone. Like childhood. Like all good things from our past, we paste them inside our life’s scrapbook. Every so often, we take them out and stare at them wistfully.
No one noticed as I fought back a tear.
Nothing lasts forever.

Everything was once a nickel

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was that little curly haired troublemaker walking these very same streets? Grandpa would take me on strolls holding one hand as I ate B&W cookies with the other. He’d tell stories about when he was young and growing up on the Lower East Side. Each street held a tale that yearned to be told, he would say.

He was a spokesman of the past.
About how things were.
Back when movies were a nickel.

Seems like everything was once a nickel.

Tonight, I conjured up grandpa. As we all walked, I became the spokesman for the past.
Filling the group in on what it was like when I was young.
Back when movies were $.50.

Seems like everything was once fifty cents.

The evening’s gentle rain served me well. It cloaked the few tears I shed reliving a time when everything seemed so perfect. When life was fun. Exciting. When it all made sense. And when it didn’t, there was someone there to put it back into perspective.

If only I could live in that forever.

Even ghosts enjoy a late night stroll

New Yorkers love to walk. We escape by getting sucked into the sea of anonymity. We recharge by stepping inside those invisible footprints we left years ago as children.

For a time, during tonight’s walk from Bond and Lafayette up past Washington Square Park, I walked inside my own footprints of the past. As we headed up 5th Ave, Grandpa joined me.

You see, even ghosts enjoy a late night stroll.

Grandpa gently cupped my hand in his. Whispered stories I had forgotten.
I chose to leave the B&W cookie out of the fantasy.
When you hit a certain age calories tend to seep in just thinking about them.

Up by Union Square our little group stopped at Starbucks for coffee. These days it’s referred to as a tall, drip. Add in some steamed milk and a flavor and you’re down $4.00.

I don’t remember coffee tasting this good.
I don’t remember when Union Square looked this good.
I don’t remember when the present did either.

Winter Connect 2008

The Real Estate Connect conference this year will be remembered as a sobering event. I overheard many conversations about real estate’s recent past. About the good times. About the way things were before a decade of carelessness exploded, splattering its rancid heart over the strong and the vulnerable.

Attendees weren’t there to party like it was 1999 or lose themselves in the sorts of comfortable fictions in which the National Association of Realtors persists. It wasn’t about stoking controversy for the sake of entertainment. We’re all in this together now: Realtor, broker, technologist, social network architect, Vendor, MLS and consumer.

The parties were also low key. The discussions were grounded. Listening to Coldwell Banker’s Charlie Young and Better Homes & Gardens CEO Sherry Chris speak on behalf of the consumer on stage was truly uplifting. It was real. It was honest. It marked a departure from a past that once was, but is, thankfully, fading.

As they spoke, I reflected on what was: buyer frenzy, lender frenzy, recruitment frenzy, launch-any-idea frenzy. Real estate’s past is boarded up now. Like CBGB’s, it’s sitting under a dimly lit streetlamp waiting for a new tenant.

Onward

Everything changes: the economy, the market, our ways, our practices, our beliefs. Everything. It’s important to cherish that. To hold the past dear. To conjure it up fondly or with regret and reflect. If only for a brief moment. To fire up our forward thrusters.

As you can probably tell by now, I’m sentimental about a great many things. But I’m going to draw the line with real estate. There is little worth holding onto. There is much more to strive towards.

As I stepped out into the rainy NYC night with my $4 cup of coffee, I chose to let go of grandpa’s invisible hand. And of real estate’s past that is no longer. It was OK to hold onto both for a while but now it’s time to move on. There’s a future waiting that I think is worth working towards. Granted, it includes $10 cups of coffee, but what can you do about that?

I left for home early Friday morning. California. It’s where my wife and kids are. It’s where 1000Watt is. It’s where my present waits and my future beckons. Up until now, its streets never spoke to me.

I think I’m going to do something to change that now.

– Davison