Nov 7, 2013
His story never seemed to jive; in my mind, at lease. He was supposedly a veteran of the NYC ad agency game, but he really didn't act like a creative type. So maybe he had a job in that industry where he needn't be. Then there he was living in one of those super-expensive condos downtown, yet his local employment in Saratoga included stints as a DPW laborer and a cab driver. A man of mystery, for sure.
But gee whiz: this guy sure was an opinionated son of a gun, wasn't he? He wasn't really interested in your (or my) take on the local hot button issue of the week, but he'd gladly go on (and on and on) about his. You'd walk away from him and he'd still be talking. For me, it would often turn into a situation where the two of us would start out on the same page (I'd think), but his need to pontificate and ramble would have me end up disagreeing with him just for the sake of disagreeing with him. Maybe it's because we were really both cut from the same cloth.
He seemed obsessive on the single matter of that dilapidated old home on Franklin Square -- a firetrap in his back yard that he felt needed to be razed, and done so today. On other topics he would veer all over the map but he was correct on some of the important ones like NXIVM, the long-running rift of the city Democratic party, media matters and the downtown last-call hours. But man oh man, was it ever so hard to indulge him when he got rolling on those (or any) subjects.
Then, yesterday we heard the news that Mr Kyle York of Saratoga Springs fell to his death from his pricey condo on Railroad Place. The police report states that he was attending to a window when he apparently slipped and plunged four floors down, the hard way. Maybe he was applying some Windex for a better view of that crumbling shack mentioned above? We'll never know.
But we do know that all of a sudden this city feels a little less special today, knowing that its public (and private) discourse on civic matters has just lost one of its lightning rods. This was a guy not willing to accept the Happy Face whitewash of the Spa City Cheerleading Squads in their positions of power and influence. A squeaky wheel is gone-- and we really can't afford that kind of thing 'round here. N'uh-uh.
We're sure as hell going to miss this buffalo. Who'd a thunk?