It’s a little dirty, but it’s home.
I find myself reflecting on my city. We like to think of ourselves as the best, number one. Sure, we’re facing some criticism, and that’s not just from Mayor Zero Crap Dummy.
Lincoln Center, Rock Center, World Trade Center—we’ve got it all. And, of course, Woody, Dustin, Gale, and Donald.
It’s rush hour. Tourists gather around the Freedom Tower, cameras swinging like garter medals, watching film crews and commenting:
A Madison Avenue type, dressed sharply, seems open-minded, adding, “Eastside, Westside, all over town—did someone send you here?”
Amid a movie shoot, a short guy is so focused on getting somewhere that he strides right into the street. It’s like nobody even notices; the actors just keep reciting their lines. A passerby tweeted, “We are the number one city. We deserve more crime.” A crew member overheard and said, “That’s a great line. We’ll work it into the movie.”
Now get out of here.
World, come on—where else can you wait for John next to Letterman or bump into a movie star picking up his dog at Starbucks? Does your town in Arizona have St. Pat’s, MSG, or the Yankees?
We’ve got the culture. Back in Kansas, yogurt was pretty much it. But, hey, we have amazing hot dogs and steaks too. The Thief and the New York Post are our gems.
Everything here is the best. There are more hairdressers in France than in Paris, a better Italian restaurant than in Rome. Sure, there might be too many lawyers and not enough fraud, but at least the criminals here are somewhat professional. I mean, this is New York.
So yeah, maybe my perspective is a bit limited. Sure, we can be rude, but at least we do it well. Did you check out Broadway? Central Park? All you have is the bus outside! And let’s not forget, we still have a saxophone here, at least for now. Once upon a time, you could find stores like Klein’s and Allbacks selling bras and garter belts, but those are out. The current trend? Just for breasts.
If you don’t like us, hop on a rental bike and pedal away. Drive back to wherever—where the moon’s high, just like your out-of-work friend. Find that misspelled ‘Othelo’ version at your local road company. Buy locally made T-shirts that cheer for Harry Truman. Or hang out with your tattooed friends.
Lined with ink for marking
Tattoo: LL Cool J sports “Respect” on his left shoulder. Stephen Baldwin? There’s a Chinese sign somewhere on him. Kid Rock? A Detroit Tigers logo adorns his right arm. P. Diddy? His newspaper circulation is probably less than his ink—one arm has some writing he never showed me. Justin Timberlake? He has “JJ” on his ankle and a cross on his left shoulder. Kelly Osbourne? She’s got a heart tattoo on her lower abdomen, angel wings on her back, a star at the base of her neck, a pink heart on her pinkie, and an anchor on her left forearm.
I don’t have tattoos myself. If I did, they’d read, “I love you. I love this country. I love this city. I love this newspaper. And if you’ll have me, I’d love to come back tomorrow.” Just New York, kids, just New York.
