L and I devote a lot...A LOT...of talk time and think time to heaven on earth/New York City. And by New York City we mean everything below 96th and surely west of 2nd. So here is just a small aperitif before we get too intoxicated with the matter...
J's account:
Prior to my 9th arrival in New York my days were chalked full of bitter-sweet anticipation. Surely, the spon of Satan heart-breaker of 2009 could not both ruin my chance of a ring before spring and MY city too? Surprisingly, the ginger snap didn’t. Thoughts of he and I in the city were merely misty, water-colored memories, and pleasant ones at that. How could I have sunk so low as to suck a fire-crotched, uncircumcized dick atop a king-sized, satin duvet AND pay for breakfast?!!
The plane ride there was anything but restful. I had to down two bottles of Farm Ridge chardonnay to induce a mild relaxed state, not to mention survive a 2 hour layover in the African capitol of the world, Memphis. But alas, as soon as the pilot announced our descent into LaGuardia, the biggest smile spread across my mouth and my heart damn near skipped a beat. I looked around the cabin to see if any of my fellow passengers shared in my delight. Not so much. Normally I’m a fuckin fearful flier who loathes turbulence, but I didn’t care; hell, the pilot coulda informed us we would be suicide crashing into the Empire State Building and I’d probably thank God for the honor to die in the nearest thing to heaven! (A cookie if you can name that movie).
I guess I expected the city to welcome me with 76 trombones and a sequined formation of the Radio City Rockettes high kicking to the likes of “If I Can Make It There I’ll Make It Anywhere…,” when I stepped off the plane, but of course, New Yorkers being New Yorkers, I was first greeted by an audacious pervert in the snack shop. Oh well fuck it, I was in NY! A bumpy cab ride whisked me over the Triburrow bridge, up the East Side highway and to 350 W. 53rd Street where my gay father, in his newly shined Pradas, and I promptly ran down to 48th to see Arther Miller’s “A View from the Bridge.” If it doesn’t take home the Tony this year, all is lost. Side Note: as much as I despise Times Square, I was elated to be walking amongst the prostitutes, Japanese tourists, pimps, assholes, and mentally deranged of the world. I was home.
The faces of New Yorkers don’t necessarily remind me of the faces of people who have played a game and lost, but like a bunch of Jews coming from a sale at Filene’s. Ya win some and ya lose some, but there's always next season. JesusMary&Joseph New York is full of so much chutzpah even the Catholics are Jewish. Regardless of the lack of generous tippers, I must say, this Shiksa loves a town devoid of goys! Yay for circumcized dicks! I’d gladly ask the Rabbi on Park and 73rd three times for a lifetime membership to the club. “Rabbi Epstein, can I pleaseeee spin the dreidel?” Would he permit me? If my nose could speak for itself, then yes. However, chances are, New York Jews don’t take kindly to blonds (The only thing Charlotte had going for her was being a brunette).
Not to sound like too much of a Kvetch, but let me digress a moment for a New York pet peeve: suburban moralists that traverse to my city clad in mom jeans and tucked in turtle necks. They infiltrate Times Square alongside the resident pimps, hoes, and mentally deranged trying desperately to capture a white-washed picture for this year’s Christmas card in front of the Coca Cola sign. I’d pity them but I’d worry they’d spill Capri Sun on my suede boots.
Carrie once asked, “Are there women in New York who are just there to make us feel bad about ourselves?” Obviously, Carrie wasn't in a sorority. My chances of finding a Mr. Big are much better among the homely northern types than the blond bombshells of my University, which shall remain nameless. So, a year from now I’ll come to New York to find the ambiance that will evoke my best. I don’t necessarily know precisely what that might be, but I’ll come anyway to discover it.
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