I wish I could slip into you without you knowing I was there:
[Photo by ercwttmn]
The city’s new privileged inhabitants would wear their city’s outlaw image as a badge of honor and even venerate it with fervor, fiercely proud of a history they had never experienced, let alone contributed to - like suburbanites living on a Civil War battlefield and boasting about Pickett’s charge.
In a sense, though, they earned bragging rights: the city’s premium rents and boutique prices came with this fantasy narrative. Ethnic cleansing would be accomplished via eviction: the mass deportation that had worked so well on the Native Americans.
The indigenous city people, who had survived urban blight, gangs, systemic unemployment, police brutality, the state-sponsored crack epidemic, and PCP, finally met their match when faced with Seinfeld Syndrome.”
-Ian Svenonius[via Young Manhattanite]
I made it to all four boroughs but Staten Island.
Color me unsurprised at the arrangement of these throw pillows. Ranked in order.
Once upon a time I said aloud to a couple of New Yorkers, "I've never been to Staten Island."
Someone quickly responded, "It's a dump. Literally. It's where the garbage goes. And the people aren't much different."
I'm sure Staten Island is lovely. I'm sorry I didn't give it a fair shake while I was in New York City. Well, 4/5ths of it.
I am back in the city that fits.
But this time I come to it with fourteen months of urban combat training under my belt.
Before San Francisco used to feel majestic and overwhelming. Now it feels majestic and ready to bend to my will.
Tomorrow night, set a reminder. My friend Tony Hightower is going to be on Jeopardy!.
You should watch for several reasons:
Okay! So, set your TiVo, gather your friends and if you are in New Yawk, head to Dempsey's for a viewing party that I really, really, really wish I could be there for. And give Tony (and Sam and Jo and errbody else) a hug for me.
Your hair is so fucked up, white people in the Mission District. I love it. But your hair is seriously fucked up.
It's matted and bedheady and wild, but in a super cool way that I could never replicate if I tried. You and your hair don't give a fuck. You are far too into reading your friend's new manuscript or teaching your adorable daughter how to play chess.
It looks like a bohemian village in this coffee shop at 24th and Mission Street. Pretty sure not a soul in this room is going to work today, or, at least, not a work that involves getting dressed and going to an office.
I am surrounded by worn hoodies and patched messenger bags and as hard as I try, I can't find a designer handbag in the entire place.
Friday morning, the day after a celebration of thanks known as Bronxgiving, I boarded a plane at LaGuardia carrying two cats in a bag.
This was no small feat, my friends.
I never would have made it to the airport without losing my mind or committing a felony if it weren't for my girl Reebs who got her ass up before 7 a.m. and took the 1 train all the way to Times Square to help me wrangle two kittens into a single carrier. Even with four hands between the two of us, that shit wasn't easy.
It became quickly apparent that we'd need to bag the cats in the bathroom. Unfortunately, Goat caught on quickly that he was about to be corralled, so he did what any smart cat would do, he shrunk under the couch and hid.
And there he stayed. I tried treats and pleading, then demanding that he come out, but no dice. The clock was tearing off loud ticks reminding me that the airplane would leave without us, so Reebs and I did what anyone would do: we picked up the couch and shook the cat out.
Poor Goat, who had never been shaken from a couch in his life, tumbled from between the fabric and the frame and began sprinting hard in whatever direction he was pointed. Unfortunately for him, that was right at the refrigerator. He ran head first into the freezer door, bounced off, then looked at me with one eye half open, dazed, like, "Why?!?!?"
That's when Reebs made the mistake of looking at me and asking, "Are you okay?" Which, of course, made me lose it.
I started crying and blubbering, and Reebs did what all good friends do, and told me to shut it up.
"You can't do this right now! You can't! You have to hold it together! The more you freak out, the more the cats are going to freak out!"
She was right, but I just felt so guilty. I was moving and making the cats come with me, despite cats really, really liking where they are already.
Still, she was right, and the clock continued to count down, and so we went back to it, trying to get Goat into the bathroom. Apparently a cat concussion makes that easier, and on the next try we were all four in the bathroom.
However, the bathroom is not the SWA-approved cat carrier, and so the daunting task of getting two cats in a single bag still loomed. Reebs held open the carrier while I picked up the girl cat and tried placing her into the bag, but she had all four legs extended, along with her claws, and with a single body thrust she was out of my arms, and I was bleeding profusely from a crease in my palm.
Again with the waterworks. I was stressed and sweaty and crying and bleeding, and basically repeating to the animals as if they understood, "You have to go in the bag. You have to go in the bag."
Sheer force and determination saved the day, and finally, both cats sat defeated, pissed off and silent in their cross-country crate.
So, this post goes out to Reebs, without whom, I would be a shredded, bloody heap on the floor of a New York studio apartment. Love you, BigPimpinNoG31.
It would be rude to ask them if everything is okay, because when you are crying on the street, you don't want to be on the street, you want a tiny sliver of privacy, and so to not acknowledge the tears is the kindest thing you can do.