New Yorkers are a diverse bunch. A bunch of what is the question.
True New Yorkers know that their city is a lot of things; vibrant, culturally exhaustive, a melting pot of peoples, and they know that if you can make it here, you can definitely make it in Toledo.
However, New York City is also home to foul mouthed men on bicycles, men who think that having pet rats (plural) is sexy, men who think that urinating in public is au courant, and men who think that walking four across a New York city street is acceptable.
Side Note: New York City can also boast having Jesus as its tenant. I had no idea that JC was now a casting director.
But I digress.
The other day, I rode my bicycle downtown, along the Hudson River, on the bike path. I was pedaling at a nice clip, feeling my long and luxurious hair blowing in the wind, because I’m too cocky (read: stupid) to wear a helmut, when I saw a yield sign, and pedestrian walkway, up ahead.
I had about three seconds to decide if I was going to gun it, forcing the pedestrians to stop for me, (which is not what the signs means) or stop and yield to the pedestrians, which is what the sign means.
I put on the breaks and just as a mother and child were about to walk, what do I see coming at us, from the opposite direction, but this doucher, I mean man, Tour de France-ing himself right through the crosswalk. I yelled, “Come on dude.” Forever a California girl I suppose. “Fuck off!”, he yelled back and kept riding.
This Lance Armstrong prick told me to fuck off. I don’t think anyone has ever told me to fuck off. I’ve gotten a, what the fuck. That’s so fucked up. Fuckin’A he’s great in bed. But never has anyone told me to fuck off. I took it in, let it go and pedaled on, hoping that Lance would hit a little rock and fly off his handlebars. What?
Another day, I decided to bike up to the George Washington Bridge. At around 96th street, I noticed something laying in the middle of the bike path. It was a dead rat. Pretty, right. But if that wasn’t gross enough, there was another rat laying a foot away. It was like they made a suicide pact.
When I got home, I started packing my bags (if only in my head) because I don’t want to live in a place where dead rats rain down from the sky when I’m trying to suck in some fresh air. Ain’t nothing fresh about that nasty mess.
Let’s stay with the rat theme for just a moment. Last week I decided to watch the sunset over the Hudson River. I’d been working all day, and thought it would be nice to sit by the water, and watch the sun sink behind Jersey.
The sunset was lovely, but as I walked back to my apartment, I passed a man on the street. This man had three live rats spread out along his shoulders and neck, wearing them like a friggin’ scarf.
If that wasn’t disturbing enough, this classy pet owner had dyed each of the rats a different color. It was a rainbow coalition; red, pink, and blue. I thought I was going to throw up. “Ben, the two of us we look no more. We both found what we were looking for.” -Michael Jackson
The other day, I looked out of my sixth story window. My building is one of several in the area that looms over the Port Authority bus terminal. What I saw was a train wreck and I could not look away. This doesn’t often happen when you live in New York, because you quickly become desensitized and it takes a lot to shock.
I was talking on the phone and just as I was about to say something extremely witty and important, I saw a man, who I can only assume was a bus driver (why else would he be on the roof of the Port Authority bus terminal) confidently, and nonchalantly, unzip his fly and relieve himself behind one of the buses.
Thank the sweet, casting director Jesus, that my floor is level with the parking lot, so I was spared having to see his details, if you know what I mean. Didn’t he notice the other thirty-one floors towering majestically above him that would be able to see his details?
Perhaps in his mind, the back of a bus, behind a small wall, out in the open, is just like an actual toilet, in an actual bathroom, with an actual door, that you can actually friggin’ lock.
Walking to the theater yesterday, I encountered what can only be described as a New York City no-no, as if all of the above mentions were yes-yes’s or maybes. There’s no excuse for the following.
I found myself behind four men walking four across in a chorus line. You do not do this in New York, unless you’re actually in A Chorus Line. There’s an unspoken two-person max. And in some places, you have to go single file. I’m certain that they were not New Yorkers, or they hadn’t been living here for very long.
New Yorkers have places to go and people to see. We do not have time to navigate around, or through, sidewalk mongers.
I finally arrived at the theater, took my seat and everything from the past week melted away, because New York has Hedwig and The Angry Inch, and Neil Patrick Harris! Tears of joy shed? Check.
Thank goodness New York is full of all sorts of men.