I Prefer ‘Voyeur,’ Thank You Very Much

There’s a voice within me that, every now and then, whimpers for excitement, like a bored puppy next to a dormant, tattered tennis ball.  Not that ever-changing realities like my daily commute on public transportation aren’t exciting enough.  No, the urbanites with whom I share my 45 minutes of recycled air each day, with their opinion-slathered rantings, full-volume Seinfeldian phone calls (sans perceivable wit), and shockingly public personal disclosures, are reason enough to leave my iPod at home.  The great, though sometimes thoroughly exhausting (regardless of age, disposition, or caffeine intake), thing about city life is you’re never without some form of unavoidable entertainment.  But still, there’s something inside me that clamors for more.

It is probably for this very reason I began my casual relationship with voyeurism.  By this, I don’t mean to suggest I install secret cameras in women’s locker rooms or play cloak and dagger on arbitrary park benches while peering at “evildoers” through eye holes in a newspaper.  We’ll leave that to the peeping toms, the website “entrepreneurs” grossing $14.95 per monthly membership (ahem, so I’m told), and the crotchety old men who have no patience for dropped forks or talkative babies and, some could say, have been calling their dusty, respective domiciles “home” just a tad too long.  More accurately, I keep myself open to those private yet often all-too-public worlds adjacent to each of us, letting them in like a curious fly through an open window.  I let the exploits of neighbors, friends, and strangers alike, find me, rather than vice-versa as I become engrossed in a blend of perceivable realities and creative manifestations.

Essentially, and really just to absolve myself of all the shame of being branded as an “outcast” given that last summary, I will say all these questionable behaviors can most easily be pegged on my childhood best friend, “A.”  It was he who first harbored the endearing yet peculiar obsession with watchful vigilantes like Zorro and Batman, dutifully watching their stories every day after school less like a casual audience member and more like a zealous fan club of one.  Given my limited social circle and a lack of any perceivable quirk, I, like the ever-eager Robin (without the homoerotic undertones, of course), was apt to follow suit.  So we were to be found each afternoon, slowly losing what we had been taught that day as we excitedly absorbed the flicker and glow of each “BAM” and “THWIP.”

Inevitably, as is the case with any imaginative suburban boy whose almost professional rejection of academics turns evenings and weekends into “playtime,” watching those caped crusaders, social miscreants, and restless vigilantes quickly turned to idolizing them.  As our imaginations deepened, A and I soon found ourselves recreating their most famous exploits (complete with homemade capes and our own special blend of adolescent awkwardness).  The cherry tree in front of A’s house was no longer an expensive suburban attempt at the taming of nature but the looming gothic cathedral, atop which Batman watched as the Joker plummeted to his own death, having been bested by his own vanity (that, and a loose gargoyle).  We were seeing the world through very different lenses, and we loved every starry-eyed minute of it.

Having become lost in our creations, it was only a matter of time until A and I started believing that we were ourselves, in fact, misunderstood heroes with the taxing but unshruggable duty of keeping watch over our communities and dealing that particularly hard-to-swallow blend of non-lethal justice to those who found themselves outside the boundaries of our moral code.  So, when A suggested the heart-pounding and seemingly (at least at the time) innocent pastime of what he referred to as “spying,” how could I possibly have said no?

The rundown was simple: wait for dark, dress like what could only be perceived as tiny robbers or makeshift superheroes (depending on if our capes were clean, of course), and peer into the homes of our well-to-do neighbors to verify that they were, in fact, not deranged terrorists, plotting masterminds, or backroom crime lords.  Questionable?  Invasive?  Psychotic?  Absolutely, but these neighbors, with their staged Christmas cards, curiously dense shrubbery, and all-too-perfect façades of suburban contentment practically begged to be investigated.  At least, that’s what we told ourselves.

Eventually, though, the honeymoon phase wore off and we grew bored of passively watching our targets.  Adrenaline had become our drug of choice, and no longer did flitting from the shadows provide our much-needed fix.  What good is standing in a bush in the dark observing a stranger watch TV unless your heart is racing like a hungover prom queen awaiting the results of a small urine-soaked stick, after all?  So we devised ways of engaging our targets.  We scratched and tapped on windows and doors, rustled bushes and tree limbs, let our whispers cut through the dense nighttime air, and left evidence of our visits behind before vanishing into the shadows.  To our neighbors, all this effort probably amounted to no more than a general questioning of the mental condition of the local squirrel population.  But to us, it stood as a reminder of our kept vigils and a message to the would-be suburban evildoers: “we’re watching.”  Not to mention providing a pretty good buzz.

It wasn’t until one overly adventurous night that we first questioned our antisocial ritual.  Tailing a local geriatric as she walked her appropriately elderly dog, A and I, having recently become increasingly cocky in our stealthy abilities, found ourselves a little too close to our target.  With a crisp carpet of newly deceased autumn kindle snapping and crunching under our worn sneakers, we were anything but masters in the art of the ninja.  The woman whipped around to identify her attackers, understandably paranoid as the sun was nestled snugly somewhere in the Pacific and, judging by her terror, our town was apparently a hotbed for vampire activity.  As if all our previous adventures had been a much more enjoyable boot camp, we instinctually dove headfirst into the nearest hedge, collapsing, soiled and scraped, under a fog of our collective fear, muffled laughter, and uncertainty of what had just happened.

But the old lady wasn’t satisfied, and sounded the time-honored battlecry of the old and vulnerable: “You’d better leave me alone or I’m gonna call the cops.”  Her threat, though certainly empty and seemingly something a nefarious groundskeeper might growl while being tailed for clues by Scooby and the gang, was at first a nice rush, until we began to ponder how much jail time our actions could conceivably net.  To us, a parental tongue lashing meant we were cutely audacious, but a regular raping from an oddly possessive cell block neighbor meant we were deserving, reprehensible miscreants.  If only to save our virginal, yet now legally liable, assholes from certain doom, A and I acquiesced, albeit begrudgingly, that spying was to be deemed a thing of the past.

Soon, high school began and, hoping to avoid a career spent over a fryer, dressed as a menu item, or spent squeaking behind a cloudy trail of mop water, I buried my nose in my books and put my childhood behind me.  Having spent so much of my adolescence staying “forever young,” the transition was anything but easy.  But, sooner or later, my nights were spent in front of books instead of windowpanes and I had succeeded.  I was an academic, and no silly childhood urge was going to stand between me and my goal of not failing life.  My  attempts to shrug my questionable past continued through college, when, despite the all-but-subtle voyeuristic tendencies of my classmates, hall mates, and even friends, I reminded myself that there’s nothing endearing about a twentysomething creep obsessed with the goings-on of strangers.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, living the cliché of a post-collegiate bachelor in New York City (which, alongside being the uncontested nexus of the universe, is a veritable smörgåsbord for those of us so intently interested in the lives of others), that my academic cares were long behind me and I found myself free to tap into my peopled, buzzing hive of a new home.  From my very own linen closet of a bedroom, private worlds collided as I concurrently watched “Barry,” the one-working-weekend-away-from-a-midlife-crisis office drone hopelessly flirt with his office’s Portuguese cleaning lady and listened through tissue paper-thin walls as my Muscle Milk stock-holder of a neighbor and his clueless concubine of a girlfriend attempted the Guinness World Record of most public sex ever had in the privacy of one’s home.  Ho-hum coitus be damned, these two were making important strides in the area of fringe sexual studies, and their nightly ritual served simply as the publishing of their latest findings.  New York was a land of stories, and I was apt to learn every last shocking one of them, for better or worse.

The good news was I wasn’t alone, as New York seemed to be a hotbed of voyeuristic activity that, I guess, is inevitable when that many people are so intimately elbow-to-elbow.  But I honestly don’t believe widespread voyeurism was a niche, “New York thing.”  When all is said and done, we’re all voyeurs.  If nothing else, peering into the lives of others (unless your hand is down your pants) is a healthy attempt at escapism and a low-maintenance, much-needed exercise in compare-and-contrast to our own isolated realities.  It’s just how we practice it that determines whether our actions be considered innocently curious or asylum-worthy.

These days, my city has changed as has my company, but thankfully I find myself in a life blessed not only by an amazing woman as healthily engrossed in the exploits of others as I am, but an apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows to boot.  To say the least, life is good.  Of course, with the nearest visible apartment building a block and a half away, neighbors without (shock! awe!) a taste for letting their emotional spats and sexual escapades ring out into the night like a badge of honor, and a windowsill sans binoculars, Alyssa and I experience daily disappointment as we look out at our shimmering, distant view and strain to envision the scandal and private stories and intrigue we’re missing.  I guess we’ll always have public transportation.

Table for One

“You’re going to do what?!”  It was as if I had announced I was planning to sell my worldly possessions, learn to speak beaver, and “live off the land.”  To me, my evening plans were not only quite mundane, but necessary as I couldn’t bear my cabin fever any longer and knew no one else in the area besides Alyssa (who was out of town on business).  Unfortunately, my declaration that I had planned to go to dinner and a movie alone was, in the eyes of Alyssa’s mother, quite ludicrous and apparently unfit for public announcement.  So much for the life pragmatic.

Nevertheless, I stayed true to my plan, leaving the house high on my hermitic ideologies.  I was self-satisfied and loving every minute of it.  As I started the car, I couldn’t help but chuckle.  My insipid plans hardly deserved a response, much less one wrapped in snarky disbelief.  But the more I thought about our unexpected exchange, the more I realized it wasn’t the first time I had received such a flummoxed gut reaction.

Back when I graduated from college, having moved back home as an outright denial that my adult life had indeed begun, I found myself in a place devoid of recognizable faces.  Time had weathered my friendships from high school, I was still nursing the wounds from a long-anticipated breakup, and most of my college friends were nearly in another time zone.  Replaced by my father’s new girlfriend as his automatic sidekick and feeling sheepish about making friends with the sallow, middle-aged townies at our local dive bar, I was lonely and seemingly destined to remain so until a raspy “rosebud” escaped from my cracked, geriatric lips.

So, rather than devouring a quart of Ben and Jerry’s and getting lost in a Kleenex-friendly slideshow retrospective of what once had been, I embraced my new existence as a friendless recluse and became my own best friend.

At first, the experience of befriending myself was liberating.  No longer would I have to endure the awkward but all-too-common realization that I, in fact, hated my newest friend-to-be, nor would I find myself in the subsequent scramble to piece together any conceivable excuse to abruptly and unapologetically depart from the conversation.  I already knew everything there was to know about myself, and had thus effectively expedited the awkward “getting to know you” phase.  We were soul mates, myself and I, and I knew it at first sight (in the mirror, that is).

But soon, like so many new relationships, when the ranting monologues that had once lasted until dawn became less frequent and my narcissistic physical attraction had been reduced to a lackluster self-acknowledgment (“is it date night again, penis?”), I had to devise new ways of keeping things fresh.

That’s when I turned to an old standby to solve my platonic woes: dinner and a movie.  What, after all, has saved more floundering relationships than the great American date?  With a plethora of culinary possibilities nearby and new films being released every week, I had given myself the chance to become lost in the excitement of the “new” while effectively forgetting the sad reality that I had, in fact, tired of my company and longed for new social interaction.

This new lifestyle, however, apparently didn’t sit well with my sister; a social butterfly whose calendar seemed to let out a pitiful, exhausted whine with each new entry.  If Day Timers could resign, hers would have done so promptly upon her entry into high school, citing her disregard for white space and subpar Christmas bonuses as its reasons.  No, to my sister, my self-sufficient lifestyle wasn’t simply a ridiculous waste of precious “face-time,” but an insult to the social tug-of-war she had worked so hard to deem her life.  Considering my audience, it was of no surprise that, upon revealing my latest epiphany that I was all I needed for now and would “let the friends come to me,” my sister reacted as if I had calmly sworn off the human race entirely.  Clearly, she was not a prospect for donations for my one-person cause.

And so, with the coming of each Friday night, as I determined which of Hollywood’s latest atrocities deserved my coveted $11, my sister looked at me with her predisposedly furrowed brow, unimpressed eyes, and pursed lips, as if to say, “Yes, I’m judging you.”  No explanation was required, as she already knew I was going stag for the evening and had her sarcastic “have fun” waiting to be fired off as soon as she stole one last party-bound glance in the mirror.

Eventually, as expected, my habits returned to a more normal pattern and my social life found rebirth.  This was aided, in large part, to my escape from the suburbs to New York City, where a number of my friends already lived.  New York was an ever-pounding social heartbeat, so who was I to fight the tide?  In a city that polarized everything, I feared being lost and forgotten in the vast local social pool and reduced to sharing ideological debates with inanimate objects, as so many, I’m sure, formerly social hoboes did each night in the park.  These vagrants had obviously been rejected by society at some point, and I was determined to differentiate myself from their outcasted, feather-eating ranks.  So, through my already-connected friends, I met new faces, carved out my new social niche, and slowly but surely refilled my calendar with true dates and meetings as opposed to entries marked in red as “me time.”

In a way, it was comforting to know I had people to rely upon given any exciting prospective diversion.  Movies were more engaging when there was someone to share notes with afterward, my brooding over the omnipresent buzz of the city was processed more healthily when sharing the moment, and finding a worthy restaurant in New York’s sea of mediocrity became more exciting when a second party’s dining experience could be referenced and put to work.  I would never be my sister, but I was content in my swirling social microcosm.

Things haven’t really changed much since then.  Sure, I’m in a new city and some faces have come and gone, but my life’s essence is still the same: quick flashes of diversity keeping the days exciting and the mind sane.  But even now, as I find myself in a wonderful relationship and with a number of social circles in which to fall, I still enjoy stealing away and revisiting “me time.”  In a world that’s constantly plugged in, I find there’s no better oasis than the quiet comfort of my own thoughts.  I have, in essence, found what we’re all searching for.  I just try not to gloat about it too much, as that’s what the hoboes do when the trash cans are listening.

A Brief Stopover in Texas

If I had to sum up Texas in one phrase that didn’t include any of the state’s clichéd phrases like “everything’s bigger,” I’d say this: the Lone Star State stands as a testament to why we Americans are so uncontrollably, grotesquely overweight.   Now, that’s not to say I’ve experienced a larger number of hefties since my arrival in DFW’s sprawling bosom.  Really, there are no more here than anywhere else I’ve lived.  The truth is, the way the state (and in particular, the Dallas-Fort Worth “metroplex”) has been organized lends itself to an unavoidably lazy existence that, unfortunately, has become the 21st century American standard.

Unlike back east, where cities are self-contained and outlying areas are separately categorized as suburbs, cities out west seem unfettered by zoning laws or town lines.  Here, a Dallas job listing could as easily be found within the city’s glimmering skyline as it could 20 miles from downtown!  Thanks to this heinous geographical neglect, I find myself trapped in the car for ungodly stretches of time to run even the simplest errands.  This, of course, is catalyzed by the area’s unrelenting traffic boom.   To say DFW is becoming a miniature Los Angeles is an understatement.   An unending sprawl of strip malls and suburban look-alike blocks is anything but pretty at 15 MPH.  Such is suburban life.

Lacking any locally defining characteristics, these doppelganger blocks feature row upon row of suburban bliss: fast food and generic family restaurants as far as the eye can see.   One would be hard pressed to find anything healthy, much less green, in these parts.  It’s no wonder my gastronomic state has been in a state of panic ever since touching down.   If it hasn’t been deep-fried or slathered in butter, it probably hasn’t found its way onto my plate these past few weeks.

One could argue I was spoiled living in such a culinarily broad place as New York, but the reality is I was just lucky to be living in a real city.  The benefit of real, self-contained cities is the forced clustering of many different groups of people.  We pasty Americans have never been particularly diverse in our culinary exploits, so it should come as no surprise that a place as “red-blooded” as Texas finds my tongue uninspired and my waistline begging for mercy.

Of course, all of this isn’t intended to suggest Texas doesn’t have beauty or interest to be found.  It’s certainly different from anywhere I’ve lived before.  The state just didn’t turn out to be quite my speed.  At least I learned this before letting my roots plant too deep.  Still, I don’t think anyone could call me geographically flaky.  Being in one’s 20′s is about exploration, after all.  I suppose all I can hope is my next destination will feature a few more unique destinations and a few less gridlocked freeways.   Is that really too much to ask for these days?

Goodbye Gotham

Dear New York,

Like an escapee, cathartically running from an abusive relationship, I say goodbye.  No longer will I be awakened by your car horn blasts during my blissful R.E.M.  No longer will I wait on subway platforms so hot, I am left to wonder if the dark prince is cackling just a few feet below the tracks.  And never again will I be forced to endure the bitter perfume of urine and refuse I have lovingly come to call “Manhattan juice.”

We had some good times.  You showed me more excitement than I’m sure to find in a lifetime of suburban living.  You brought some truly fantastic people into my life.  And you gave me the opportunity to reminisce with the coveted phrase: “I lived in New York in my twenties.”

But it’s time for me to leave.  To explore the rest of the country.  To find the quintessential place I will be happy to raise my children.   I mean, you didn’t expect me become one of those parents desperately dragging baby strollers up the already narrow subway stairs, did you?

Don’t worry; you’ll find plenty of other lemmings to pull into your web.   God knows Hollywood is working overtime to brainwash the masses into believing you are a faultless wonderland of joy and opportunity.  I’ve broken my daze, but there are plenty of younger me’s waiting eagerly across the river.

So, with a twinkle in my eye and a mischevious grin, I say goodbye and good luck.

~Evan

Can I See Your Soul First?

Whenever I travel, I like to do something that is inherent of the place I’m visiting.  In the Caribbean I become a “beach person,” even though back home the feeling of sand on my scalp is likely to result in excessive bitching and a swearing-off of all beachfront escapades until the following summer.  When visiting Japan I actually enjoy eating seafood, while back in New England my orders of chicken breast make local, hardworking fishermen weep.  And my trips to Spain usually unearth a forgotten love of watching an innocent bull be publicly humiliated and skewered to death.  These experiences, though wildly “un-me” in my own environment, help me feel more acclimated to new and alien surroundings when I travel.  If I ever get to visit Italy, the adage “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” will become less a figurative cliché and more of a personal challenge: experience something inherently “Italian” or go buy a fannypack.

While this mentality was inevitable when visiting abroad, my need to experience the new and unique spread to travel within my own country as well.  Back when I did the corporate thing in New York, I took a surprisingly high number of business trips.  This was considering I was fresh out of college, had been situated pretty low on the office totem pole, and had given my company no real excuse to burn thousands of dollars on my aspirations for travel.  In the age of the Blackberry, there was really no need for me to remain in my zip code, so who was I to complain when offered free trips to new and usually exciting places?  I ultimately made it my mission to experience something unique to the place I was visiting upon each new business trip.  In New Orleans, I stayed on Bourbon Street and sampled the beignets at Café du Monde; in Boston, I saw the Red Sox; and in Baton Rouge, after failing to track down some grilled alligator meat, I stayed in the hotel bar and got hammered (yes, this pretty much sums up Baton Rouge).  So, when faced with my recent trip to Las Vegas, I asked myself, “what is inherently ‘Vegas?’”

Casinos were the obvious answer, but I’m no gambling man.  Call me crazy, but plunking down $200 and nervously devouring my fingernails while watching my hard-earned (and sparse) cash be casually swept into the hotel coffers is anything but entertaining.

I eventually landed on strip clubs.  Sure, extravagant shows and trashy, impromptu weddings have come to define Las Vegas as well, but I had Broadway at my disposal back in New York and didn’t know any local hookers with hearts of gold who might want to get hitched.  No, there was something about the local vibe that unrelentingly suggested “naked people” and I didn’t want to deny that.  The city seemed to effervesce sex, with scandalous billboards looming over every block, drunken frat boys and cougars prowling every bar, and hooker calling cards being peddled on every corner.  My epiphany of strip clubs was a logical one; the town is nicknamed “Sin City,” after all.  Of course, the local slogan, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” doesn’t necessarily apply to every sinful experience to be had.  Upon returning home, gluttonous vacationers don’t feel the need to remain mum about the shrimp scampi they had at the Bellagio buffet.  Still, it was clear to me: if the city flag had to be reimagined, it should feature two shapely legs wrapped around an aluminum pole with a pair of clear heels dangling nearby.

So, with a strip club as my target destination, I set out to find the best Vegas had to offer.  Following some diligent research and a number of word-of-mouth referrals, I settled on the Spearmint Rhino – one of Las Vegas’ most famous clubs.  One long cab ride later (after an equally long walk to find the cab), I found myself face-to-chest with the club’s barrel-chested bouncer.  I was alone, my co-workers having abandoned me after hours of research, reconnaissance, and planning.  Some had been too lazy to leave the hotel while others had let their insane workaholism take over.  One had even made it all the way to the club with me but chickened out at the last minute.  It was demoralizing to say the least, but considering how typically lame these people were back in what was widely considered “the best city in the world,” I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Regardless, I was all that remained and was going to see the night through no matter what other roadblocks stood in my way.  Following the Neanderthal’s brief frisk search and an astronomical cover charge, I was inside the belly of the beast, my heart racing with the thud of the bass beat.  The club was lavish, featuring a number of bars, at least four different stages, and a clientele dressed to the nines.  Oh, and lots and lots of strippers.

The first thing that struck me unexpectedly was how forward the strippers were.  Taking a lap around the floor, I was stopped by no fewer than half a dozen women, each attempting to lure me into a dark corner to “talk.”  To say they were “hard at work” would be a gross understatement.  It was unnerving, as I was expecting a simple one stage, one girl setup.  That’s what the movies had prepared me for, anyway.  I was the bright-eyed lamb to their wolves, and I might as well have been salting and peppering myself.

To shelter myself from the perpetual siren songs, I took a seat near the main stage.  I figured at least here, I could enjoy my $15 drink and witness some dazzling acrobatics without the constant harping of the floor girls.  But there was no sanctuary to be had, as sitting made me a stationary target.  Enduring an onslaught of eager-to-please vixens, I deflected the strippers one by one with disinterest and lies about returning friends.  It was an amateur effort, as I’m sure these girls dealt with passive bullshit like mine every day, but it seemed to be working.

My plans were soon foiled, though, as an ambitious girl stepped up and sat right in my lap.  I was speechless; consumed with thoughts of what terrible diseases were invading my bloodstream as I sat staring at her.  Somehow, I shook my molysmophobia and attempted some interaction with my new lapmate.  I started asking her questions about herself and she was taken aback, as if it was the first time anyone had taken an interest in her beyond the exchanging of 20 dollars.  Call me old-fashioned, but I like to know a bit about someone before they shed their skimpy clothing and wag their fake breasts in my face!

So we talked.  We covered everything.  Former jobs, reasons for becoming a dancer, the impact of plastic surgery on the stripping industry.  We were breaching the subject of genealogy  when her entrepreneurial instincts kicked back in, and she asked me for a dance.  Perhaps it was because it was my first time in a “real” strip club (my adventures at the Full Moon Saloon in downtown Philadelphia hardly count as a first) or maybe it was because I thought my new “friend” deserved it, but I eventually agreed.

It was enjoyable, but the whole situation still felt odd: a girl I hardly knew (and whose name I had already forgotten) working so diligently to turn me on.  I needed to know more.  What was underneath the spray-tanned plastic shell?  So I prodded again, this time inquiring about whether her technique changed depending on the personality of her clientele.  Unfortunately, my attempts at deepening our bond were quickly rebuffed as she savored her own decadence and announced, “ooh, my big fake titties.”  Not quite the answer I was looking for.

Her fragmented non-sequitur was puzzling, but even after she had moved onto another guest (with my generous tip in hand), I was left to ponder her enigmatic response.  New strippers continued to approach my chair, but as I attempted a little conversational foreplay, I was met by each with a brick wall of disinterest and stock responses.  Every girl was from someplace else, had just started dancing, and was only doing this temporarily to save up for a dream of theirs.

It wasn’t until I left the building, coming off of an unbearably uninspired final conversation and lap dance from a girl that very well could have been a deaf mute, that my epiphany hit me: strippers are just as bored as the rest of us.  Just like I sat at my desk back in New York dreading discussions about TPS reports and counting down the minutes until 5:00, these strippers were just part of a bored workforce in slightly less binding office attire.  Sure, the hours were drastically different and my office didn’t loop any bad remixes of top-20 from 1999, but these girls were really no different from me: wholly disinterested in talking about work.

In the end, my experience at the Spearmint Rhino was an unexpected one.  Sure, without my ceaseless introspection and my persistent quest to unearth the proverbial rocks under which these poor girls were hiding their true selves, the experience might have been much different.  I guess I only have myself to blame.  But at the basest level, I had a good time.  And so did seemingly everyone else in the joint as well.  I’m sure my exploits will never be posted in any tourist guide or on any destination website, but if I had to Travel Channelize my experience, I guess I would say this: if you are ever in Sin City and are looking for some after-hours fun, go to the Spearmint Rhino.  It is a guaranteed blast, and an adults-only experience that’s inherently “Vegas.”  Just be sure to bring someone to talk to.

Reclaiming the Sun

It’s summer again in the city, which means a number of certainties: the air will present the invigorating perfume of rotting fish and overactive sweat glands, my electricity bill will skyrocket as I attempt to keep my apartment at the modest ideal of “anything below boiling point,” and our country’s children will prowl the streets in search of amusement.  Summer has always belonged to youths (as we’ll call them so as to dissolve any differentiation between myself and our country’s porch-sitting, early-birding geriatric community), and at this point, there’s really no point in trying to reclaim it.  They will invade the parks with their awkward courtship, their cell phone chips will distract from our $12 blockbusters, and try as you might, you’ll be hard pressed to walk a block without being blitzkrieged by a veritable human wall of pre-pubescent iPod zombies.  No, trying to reclaim summer from the pimply masses is like trying to sit through The Burning of the Red Lotus Temple: eventually, despite your better judgement, you’ll break down and accept your fate.

So, instead of pulling a Napoleon or giving into the looming cloud of awkwardness, I suggest avoiding the whole lot completely as they rampage our best months with ego-maniacal yammering and initialisms.  Here are a few ideas of how to do so:

Avoid Midtown – Sure, this should be standard operating procedure all year long, but in summer you have to be extra careful in midtown, as the plentiful shopping and famous landmarks serve as jailbait bait.  Through my observations, I’ve found if they haven’t seen it on TV or in movies, it’s probably safe from angsty teenage mobs.  Of note: if you’re in the suburbs, the mall can stand in for midtown.  Same stores, half the price, all the kids.

Stay Out of the Multiplexes - Yes, I know: movies are ubiquitously “summer.”  But the bad news is the youth know this too, and so, with meager summer job paychecks and a wasteland of summer programming keeping their TV screens black, kids descend upon our multiplexes like Moses’ locusts upon ancient Egypt.  If you must see movies this summer, though (and trust me, I’m empathetic), there are two saving graces.  First, kids seem outrightly allergic to anything interesting, so you’re safe at the arthouse cinemas.  And second, the youth need copious sleep from all their shenanigans, so hit up the matinees and you’ll be safe of any mid-movie texting.

Say “No” to H2O - The youth of summer love being near water.  This includes pools, lakes, ponds, the ocean, and really any other place the little ones can shed themselves of their $150 “distressed” threads and stare at each other.

Soak in Some Culture – After months of being force-fed facts and figures and cathartically basking in the mind-numbing glow of “The Hills,” the last thing kids want to do during their summer break is actually learn.  That said, any museum, art gallery, nature preserve, or any other locale that can offer any brain food will serve as an effective youth repellant.

Go to “Adults-Only” Locations - The one perk to having shed your teenage skin is being able to go where ankle biters can’t.  But with kids conjuring up new ways to sneak into R-rated movies, acquiring a taste for what previously took years of sacrifice and burned tongues, and being allowed by neglectful parents to act more like us every day, it’s becoming harder to actually avoid the little bastards even when the setting seems safe.  That’s where adults-only locations come in: concurrently offering entertainment and sanctuary from the kids who seek to grow up too fast.  A note: “adults-only” doesn’t have to mean strip-clubs and porn theatres.  Bars and comedy clubs are a good, non-seedy place to start.

There you have it: just a few ideas to help lessen your adolescent-fueled rage during the summer months.  Sure, the summer belongs to kids, but that doesn’t mean they should get it all to themselves.  So go out, have fun, and avoid any of those nasty “infected” zones until the schoolbells ring again.  You can wait until September, can’t you?

The Quarterlife Crisis

If you’re anything like me, you’re staring into the glow of your computer wondering where your life is headed.   You’re probably in your 20′s, your job probably sucks, and the sweet memory of academia, be it undergrad or beyond, is probably still dancing merrily on your hippocampus.  If this doesn’t describe you, get comfy, because this post may enlighten you about what’s really going on with all those pretty, seemingly happy twentysomethings that brush past you on the street.  But if it does, you’re probably suffering from the phenomenon known as the quarterlife crisis.

Sure, the QLC isn’t quite the phase our parents went through in their 40′s.  There are no convertibles, our sexual escapades don’t involve partners half our age (that would just be disturbing), and hair plugs are not a viable solution.  No, the quarterlife crisis is much subtler than its better-known big brother.  But nevertheless, it’s an issue, and a widespread one at that.

Boiled down, the quarterlife crisis is a psychological episode that manifests through feelings of dread, depression, and remorse.  Afflicted twentysomethings are generally depressed because their lives haven’t turned out the way they envisioned.  The remorse comes from the feeling that poor life choices led to their lackluster existence, while dread sets in when they start to believe that their dreams will never be realized and contentment will never come.  Fun stuff, right?

If I had to pinpoint it, I would say my quarterlife crisis began just as the new freshmen were beginning their tenure at my alma mater the fall after I graduated from college.  I had just finished a long and glorious stint as a summer session English teacher, and the doors of opportunity were wide open.  And so, like any bright-eyed new graduate would do, I entered the workforce with a dream: to do what I wanted to do and make good money while I was at it.

Unfortunately, corporate America had another plan for me, and I was outrightly rebuffed from all my hopes and dreams.  Not only could I not get the job I wanted, I couldn’t get a job at all (note: in the context of this argument, wearing titles like “barista,” “fry jockey,” or “book shelver” do not constitute having a job)!  So, as I watched my bank account unsympathetically deplete, I desperately took a job at a sales firm in the hopes that I could make enough money to hold me over until something better came along.

As you can imagine, nothing did, and I stayed at my 7-to-9 (that’s AM to PM, mind you) far longer than I had originally envisioned.  Working alongside college dropouts and essentially reclaiming door-to-door sales back from the Mormons, I, more than ever before, felt that I was truly scraping the bottom of the barrel.

The winds of fate soon changed, however, and I was given a chance to sublet my friend’s apartment in New York City.  I jumped at the opportunity, since New York is a locus for the kind of work I wanted to be in and it has always been my dream to live there.  So I moved and began the first steps in my new life.  Unfortunately, just as I had found back in the coziness of the ‘burbs, the job market sucked and apparently no one was interested that I had just received my bachelor’s and wanted to put it to use.  After a month of job searching, I was desperate and bit at the first hook that dropped into my little pond.  That hook came in the form of an Israeli consulting firm in need of a marketing associate.  It wasn’t really what I wanted to do, but it wasn’t sales and it offered a steady paycheck, which was good enough for me.

That was a year ago.  Fast forward to now, and you will find me in more or less an unchanged situation.  My job is still unrewarding, I am overpaying for an apartment in a neighborhood and city I loathe, and things don’t look to be changing any time soon.  Sure, I can change the view out of my window or switch careers, but I know each step I make will be but a tiny advance toward my dream: to make a life for myself that truly makes me happy.  Seeing as the world seems built on a system of “paying your dues,” true contentment, I know, will come much later than I’d really like.  Thus is the quarterlife crisis: feeling the burden of shouldering the shit of life without basking in any of its perks.

The good news is, I’m not alone.  Nearly everyone I know who is my age and not kidding themselves is currently going through this (and with no foreseeable end).  It’s a tough stretch, but the power in numbers makes it all a bit more bearable.  Even more comforting, though, is the fact that I know things will change.  Most people eventually find a life that works for them, and if they don’t, there’s probably something wrong with them to begin with.  God knows when that day arrives, I’ll be enjoying my contentment to the fullest.  That is, of course, until my inevitable mid-life crisis…

Review: Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Watching the streak of Judd Apatow-linked “adult” comedies these last few years has been a lot like watching a famous jazz ensemble play a set.  Apatow is clearly the frontrunner, setting the bar with big box office bangs and a seemingly unflappable track record.  For continuity’s sake, let’s say he’s the “Miles Davis” of the quartet; he’s the reason the audience is there and no one’s going to question his mastery when he steps up to the mike (or in this case, the page).  But, inevitably, it’s more interesting to watch his backups as they observe Apatow’s style and begin their own exploration into artistic identity.  This trend began last summer, with Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg’s off-color and ferociously hilarious “Superbad.”  No Mile’s solo, of course, but classic nonetheless.

This year, the set keeps steaming: we’ve got another Seth & Evan classic in the pipeline as well as an Apatow original.  But before the big names hit the stage, the joint needs to warm up a bit.  That’s where “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” comes in.  Though it probably won’t become the box office darling or cult favorite its predecessors have, the film and, inevitably, its writer/star Jason Segel deserve some credit for taking taking Apatow’s influences and going in its own direction.

The film centers on Peter, a sad sap composer who spends his days eating entire boxes of cereal, catching up on the news (read: watching Access Hollywood), and spending some quality time with his favorite pair of sweatpants.  If they made sweatpants with writing on the ass for men, Peter’s would undoubtedly read “AVERAGE JOE.”

He does sporadically put his nose to the grind, though, as the composer for the hit TV drama “Crime Scene,” whose star, Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell), is Peter’s longtime girlfriend.  Though not exactly the kind of work Peter might call fulfilling, composing his “ominous tones” comes easily to him and we can see a major source of his inspiration comes from being close to Sarah, either in real life, as he holds her purse on the red carpet like a boyfriend-cum-personal assistant, or in the studio, as he, like a fanboy with a crush, watches his muse recite melodramatic, ratings-smashing drivel like a pro.  Though on very different planes of existence, the couple seems to be made for each other.

This changes, however, when Sarah decides she can’t coddle Peter anymore.  Obviously the life of a primetime princess has hampered our titular character, and she needs the support of a more firmly established man.  Her white knight comes in the form of one Aldous Snow (Russell Brand), whose nun licking, dry humping, and innuendo-driven pop lyrics are enough to make a gothic groupie melt with delight.  Aldous seems a far cry from Peter’s boyfrienditude, which is, perhaps, why Peter’s heart shatters so completely.  Sarah didn’t just want to leave Peter, but seemingly everything he represented.

Unable to handle the omnipresent reminders of his now-ex (and the overplayed, sex-dripping Aldous videos on the tube) and his string of one-night-stand floozies, Peter flees to Hawaii for a retreat from reality.  Upon arrival, it would seem paradise might actually cure Peter’s self-loathing.

But paradise is soon lost, as Peter discovers he is sharing the resort with Sarah and her British beau.  Eager to pull Peter out of his downward spiral, Rachel, the hotel’s concierge played by a ravishing Mila Kunis, offers her ear, her shoulder, and the hotel’s luxury suite (pro bono, no less).  It would seem, at least for Peter, pity pays.

What follows is Peter’s attempt at regaining control of his life.  He chats with some quirky locals (including the regular Apatow troupe), befriends a number of tourists (featuring a hilarious spot from “30 Rock’s” Jack McBrayer), and courts the ever-so-cool Rachel.  Of course, just as things start to look up for our poor Peter, Sarah’s insidious jealousy and competitiveness gets the best of her, and she dumps “crazy ex-girlfriend” all over Peter’s week.

On paper, “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” is cliche; it’s about learning to take control of one’s life just as things hit the breaking point.  We’ve seen it done a thousand times before, and from a dramatic standpoint, there aren’t many curveballs.

But the film’s uniqueness comes through in its humor.  With a quirky cast and an dark, hyper-sexualized focus, the film seeks to expose and exploit all the awkwardness and ugliness and hilarity to be found in intimate relationships.  All this is encapsulated in the film’s “revealing” first 10 minutes (yes, Segel’s junk unabashedly fills the screen), and Segel’s script does a good job of carrying that message home.  Without its diligent focus, the film would have been less an honest analytical take on modern-day intimacy and more a run-of-the-mill 90-minute gag reel.  To say the film is charmingly exploitive is an understatement.

I’ve said it before, but the film will almost certainly remain the forgotten little brother to Apatow’s larger productions.  With a virtually unknown leading man (despite his fantastic role on the greatly under-appreciated sitcom “How I Met Your Mother“), a seemingly run-of-the-mill plot, and a nearly celebrity-less supporting cast, most audiences will pass the film over for more hype-friendly draws.  But those who do find themselves staring down Jason Segel’s penis will find a big-hearted and endlessly charming film more concerned with cultural observation than box office performance.  And at the end of the day, isn’t that what we’re really seeking (the observation, not the penis)?

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You: Reviews!

As anyone who has lived in a city knows: to survive is to constantly plan for escape.  Whether it’s hopping boroughs, investing in $500 noise-canceling headphones, or crossing into (shudder) New Jersey to be reminded of what “freeway speed” feels like, people here love to escape their reality.

For me, this has meant hours logged basking under the glow of the silver screen.  Sure, I’ve had to be more selective than usual, given that local theaters suffer from New York’s inescapable “luxury tax.”  But still, for $12, other comparable entertainment options here become scant.

Nevertheless, I will soon be chronicling my time at the movies here, since it has become such a staple aspect of what it means to live in New York (go see almost any episode of Seinfeld to know what I mean).  These reviews will be less sociocritical and more cinematically analytical, but I hope they’ll be as entertaining to read as the movies were to watch.  Or, at the very least, more entertaining than last summer’s grueling 2.5-hour toy commercial (See?  The reviews have started already!).

See you at the box office!

To Love and Leave New York

New York is, without a doubt, the most exciting place I’ve ever lived.  Walking these busy sidewalks, one never knows what they will find.  Argument between a bum and his army of pigeons?  Check.  Sidewalk-blanketing class field trip (with no apparent agenda or chaperone) containing what seems to be every middle and high school student from New Jersey?  Check.  Subway-riding vagrant wiping his own ass with a bare palm while a horrified flock of Meatpacking-bound broker douchebags and their crazy-eyed fashionista arm candy watch?  A gut-wrenching check.  Needless to say, if you are looking to find it, New York’s got it.  And something has to be said for a place that offers so much, right?

Unfortunately, in a place where subtlety is as alien as shame in a nudist colony, the cons seem to greatly outweigh the pros.  You can’t go an inch in this city without being physically, spiritually, or emotionally hammered down.  Some say that’s what makes the tough as nails New Yorkers “New Yorkers,” but I say it’s bullshit and the reason there are so many unsavory, borderline institution-ready people here.  It was with this realization that I decided to leave New York.  Below, I have listed the top 10 things I will miss when I shelf this island along with the 10 biggest inspirations for my escape.

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To Love 

10.  Good Pizza – Saying pizza is a New York institution is like saying the French are rude.  But clichés aside, New York pizza is usually quite good.  I say usually because it takes some digging to find the inherently “local” shops.  Avoiding anything with the words “famous” or “original” is usually a good idea, as is passing up the place with the audacity to charge more than $5 a slice.  As a rule of thumb: if a Manhattanite is willing to cross a river to get to pizza, it’s probably worthwhile.

Nevertheless, I will miss New York pizza and its paper plate destroying, napkin soaking, acne inducing glory.  Sure, Chicago-style deep dish is fantastic, but that’s kind of like saying McDonald’s apple pies are just as good as home baked.

 

9.  An Abundant Job Market – Though a locus for film, TV, journalism, publishing, and fashion, just about every job imaginable can be found in New York.  Suffice it to say, my aspirations of becoming a beet farmer in Manhattan were quickly squashed, but give it time and those dreams may someday become a reality.  Of course, the work culture here is a double-edged sword, so read below to see why New York’s job market isn’t the greatest of pros.

 

8.  A Series of Villages – Though I’m not sure who said it first, whoever first described New York as a “series of villages” was right on the money.   Broken up into distinct neighborhoods, New York has a different flavor to offer with each passing block.  If vintage (also known as someone else’s stuff), low-fi music, and trucker hats adorned with ironic and obscure phrases are your passion, Williamsburg is the place for you.  If your reason for living is strollers, Starbucks, and talking Diaper Genies, you’ve probably already found Park Slope.  And if big hair, gold chains, and one-size-too-small tube tops give you that joie de vivre, I’d recommend Staten Island (New Jersey is also a suitable supplement).

With each neighborhood so different from the rest, New York always has something to offer if you know what it is you’re looking for.  It’s a fantastic feature for someone susceptible to bouts of pattern boredom or for someone who knows who they are and expects everyone around them to act accordingly.  Just don’t go too crazy with your sense of locality, or you might turn into one of “those people” and never leave your neighborhood.

 

7.  Quiet Moments – In a city so omnipresent, it’s easy to forget how wonderful moments of tranquility can be.  I used to take silence for granted when I wallowed in the suburbs, but now, faced with a constant barrage of honks, whistles, and yelps, I have learned to not only value, but seek out Zen moments.  I can’t meditate, but damn if I don’t appreciate a good sound-proof seal.  I will surely live in quieter places and I will surely revert back to taking silence for granted, but if anything, New York taught me to be thankful for what is assumed to be an inherent human right.

 

6.  Inevitable and Socially-Accepted Voyeurism – In a world before TV, while the rest of the country was probably reading books or whittling wood, New Yorkers were looking out their windows, watching their neighbors and playing out fantasy storylines in their diversion-starved brains.  This was the setting for Hitchcock’s Rear Window, and it’s as true as it’s ever been (probably since silent people watching actually is more enticing than digesting this week’s editions of “twenty former strippers vie for the attention of a forgotten B-celeb” or “the right-wing Christian conservative and hedonistic bisexual inner-city twentysomething roommates have an argument.”

“People watching” (as we’ll call it so as not to alert the attentions of the local authorities) is not only a great way to fight boredom while inspiring one’s imagination, but is something I realize I won’t be able to do forever.  I’m sure the bulb planting exploits of future neighbors “Herb and Josie” across the white picket fence will pale in comparison with the tireless worker across the street, who, upon his fourth “working Sunday” in a row, gives me just cause to believe he is addicted to internet porn, has forgotten the name of his first-born son, and is having an interracial, extra-marital affair with his office’s Bolivian cleaning lady.  Who needs suburban chit-chat and reality shows when I’ve got front-row tickets to my own personal “reality show?”

 

5.  24-Hour Convenience – This is probably one of New York’s biggest claims to fame.  Need a falafel at 3:45 AM?  You got it!  The city that never sleeps really doesn’t, and all your off-hour hankerings will reap the benefits.  One caveat: many of the “big box” stores follow their corporate-mandated hours pretty rigidly.  I guess they should have called it “the city whose bars, restaurants, and pharmacies never sleep.”

 

4.  The Arts – Broadway.  The Met.  Carnegie Hall.  Lincoln Center.  ‘Nuff said.

 

3.  No Need for a Car – This was one of the biggest factors drawing me into New York’s concrete bosom.  Sure, cruising with the windows down on a sunny Sunday afternoon had become one of my favorite ways to escape in college.  But with gas prices rising like an Alabama thermometer in July, commuting times from the suburbs rounding over an hour, and every other one of the million annoyances with owning a car constantly nipping at my heels, it sounded like a real deal to shed myself of my old bucket of bolts.  More on this later, though…

 

2.  Cupcakes – I’ve blogged about this before, so I’ll spare the diatribe again.  Suffice it to say, I have never before nor will I ever again experience a nugget of joy quite like Sugar Sweet Sunshine’s cupcakes.  They are a reason in and of themselves to take a 45-minute subway ride downtown and are nothing I could ever recreate on my own (believe me, I’ve tried).  SSS has set the bar high, and I’m sure with each new cupcakery I hesitantly enter, I will think back to that sweet little nook down on Rivington (sue me, I’m a sap for the cakes).

 

1.  “The Story” – When you have lived in New York, everyone wants a little taste of your experience there.  You know they secretly want to know how much you hated it (and who could blame them, as everything they’ve come to value about the suburbs is regularly effigied and burned in our parks and squares), but they typically smile and nod as you recount the good times had at this bar or on that avenue.

The good news is, people’s passing interest in what life is really like in New York is your prime opportunity to vent and blow the clichés and stereotypes about New York wide open.  No, not everyone does coke (though one trip to Meatpacking on a Saturday night might sway your opinion otherwise).  No, we don’t all sit in coffee shops all day every day (especially when it’s nowhere near where we work) to mull over the minutia of our lives and use phrases like “yadda, yadda, yadda.”  And no, we really don’t know our neighbors and hang out with them regularly.  New York is not what it seems to be on the big and little screens.

As you find yourself rifling through the various things that are often “blindspotted” in the media’s depiction of New York (effectively shattering your audience’s desire to ever visit your old stomping ground), you may find yourself listing some of the following:

 

To Leave

10.  Short-Sighted Locals – There are three types of people in New York: tourists, 1-2 year temporaries, and true “New Yawkahs.”  The last set is comprised of those who sport a year-round shine of under-sunned skin, mutter angrily to themselves when map-toting tourists call the Chrystler Building the Empire State Building, and are convinced everything outside the 212 area code is bucktoothed, gun-toting, cousin-loving farmland.  These are people who are proud they’ve never left their county and think that enraptured discussions of how to get from point A to point B constitute “conversation.”  It could be easy to side with these individuals, since they’ve grown up within a self-serving microcosm.  Why go out for burgers when you’ve got steak at home, right?

The problem is that New Yorkers (by birthright or years logged) are often unable to give good reason as to what makes New York better than everywhere else.  “You can find anything you would ever want!”  Okay, maybe a good argument for a sadomasochist with a penchant for grilled zebra steaks and all-night coke bars.  But what about us “normies” out there?  In all honesty, New York doesn’t offer anything you can’t find anywhere else; it simply has more of it to offer.  It would seem New Yorkers, veiled in net of ill-inspired faux pride, have just been drinking the tap water for too long.

Plus, how can you respect a 45-year-old who still doesn’t know how to drive?

 

9.  Transplant Divas – If HBO had one effect on New York, it was filling the city’s streets with millions of hopeful young Carrie Bradshaw doppelgangers.  SoHo has become nearly uninhabitable while you can’t walk up 5^th Ave. without making way for a Burberry-draped flock of girls shoulder-to-shoulder and 10 across.  These are girls in their big sunglasses with toy dog-stuffed designer knockoffs who say things like “cabs are the only way I get around here.”  The thing is, (unbeknownst to them) their lives here are a temporary fantasy and they’ll be gone after witnessing their first bum masturbating into a finely-trimmed Park Avenue hedge.  Of course, with a certain movie’s release on the horizon, it’s only a matter of time before another army of mini divas march these sidewalks.

 

8.  Too Many Chutes and Not Enough Ladders – As mentioned above, just about every job can be had in New York.  The problem is, for every available position, there are about 4000 backstabbing, throat-stomping workforce zombies clamoring for a new gig.  This unbalanced supply and demand has led to a corporate climate of ladder climbers and lifelong “yes” men.  Like a fraternity, the work world in New York is based on a system of paying your dues.  You start at the bottom, getting coffee and making Outlook appointments until someone quits or dies.  On this blessed day (yes, New York will make you hope for these typically unsavory events), you get to move up a peg toward the position of your dreams.

The problem is you’re still decades away from achieving the position you really want (and, frankly, deserve).  With this realization, one of two things will happen: 1) you throw it into cruise control and glide your way through a lackluster life of mediocrity, or 2) you quit and begin the backstabbing and throat stomping all over again.  It’s a never-ending cycle and it brings out the worst in people.  Though some competition makes people strive to improve, too much competition makes people New Yorkers.

 

7.  “I’d Rather Serve Myself, Thank You” – In New York, you’re always relying on others: the conductor of the subway you take to work; the concierge in your building; the fry jockey at your local McDonald’s.  The problem with relying on others (and this is anywhere; not specifically New York) is that people are usually quite unreliable.  There’s a reason the old adage, “if you want something done right you gotta do it yourself,” has stood true for so long.

In New York, this problem (like so many others) is magnified almost cartoonishly.  Cashiers often talk on their cell phones while ringing up customers.  Restaurant servers will regularly blunder their orders.  And biggest of all, customers are typically met with attitude when demanding good service.  Recently, while attempting to correct a problem with my cable service (after waiting on hold for 25 minutes, no less), I was interrupted by the person on the other end because, apparently, listening to my story of how the problem came to be was too much for the phone rep to bear.

People here have lost the ability to effectively communicate.  What should be a normal conversation regularly turns to an argument because New Yorkers are “much too busy” to listen.  To burst through their mirrored boxes and get anything done properly, I’ll have to send a text message next time.

 

6.  Lackluster Cuisine – Through some divine intervention, New York got a reputation for having some of the country’s best food.  As a side note, I will say I do not regularly dine at four- and five-star restaurants.  Somehow, I simply cannot justify $65 for an overcooked chicken wing draped with damp, floppy foliage.  I guess I’m not a “foodie.”

But self-declarations aside, if you’re not eating within the top tier, the food in New York just plain sucks.  Plates are small and costly; items typically served complementary (like chips and salsa at a freaking Mexican restaurant) are an added expense on the bill; and most of the time, even with minimal culinary training, you could certainly make the dishes at home.  Only twice have I eaten out and thought it wasn’t something I could have made myself (both of which were on my company and involved cuts of meat not typically found floating in soup kitchen cauldrons).

I eat out more than I’d like, but only because my kitchen is so damn uninspiring and uninviting.  More on that later, though…

 

5.  The Waiting Game – For a fast-paced city, things move very slowly in New York.  I regularly spend 45 minutes in line at Whole Foods, buckling under the weight of my produce as my apples stare up at me as if to say, “Are we really worth this?”  I would write more, but I have to go spend an hour underground for two miles of travel.

 

4.  No Privacy – For those worried about what other people think, the only advice I can offer is do not move to New York.  You are never alone, and someone is always watching (remember number 6 from the Pros).  If you can curb your need to sing along with your iPod or engage in rough monkey sex in your paper-thin walled apartment, this shouldn’t be a problem.  Unfortunately, this apparently isn’t always possible for some people which leads us to the number 3 reason New York sucks…

 

3.  No Sense of Public Shame – Between the bums pooping into public garbage cans, the Harlem hooligans blasting their boomboxes at a crowd of tired, stressed subway rush hour commuters, and the sparring couples airing each others’ infidelities and shortcomings out on the sidewalk, New York seems to be a place where people don’t mind bearing their ugly souls.  I guess it’s a good thing people don’t feel censored here.  But Jesus, it doesn’t leave me feeling good about the state of humanity!

 

2.  “The City’s a Toilet” – The aforementioned is a brilliant quote from one of Elaine Benes’s JAP-y Long Island friends on Seinfeld, and God is it true.  Between the teenager-high mountains of garbage, sidewalk minefields of dog crap, and an ever-lingering potpourri of what can only be human refuse and week-old tuna, New York isn’t exactly the sterile steel and glass playground it appears to be on TV and in movies.  I’d recommend a trip down to Chinatown on a steamy July day to understand what I’m talking about.  Let’s just say, if there were no New York, there’d be no Purell.

 

1.  An Ever-Shrinking Bank Account – New York is expensive.  Oh, and the sky is blue, and humans need air to live, and cheese is disgusting, and…  Oops, sorry; I got caught on an assembly line of truths there.  Anyway, yes, it’s no lie that New York will feed off of your bank account like a hacker in some lame 80’s caper.

The thing is, everything costs money here.  To get anywhere on a rotting, antiquated transit system, you are blitzkrieged into paying.  Eating out is less a special event and more a self-induced stress fest when the check arrives.  And for tiny, vapid, shitbox apartments probably not much bigger than the slave quarters of 19^th century Alabama, we New Yorkers pay what could have covered an owner’s fee for some nice townhouse in any other city (save for, maybe, Boston and San Francisco).

New York is, by all means, a rich person’s playground.  Sure, Average Joes can survive (look at me), but it’s a meager lifestyle.  But with limited space, an ever-growing skyline of tenements-turned-luxury high rises, and a constant influx of rich celebs and their oddly-named babies, New York will price out the middle class and will become the most decrepit gated community in the country.  When that happens, I’ll be happy my only interaction with New York is seeing it flash as my weekly sitcoms change scenes.

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So there you have it: New York in a nutshell.  Of course, I’m sure I missed some features (and really, what Top-10 list is ever complete?), so feel free to add thoughts in the comments.

For those who think I’m leaving New York a defeated man, I can only say I am not.  There’s an old adage about New York that goes, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”  I’m sure this is true, as the cost and hassle of any place else will pale in comparison.  But even if I discover my next home’s shortcomings and restart my “grass is greener” thinking patterns, I can take solace in knowing that no place is perfect and you’ve got to work to find what makes you happy.  New York taught me that.