Overheard

Tuesday night was one of those spectacularly unexpected perfect New York nights. I could go on and on about how great it is to call the friend you're about to meet on the street and play the "38th and 8th" "37th and 9th" "I'll meet you on the north side of the street" game when in fact you see eachother across the street and wave NE corner to SW corner. I could talk about the beauty of running into a diner and saying 'I need a grilled cheese and french fries on this table in 5 minutes!" right before you shove it all in your mouth and run off to see your friends $2.5 million dollar musical where you cried as soon as the lights came up on him on stage and you realized that you're a grown up now and your dreams are coming true.

I could say lots of things, but it's the others who say them best.

Walking out of work:

Guy promoting comedy show on corner: Hey! Do you like stand-up comedy?
My usual response: No. I have no sense of humor.
Guy: What about black men? ...nice black men....? TAKE ME HOME WITH YOU!!!!

and 6 blocks south as you groan and hesitate before jumping over a huge puddle of crap colored snow melt:

Dude in your face: Shut up, BITCH.

Ah, I love New York.

Sick in the City

I am convinced that - second to having a terrible hangover - being sick is the worst feeling one can have in New York. I have spent the last two and half days horizontal watching endless episodes of Grey's Anatomy and catching up on my Netflix. Now, to most people this sounds heavenly, but I'm convinced that once most New Yorkers pass 4pm on Day One they already want to kill themselves.

It's not so often that we are forced to stop. In fact, I think it's ingrained in most New Yorkers' beings that you cannot stop ever. Ever. Which is probably while at this time of year we all get sick. Then we all pass it to eachother. From February through April New York City is indeed the most disgusting place on earth. Subway cars, subway seats, Starbucks, work, taxis, street corners. You're never more than 18" away from anyone at any given point on any day so for three months you just pass it around and around and around. I don't think the mid-90's syphillis outbreak in Baltimore was this bad.

So, you're forced to cancel your Saturday night plans - seeing a show with the boy you might maybe sort of have a crush on (top ten, though you haven't seen eachother in over two months because that's just sort of the way it works. "Hey," he says, "I had a lot of fun, we should do this again." "Sounds good," you respond, "How's....September?"), followed by dressing up in your new cute clothes and putting on your old killer heals and going out drinking and dancing with your girlfriends until dawn (because we never stop).

Instead I'm left at home wondering why I just watched the Purina Incredible Dog Challenge, and why I even let The Real Housewives of Orange County even play in the background of my life while I look at my exposed brick wall wondering how long I'll have to rub my wrists against it before I bleed to death and die. Just another Saturday in February in Manhattan I guess.