New York State Of Mind

100% accurate:

Zero Tolerance

Today I went to an open house at Park 51, otherwise known as "The ZOMG Muslin Terrist Amercan Taliban Ground Zero Mosque." Here's a brief summary of my experience:

• They did not make me wear a head scarf. Out of the approx. 25–30 people there, only one woman was wearing a head scarf. (I thought it was two but the other one was a little old lady in an appliqued turban.) Only one man was wearing a kufi. (I had to look up that word, so you can, too.)

• Next to the brochures about their spring classes and the mailing list sign-up sheet, there were flyers for The Anne Frank Museum, located across the street.

• Of the approx. 25–30 people there, about 75% were white. Of that 75%, another 75% looked to be middle-aged or older.

• The demonstrations for the two exercise classes offered at the center were capoeira (Afro-Brazilian) and karate (Okinawan).

• I had a conversation with the woman wearing the head scarf about cookies, our nieces, and Dora the Explorer (Spanish).

• Some of the radical words taught in the Beginner Arabic For Kids class are "turtle" and "baseball."

• Didn't see a single prayer mat.

• And here's the view of the offensive, disrespectful facade that you can't even see from Ground Zero (I walked past the memorial; I checked):


I just checked, and I haven't been converted to Islam or trained to be a terrorist. I don't think I've been brainwashed to hate America.

That was a pre-existing condition.

Reading Comprehension FTW!

Me: "As much as I want to support them, #OccupyWallStreet reminds me of my junior year of high school when a bunch of kids organized a walk-out to 'protest' the Iraq war just so they could get a smoke break. #Cynicism"

Me: "[To be clear, this was the 1991 Iraq war.] #DejaVu"

Random pompous douche who lives in Canada: "@BeccaGo: Yea, it's just like that. Except not at all. Outside for 4 weeks, 700+ arrests? You can tell HS wasn't very long ago for you. #exp"

Me: "@RandomDouche: High school was 23 years ago for me, if you bother to read my next post. And I live here. So you can shove your #exp."

God, I love Twitter.

How You Know You Live In Park Slope

Graffiti consists of "Be Kind" scrawled on fence and "GO VEGAN!" carved into sidewalk.

But Wait — There's More!

More holiday cheeriness!

South Street Seaport Christmas Tree Blown Over By Heavy Winds!

On an added note, I'm so glad I chose today to straighten my hair and try out my new umbrella. I now look like I'm wearing a mangy poodle on my head.

WINDPOCALYPSE!!!

Boo.

Devastatingly, due to lack of funds and insufficient prep time, I had to forgo an elaborate Halloween costume this year. Now if you know anything about me at all, you realize just how devastating a tragedy this is to have befallen me. However, like a phoenix in a wig and fake blood, I shall rise from the ashes of this finery failure and emerge next holiday in victory and even greater splendor! You know, since I have a whole extra year to work on the thing now. LITTLE DEAD RIDING HOOD LIVES!

So anyway...since I had no other plans, I decided to go to the parade in the Village. And even though I would only be watching, I couldn't betray the spirit of my favorite day of the year by just wearing everyday clothes. I had to do something...

Everyone who knows anything about me at all: "So are you getting dressed up?"
Me: "Not really."

"Not really" = sequined top hat with feathers, old prom dress, Mardi Gras beads, striped stockings, leopard print heels; elaborate face paint.

Elderly gentleman on the street: "That's a very striking costume!"
Me: "Oh, this is just what I wear every Sunday..."

The beginning of the parade was AMAZING, but it slowly tapered off into random people simply walking by wearing costumes. Since I consider myself something of an expert on all things Halloween, and because I'm just a judgemental bitch...

Presenting:

THE BeccaGo HALLOWEEN 2010 "I WISH I HAD THOUGHT OF THAT" AWARDS!

Best Group Costume: Zombie Golden Girls
Best Family Costume: Darth Vader (dad), Princess Leia (mom), and Yoda (baby)
Best Couples Costume: Where's Waldo? and Carmen Sandiego
Best Individual Costume: Up (guy in an aviator cap holding a bunch of balloons with a dollhouse tied to the strings)

And, just to prove that the "sexy" costume craze has gone FAR too far:

Top Honors go to...

SEXY BEDBUG!

Trick or treat, bitches! :D

Subway Etiquette Is Neither Etiquette Nor Even Exists. Discuss.

My commute today was like a crash course in Subway Douchery

Example #1:
Guy in the F station playing the marimba. Not a guitar or a bucket, but a full-out xylophone about half the width of the platform.

Example #2:
Woman with a baby in a sling carrier gets on at Delancey St. No one offers her a seat.
(I finally did — she declined. But still...)

Example #3:
Woman with a little boy and what looks like a large suitcase gets on at Jay St. No one offers her a seat.
(Again, I did, and again, she declined, but like I said....)

Example #4:
Guy gets on at Astor Place with a bicycle and sits down smack in the middle of the row of seats with the bicycle perfectly centered in front of him. So not only can no one stand in the aisle in front of him because it's blocked by the bicycle, no one can sit next to him either without climbing over the bicycle to get to the empty seats. Oh, and did I mention? It is RUSH HOUR.

Which brings me to my next point: IF YOU HAVE A BICYCLE WITH YOU, WHY AREN'T YOU RIDING THE DAMN BICYCLE??

Thank you, that will be all for today.

Jersey Bore

Several months ago, there was an article in my company newsletter concerning the New Jersey Service Center. This article reported that the employees of the New Jersey Service Center had recently worn hats and jerseys representing their favorite baseball teams. A corresponding photograph of this newsworthy event was included.

Commentary ensued.

Meekey: "Also, did you read the blurb on the bottom of page 4? Why is donning baseball caps news? I think the New Jersey Service Center is starving for attention: 'Hey, don't forget about us! We work here too, y'know!'"
Me: "LOL! 'Today, the New Jersey office wore pants.'"
Meekey: "I can just picture the meeting:
'Okay guys, the next newsletter is only 2 weeks away. Let's brainstorm!'
'Well, we haven't really accomplished anything.'
'Right...'
'And we don't really do anything except ship books to the rest of the country.'
'Right...'
'I know! Baseball season is coming up! Let's wear hats and take a picture outside our building!'
'Brilliant! Who says New York has all the best ideas?'"
Me: "'We don't even have a baseball team in our state, but heck, let's do it!'"
Meekey: "I was thinking the same thing. In order to get any attention, they had to borrow something from us. They took the Giants; they took the Statue of Liberty. I remember one time a guy from the Jersey Center was in the newsletter because he wrote a poem! And the poem sucked, btw, even by my low standards."
Me: "A Haiku:
New Jersey is just
as cool as New York. Look at
us — we're wearing hats!"

Lessons Learned From Last Night's Episode Of Survivor: Nicaracgua

1. New York is full of gay people.
2. Louisiana is full of douchebags.

Lighten Up, It's Just Fashion! Again!

Last Friday, as part of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week here in NYC, the cast of Project Runway Season 8 was appearing at the Piperlime pop-up store in Soho for Fashion's Night Out. And by incredible, heavenly, divine chance, I was there.

Some highlights:

The cast. I was standing directly behind this photographer as this picture was being taken. I yelled "Everyone say 'Make it work!'"

Conversing with A.J. Thouvenot via Twitter, prior to the event:
A.J. says...
I reply...
He writes back...
My response.
After discussing how I was sad that he didn't get to show at Fashion Week, and his reassurance that I will definitely be seeing more from him soon, we basically rehashed this conversation and I re-extended the invitation to him and April Johnston to come by and grab a beer or crash on my couch anytime. :)

Told Michael Costello that I heard he was telling everyone Ivy was the bitch of the show.

Told Michael Drummond I thought he should have won the Philip Treacy hat challenge.

Told Andy and Mondo that they far and away had the best hair of anyone in the room.

Told Casanova he wasn't getting fat. He starts laughing and says "No! You don't see me!" then almost knocks me over. I think he may have been indulging in a little more champagne than the rest of us...

Told Sarah that I thought the manner in which she was eliminated was unfair, and that I would have loved to see her show at Fashion Week. She told me, "Oh, if I had shown at Fashion Week, it woud have eaten your face."

Totally ignored Gretchen. :D

And to give you an idea of the atmosphere: Project Runway Gone Wild!

Immediately text messaged everyone I knew afterwards and burped up champagne the whole way home. 'Cause I am nothing if not a classy broad...

Zero Grounds

I'm too lazy and pissy right now to re-type all of this and lay it out in proper blog format, but if you were curious as to my strongly-held opinions regarding Park51 — the infamous "Ground Zero Mosque" — you may observe them here, on this badly-done MS Paint reproduction of the forum in which I do all my serious political debating: Facebook.

[Click to magnify to normal reading size. Selected comments unrelated to the outcome have been removed.]

The link to the original story may be found here.

(Also, in case you were wondering, that's Miss Kazakhstan during the national costume portion of the Miss Universe pageant in my avatar.)

God Damn Glam Nation

I know I have been sorely lax in writing up my Adam Lambert concert experience, and to those of you who have been waiting, I apologize for that, but there is almost no way to condense into words what spending 3 hours doing elaborately dazzling make-up and dressing like a Vegas showgirl high on peyote; 6 and a half hours standing on line in the middle of Times Square in 90 degree weather surrounded by frothing fans and curious tourists taking my picture; 2 hours lost in a crush of chubby teenaged girls who are seeing the show for the sixth time and delusional, far-too-inappropriately-dressed middle-aged women trying to push their way past said teenagers up to the front of the stage; and only one glorious and over-far-too-fast hour mesmerized by the overwhelming spectacle that is Adam Lambert was like.

I can, however, describe to you how much I hate people. I'm pretty good at that.

After stampeding our way into the theater once the doors were finally opened, everyone rushes towards the stage to claim the perfect spot. And these chicks — because they were mainly girls and women — were flat-out, claws-out prepared to defend their hard-won territory. Ok, that's understandable; after all, we had spent half the day waiting in sweltering heat precisely to obtain such a prime piece of real estate.

But this one woman...

I have no idea who she was or why she chose me, but this 40-something woman in a floral blouse, carrying a purse and a cocktail, decides to stand directly next to me and engage me in conversation. Her opening line is:

"Will you look at all these little girls? They're babies! Who wants to look out into the crowd and see them?"

My immediate reaction is to think, "Who the hell thinks he'd rather see you?" but I push the thought aside and just try to ignore her. After all, I am here to enjoy myself.

Then she asks me if I can hold her spot while she gets another drink. Hold her spot? How the hell do you hold someone a spot on the floor of a general admission show? Especially at the show of someone like Adam Lambert, who inspires The-Beatles-and-Elvis-combined-level hysteria? Yeah, sure, whatever, lady. Just go.

Sure enough, several minutes later I hear from somewhere behind me, "Excuse me...'scuse me...sorry...excuse me..." and my new best friend has pushed her way back to my side. People are giving us nasty looks and I want to explain to them that, look, I am an innocent party to this shit. I, unlike some people uncomfortably near me, have been to a concert in the last 2 decades and understand the rules of standing-room-only ettiquette.

Unfortunately, she tries to chat with me again. I'm texting my mom, who is somewhere up in the balcony, sitting down. I try looking around for her and BFF is all, "Ooh! Who are you talking to?"

"My mom."

"Your mom's here, too? Cool! Where is she?"

"Up in the seat section," I tell her. I don't add, "Where any sensible middle-aged woman who is simply here to enjoy the show and doesn't harbor fantasies of seducing a gay man 20 years her junior should be."

"That's so cool! What's she saying?"

Listen, you nosy bitch... "She says there are some boys making out right in front of her and they're the only guys she's seen here so far."

"OOH! WHERE?!?"

Jesus Christ, woman. I do not want to be privy to your perverse voyeuristic fantasies. I mumble, "I don't know," and go back to texting again so she'll leave me alone.

Me: "Crazy drunk lady down here thinks I'm her best friend."
Mom: "HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Thanks for the sympathy, Ma.

Crazy drunk lady is now telling me, all conspiratorially, that we're not gonna let ANYONE get in front of us! No way! We can take these teenagers! At this point I am now visibly ignoring her, but she ignores the cues and keeps talking. [ED. NOTE: I almost just typed "stalking" — Freudian slip.]

Meanwhile, there's a 15- or 16-year-old girl on the other side of me yelling to her friend, who is somehow a row of people behind us. "Do you guys want to stand together?" I ask, sliding aside a few inches to let the friend through. "Really? Oh my God, that is so nice of you! Thank you so much!" They are so ridiculously grateful for this small act of kindness that I feel like I just handed them both a winning Powerball ticket.

But then this bitch has to ruin it. "Hey! Why are you letting them in front of you? I thought we weren't gonna do that!"

We? Who is this "we" you speak of, you hag?

The friends are looking back at us with strange expressions now, so I lean forward and whisper, "It's ok. I don't even know who she is."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh my God, we thought she knew you! That's so weird."

You're telling me, kid.

The show still hasn't started yet when I notice a little Indian-looking girl with braces standing next to an older man who appears to be her father, a little behind me to the right. She looks about 13 and is about 5'3". She's standing on tiptoe to see the stage. "Can you see from there?" I ask her. "Do you want to move up?" She lights up like I just told her she's going to Disneyworld and turns to her dad, all excited, to see if it's ok. "I'll take good care of her," I promise, and move aside to let her through. She keeps repeating, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" and she looks so happy, I feel like I've been given the Nobel Peace Prize.

So of course, this witch next to me has to ruin it again. "What are you doing?" she scolds me. Then she says to the little kid, "It's a good thing you're short!" What the fuck, lady? She's like, 12! I'm practically cocooning this poor child with my own body to keep my promise to her father, and I whisper to her, too, "It's ok, just ignore her." The two friends look back at us and snicker knowingly.

And again, after all this shit, she then asks me to hold her spot for her while she goes to the ladies room.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The place has gotten much more crowded and I think, there is no way she's gonna find her way back up here if she leaves, so I say, "Sure! No problem," and wave her away.

Thank God. Problem solved.

But no.

Unbelievably, about 20 minutes later, right in the middle of Orianthi's set, I hear grumbling behind me and shouts of "Hey! What are you doing?" and I hear a familiar voice repeating, "Sorry! I'm up there with the girl in the hat!"

Oh, no. You did NOT just insinuate that I have any role in this fucking mess. "No, you are NOT!" I yell back at her. "You are NOT with me! I DO NOT FUCKING KNOW YOU!"

Amazingly, this does not deter her nor impede her determined advance. She actually gets right up next to me again, and PUTS HER FUCKING ARM AROUND ME, like we are fucking partners in crime, and says, completely fucking obliviously, "Hey! I'm back!"

Are you FUCKING kidding me?

I am furious. "Look, lady," I fume at her, "I don't know you. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS! I DO NOT KNOW YOU! And I know Adam is all about love and positivity and shit, but if you do not stop pushing me, I swear to God, I'm gonna start throwing punches."

I'm almost positive I heard someone applaud.

Thank you, Cleveland!

Liberty

So tomorrow (well, technically, today) is the Fourth of July, more formally known as Independence Day. And in honor of our nation's independence, I've planned to immerse myself in the highly patriotic pursuit of looking at pretty clothes. No, really — I will be celebrating my love of country by visiting the Metropolitan Museum Of Art and the Brooklyn Museum to view, respectively, their exhibits American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity and American High Style: Fashioning a National Collection.

It honestly doesn't get more patriotic than that for me.

I've stated proudly before that when the issue of citizenship is in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. I've also stated before how profoundly lucky I feel to be surrounded by such a wealth of culture and opportunity, to live in a place where world-famous sites and events are so easily accessible that I only need a bus pass to get to them. By wonderful chance, I get to experience some of the best that not only this city, but this country, even the world, has to offer. And I am thankful my country allows me the freedom to do so.

Museums are one of my favorite ways to take advantage of this abundance. To put it simply, I like pretty things. I can stand in front of a painting staring at the subtle gradations of color and individual brushstrokes for hours. I will marvel at the delicacy and detail evoked through something as seemingly unyielding as metal, wood, or stone. I am fascinated by exotic myths and icons. And it amazes me how some of these things have been handed down and saved through history: I am physically looking at time.

I'm particularly fond of social history — the stories of individuals and everyday life. When I saw the Titanic exhibit some months ago, we were given "boarding passes" at the entrance, each with the name of an actual passenger who had been on the ship. Each contained a brief history — where the person was coming from, where they were going and why, who they were travelling with, which class they were in. My passenger's name was Ellen, and she was travelling second class with her mother and aunt, on her way to America to be married. It put the exhibit on a whole new level. The artifacts specific to the second class were now of particular personal interest: "I" had eaten from this china; this was what "my" bed had looked like. It was exciting, but also distressing, due to the fact that at the end of the tour, lists were posted that named the passengers who had survived and those who had died. I was actually nervous as I approached the lists, and genuinely relieved to discover that not only I, but — amazingly — my whole party had made it. Miss Ellen would become a bride after all.

And speaking of brides, I am also a fiend for fashion — color, texture, pattern, design; elaborate period pieces and theatrical costumes; traditional dress of different cultures and avant-garde ensembles never meant to be worn, only to be seen as living art [see "pretty things" above]. And what could be more American than these simultaneous displays of American fashion? The Met exhibit in particular provided an eye-opening history lesson. Focusing more on what's now considered the "ready-to-wear" side of fashion, it was split into several sections by era: "The Gibson Girl," "The Bohemian," "The Suffragist," and "The Flapper," to name a few. Besides different styles, these categories each represented a type of emancipation for the women of the age: physical, intellectual, political, economical, sexual. These clothes weren't just pretty, they were functional for their era: skirts that allowed women to ride bicycles and horses in the traditional style rather than sidesaddle; Grecian and Oriental-inspired silhouettes that displayed worldliness and artistic appreciation; practical military uniforms incorporating elements from those of the men; a sartorial counterpart to the societal loosening of restraint. This wasn't just about changing hemlines — these represented stages in the progression of American women's freedom, a historically significant part of our country's heritage.

As an American woman, I find this connection meaningful, and as a self-identified, dyed-in-the-wool feminist, the idea of independence itself is especially meaningful. It's an issue I've struggled with, and still do, to an extent. My autonomy is important to me, but it's been a battle to balance my sense of self against society's expectations. I don't consider myself especially patriotic, in the fireworks and flag-waving sort of way, but I will always be grateful to live in a country where I have that choice not to be so, and the right to voice those beliefs.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch James Cameron's thinly-veiled anti-American propaganda piece, Avatar.

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Kick 'Em And Run

If you've ever, at any time, traversed any pedestrian stretch of Times Square, you've no doubt encountered these "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?" guys. They're a particularly smug and obnoxious brand of street hawker. The most common response to the plethora of people passing out flyers in this city, if one is even given at all, is usually just a simple "No." Try this approach with the stand-up comedy guys, however, and they get all, "No? You mean you don't like comedy? Don't you like to have fun??" HAHAHA AMIRITE?!? Gee, buddy, you sure got me there. Way to be. My sister once got lost when she first started working here and managed to parlay the following exchange into an Overheard In New York quote that got published in the Metro:

Stand-up jackass: "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?"
Sister: "Do you know where the nearest Duane Reade is?"
Stand-up jackass: "I asked you first!"

He seriously would not answer her.

So today, on the way to meet my sister at her office, I discovered my new favorite method of dealing with these douches: When one inevitably confronts you with "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?" respond "I do stand-up comedy!" and hand them a flyer you took from the guy down the block. The best part is, you won't even be lying — their reaction is pretty damn comical.

World-Famous New York City Landmarks I See Every Day Just By Going To Work

* Brooklyn Bridge
* Statue Of Liberty
* Broadway
* Empire State Building
* Herald Square Macy's
* Times Square
* Grand Central Station

I'm so blasé.

We Are The World

"Save The Children" street-corner harasser: "Excuse me, ma'am, if I could have—"
Me, not slowing down: "No."
Harasser, following me to the subway: "—just one minute of your—"
Me, still walking: "NO."
Harasser: "But the children are starving!"
Me: "I'M starving! If you don't let me get home and eat, you're buying me dinner, so shut the fuck up!"

This happens at least once a week as I'm leaving work. Get a job, hippy.

Scattered Thoughts On The 2010 Miss America Pageant

Pre-show (yes, I am such a fanatic that I watch the pre-show):

Good lord, since when does Clinton Kelly have facial hair? He looks horrible. You host a makeover show, dude! Didn't you look in the mirror?

Damn it, I was really hoping he was actually going to change into a bathing suit for his "swimsuit walk" lesson.

Hot DAMN! Miss Puerto Rico is GORGEOUS!

Are those clear stripper heels they're all wearing? Classy!

And Miss New York wins the preliminary swimsuit competition — heck yeah! REPRESENT!

OMG, Miss Puerto Rico's evening gown is GORGEOUS! I hope she takes this whole thing down.

Why does "the only redhead in the competition" have to look like Allison Janney?

I hate when they wear white. Bah.

Oh God, that ruffled periwinkle thing is atrocious. What is that, acetate?

Susan Powell says it's not all about the dresses and she wouldn't take points off if a girl stumbles. What's the freaking point of the whole evening gown competition then?

Jeez, none of these girls know how to work a runway. Totally stiff walks and frozen smiles.

...except, of course, Miss Puerto Rico. Strut that stuff, girl!

Holy shit, Miss New York's gown is FABULOUS! REPRESENT!

RUSH LIMBAUGH is a judge?? WTF??

I cringe every time one of these girls says "I, personally, am pro-life." I bet Rush is keeping tabs.

Oh, Christ: "It is my belief that marriage is the union between a man and a woman." Thank you, Carrie Prejean — NEXT!

Miss New York seems pretty chill and normal. Cool. REPRESENT!

Vivica Fox: "You aren't allowed to touch us." LMAO!

Ugh, stop calling them "chicken cutlets." That grosses me out. And how is that not cheating?

"Butt glue" sounds like a phrase I'd find in one of my engineering manuals. Or something really, really disgusting.

YES!!! WE HAVE A BATON TWIRLER!!!

Dang, Miss California! That was some back bend!

Speaking of flexibility, Miss New Mexico can tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue, and Miss Kentucky can zip herself into a suitcase. Just like Yen in Ocean's Twelve! How funny would it be if Clinton just left her in there for a few hours?

Oh my God, crazy eyes! Who the hell is this, Rhode Island? And she can recite like, a thousand decimals of pi? In a creepy monotone while staring into my soul, too? Good lord, this girl is scary.

"I believe I can be the next Miss America because it has been my dream ever since I was a little girl and I know I would be great at it." That's nice. I believe I could be a neurosurgeon because I've always wanted to be one and I think I'd be pretty good at it — hand me a scalpel!

More to come...

City Of Dreams

Last night I saw Eddie Izzard at Madison Square Garden. Physically getting myself to this performance entailed leaving my apartment at 6:30, walking a block and a half to catch the Q, going all of 6 stops, getting off the train at Herald Square, and walking another 2 blocks to the Garden. This got me into my seat by 7:30, half an hour before showtime, giving me plenty of time to settle in and watch the Jumbotron: Mr. Izzard had his Twitter page up live onscreen and his avalanche of @replies was scrolling by for all to enjoy. There were the expected sorts of comments:

"@eddieizzard Hello from Row G, Section 202!"
"@eddieizzard SHARON WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
"@eddieizzard DAD I'M GAY"
"to the guy in the blue checkered shirt sitting in front of me: shut the fuck up. you know who you are. @eddieizzard"
"At the @eddieizzard show at MSG. Brought my flag in case anyone tries to claim my seat. :)"

But I also noticed some people who seemed to be Tweeting from out-of-town:

"In NYC this weekend to see @eddieizzard! Best birthday present EVER!"
"@eddieizzard: We came all the way from Kentucky to see you. You better be good! LOL"
"Baltimore loves @eddieizzard!"
"Can't believe I'm in Madison Square Garden right now waiting for @eddieizzard! Loving this trip to NY!"

I swear, I even spotted someone claiming they had flew in from Turkey to see their favorite action transvestite in, uh, action. Man, I thought, people have crossed oceans to get to this show. Made an entire vacation of it. I merely crossed a bridge and walked a few feet. It started to occur to me, skimming these many abbreviated missives, that I had begun to take for granted my plum position on this planet.

This realization put me in mind of a thread on one of my message boards (can it — my entire social life is conducted online, ok?) in which the merits of different states as places of residence were being debated. Because this was the Interwebz and the board members were from all over the place, each arguing for their own home state, things were starting to look ugly for New York: "It's dirty. It's so expensive. There's too much crime. The weather sucks. New Yorkers are rude."

I could not let this stand, this disparagement of my beloved locale. By God, I was born and raised here! As those who know me well know, if the issue of citizenship is ever in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. Thus, I mounted my defense:

"I live in Brooklyn. It's not the greatest neighborhood in terms of trendiness or gentrification, but the lack of tragically hip art students could be a selling point, and I'm not afraid to walk home alone after dark. Plus, my apartment is huge by NYC studio standards, and the location is of ultimate convenience — walking distance to the subway, supermarket, library, laundromat, pizza place and Prospect Park. And by 'walking distance,' I mean from 3-4 blocks to literally right next door. And it's only about a 40-minute commute to midtown Manhattan.

My expenses — rent, utilities, food, phone, cable, laundry, transportation, even my therapist — come to less than $2,000 a month. Even with my crappy salary, that still leaves a few hundred to play. I suppose a big chunk of that is that I don't have a car anymore (not even necessary), my loans are paid off, and I have no credit cards. But I also don't make any money off of poker, and my daddy doesn't pay for squat.

Granted, it gets noisy, the weather can get crappy, and yes, sometimes people can be rude, but I think this is more than made up for by the fact that I LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY! This place never sleeps! I have access to some of the greatest shit in the world! Some people give up everything just to get here; some spend their whole lives just dreaming of it. For my whole life, I've been lucky enough to live no more than an hour's train ride away. So fine — maybe I'm a little biased, but damn it, I fuckin' love NY!"

Never hurts to remind myself of that. :)