New Yorker

 The first photo is was taken when I first moved to NYC and the second was taken a few weeks ago. last weekend. I thought I’d be in New York City for only a few months. After all, I came here with no job, or prospect of one, and I only knew two people in the entire Tri-state area. Yet, somehow, for better or worse, 11 years later, I’m still here. Why choose 11 years to celebrate instead of 10? Why not? And, to be honest, I kind of forgot to do it last year. Looking back, I’m filled with both pride as well as melancholy, as New York City is an ever- revolving love/ hate relationship for me.

This city has an electric charge that’s hard to put into words and it’s also equally draining at times,; the endless stairs and concrete are cruel on my knees and ankles, and yet the New York’s diversity, variety and complexity of NYC keep me young. Winter is grey and depressing but it forces me to appreciate the  beauty and intrigue which sprout consistently during the other three seasons. People are honest and real here, even when it’s not the kind of honesty or realness I’m you’re looking for. This city has taught me how to stop saying “sorry” all the time, as well as how to throw out the occasional “fuck you” with confidence. NYC showed me how to hustle and work hard, even if I’ve now become a workaholic. Anything I could ever want is within a three- block radius and yet everyonemost people, including myselfme, is are always tweaking their exit strategy to leave get out once and for all. When I first moved here, I was alone and was so broke I’d jump the turnstiles in the subway and skip meals to make rent, and while things are far from perfect today and there's still some turbulence on the horizon, I want to give thanks and appreciate where I am in this moment, for because I’m now dating a wonderful woman and live in my favorite Manhattan neighborhood: The East Village.

Perhaps this love/ hate is normal; as it seems only the young, the wealthy and people who don’t live here love NYC all the time. A dear friend said to me recently, “yYou're a full- on New Yorker now,” however but for some reason, I never thought I qualified. Again, it was only supposed to be temporary, nothing more than a check mark on my bucket list. The title New Yorker is tough;, and it’s a badge well- earned for those who make it. I’ve lived in 3 of the 5 boroughs and I can drive Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn and the Jersey tTurnpike during rush hour in a rainstorm without breaking a sweat. I survived being jobless, broke, two major health issues, an abusive relationship, psychotic roommates, bad apartments with even worse landlords, and who could forget those assholes Sandy and Covid, and despite all that I’m still here;, so yeah…. damn straight I’m a New Yorker. It’s a razor- wired regalia I wear with pride. I want my drinks strong and my coffee stronger. East cCoast IPA’s over wWest cCoast IPAs all day. Upstate is anything north of the Bronx and I find the suburbs terrifying. Crosswalk signals are merely a suggestion. You may call us curt, rude and impatient, however but I assure you, it’s not personal, it’s just a form of self- preservation to ward off all types of time vampires.

 So no, I don’t want to give my credit card information to some random kid on the street for a good cause. No, I don’t want to go out on a Friday or Saturday night because Sunday through Wednesday is where it’s at. No, I don't want to go to the Met - museum fatigue is real. And no, I’m not going to Times Square or midtown under ANY circumstance,; in fact, I’m pissed if I must go above 14th street for any reason other than to go to Central Park. Yes, I love walking fast, and, in a city, where it’s always a possible viable mode of transportation. Yes, I like gold chains, and yes, I have too much black clothing in my closet. Yes, I like talking to strangers, especially on the rocks or over a pint, as well as big, noise- canceling headphones for when I just can’t handle people’s BS any longer.  And yes, I love my neighborhood bodega.

I judge restaurants harder than a Southern Baptist boycotting a drag show; the food and service had better be amazing and dialed- in for the prices I’m paying, and my pizza slice afterwards had better be burn-the-roof-of-my-mouth hot, greasy, and hanging over my thin paper plate. I can tell when a subway train is approaching by the slightest shift in the air current and Google Maps are for the bridge and tunnel crowd. I detest idle time, small talk and long- winded responses. Speaking of which, I’ve gone on for too long. I need to get jump back on my hamster wheel.

New York City, you always seem to give me the amount of space I need but never the amount I want. You are a sassy, conniving bastard one moment and the next, divine and truly sublime. You’re always shoving me along, taunting me to quit and leave once and for all, however but I guess I low key like the abuse and I definitely love a challenge. Maybe I’ll stay another 11 years, or maybe I’ll finally blow out my knee and I’ll be forced to leave on crutches. Either way, I see you, and for now I still got have a seat at the table - so fuck you, New York City, I love you.