Dont Mince Words

In California, if you asked any former New Yorker what they miss about the city, the response is pretty consistent: food, fall, and friends. I returned recently with a certain fear factor: do I miss it so much I’ll want to move back and give up my 72 degrees and sunny homogenous SoCal life?

In the first hour after arrival, my train went local and was rerouted. I dragged my bag three flights of stairs to street-level to do the F-6 dance. Then I saw a shiny yellow taxi and decided it was my ticket to further stair avoidance. The taxi ride turned into an old school Disney E-ticket. We did 70 down Park. I tipped the driver 40 percent. That ride was second only to the cabbie that fell asleep at the wheel and almost shredded me on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Great memories, but I’m not missing it yet.

The shopping was great, but I became a little retail amnesiac and decided to do Herald Square on Saturday. Then I remembered, that’s for tourists and bridge and tunnel shoppers. I lasted 45 minutes in Macy’s before I ran screaming for a beer at Heartland brewery.

Great purchases, but I’m still not missing it.

I went back to Brooklyn to crash a party off of Flatbush. When I walked downstairs and saw two turntables (those antiquated machines with needles that play vinyl musical recordings) I knew I was destined to have a great time. The Clash, Beastie Boys, Velvet Underground, and more… I had not danced that much since, ah, probably college. The wine and beer flowed as the “we’ve got a babysitter” adults made musical requests. It was a mellow hang with people who had things to say.

Damn it, I miss these real people.

I got a typical slice of New England weather: I wore mittens and used an umbrella on the same day while sweating on the hot bus. As far as the food goes, I the choices are overwhelming. I forgot to have a slice, I managed to only have 1/2 a bagel, but I did have UES Indian and hit Chinatown for cheaper eats.

My more long-term Californian friends are right: “Go back to New York often so you can remember why you left.” I love my friends, but the frenetic lifestyle and the crowds I do not miss.

I still love New York, I’m just not sure when I’ll be back.

In the age of broadcasting conglomerates, it’s hard to define community standards. I recently discovered that George Carlin’s seven dirty words should be expanded to include “God.”

Panic! at the Disco has a line in one of their songs that says, “Haven’t you learned to close the goddamn door?”

It’s a harmless sentence that is uttered in the context of an overhead conversation in a church. But, a Los Angeles Clear Channel, top 40 station chooses to bleep God out of the song and leave Damn in. Of course, the first time I heard this I laughed out loud. I’m sure the kids today, even a five-year old, could fill in the blank.

Los Angeles derives at lot of income from tits. I vote we take tits off Carlin’s dirty word list and add God. There are many deity forms, but tits are universally consistent in Los Angeles: big, perky, and in your face. How could anyone be offended by tits here when most five-year olds know them as boobies?

I got onto the highway late today, around oh-fuck-o’clock. I knew I was doomed to spend close to two hours in evening rush hour, but I didn’t. I sailed down the 10 doing close to 80 wondering if I missed an earthquake. Where were my rush hour peeps?

It dawned on me when I passed the Fairfax exit that it was a Jewish holiday. While all the Hollywood Jews were home atoning, I was having my Honda high holiday.

Home in 35 minutes.