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The New New Yorker


    Not as Good as Internet Porn.... But Read It Anyway



    There is this reoccurring term I’ve been using to describe a certain sect of people lately. “Yo-Pro’s” (short for young professionals). You know the ones: suit not normally tailored well, NEVER WITHOUT THE BLACKBERRY/IPHONE/PALM hands-free device bullshit...

    Walking thru Washington Square Park the other day (and for the most part everyday), every single pseudo-introverted girl was wearing the same thing… it was like a sea of knee-high leather boots with a pair of tights and a ¾ length military wool jacket.

    On the way home from work the other day, a woman on my subway car was playing a strange musical instrument. I can best describe it as some kind of mouth-keytar. It had little piano keys, and inexplicably, she was holding it to her mouth and blowing.

    Of course, it sounded terrible. She whipped-out a bone chilling rendition of La Cucaracha and then walked around holding out her hat in an “I just performed for you, pay up deadbeat,” kinda way. When the train stopped, she proceeded to the next car to - I assume - repeat the process.



    “Do you mind if I quote you?”
    “What?”
    “Can I quote you?”
    “Why would you want to call me?”

    So begins my stint as a fake journalist. 

    My goal in writing this column is to relay random NYC thoughts. Thus far, I’ve told of my experiences fish-out-of-water style. However, I have neglected to describe the fish. It dawned on me that I was simply writing these articles for my inner circle; my friends who know me well (for better or worse). At this point others are probably thinking, “Who is this douche and why am I reading this?” So now its time to peel the onion; I’m going to give you a glimpse of the man in my mirror. As to why you’re reading this, I’m not sure either. 

    You know it’s been an interesting night when you wake up at 179th street.
    Contacts dry, neck sore and somewhat delusional, my first instinct was to reach for my wallet. The wallet freak-out is a nothing new for me. Five minutes after buying groceries I’ll usually experience an involuntary “did I put it back in my pocket?”


    This morning, while exiting the subway station, a woman offered me a flyer that I dutifully accepted. Normally, I avoid these handouts like the plague, but this particular hippie had skills. She employed the universal information-peddling code of success:

    I have lived in New York City for just over three months.  I would love to say that I’ve embraced New York the way I thought I would - or that this city, in all its glory, has embraced me in some significant way.  What I’m saying is that I didn’t move to the center of the universe just to join the rat race.  I figured that with my track record, my city life would evolve in a random, utterly ridiculous way.