I'm Sorry I Stole Your New Yorker

Dear Melissa,

I’m sorry I stole your New Yorker. It was sitting on the ground by the door and it just looked so lovely and interesting, and you cut out a part of the cover so I thought maybe you were “over” this particular edition.

I know you don’t like it when I touch your stuff, and I don’t blame you. I am a grabby son of a bitch- I’m working on that. But this New Yorker...this magazine will provide me with a day’s worth of entertainment. Let’s see, we’ve got politics, we’ve got art, we’ve got listings of gallery openings in Chelsea I will never visit, Flamenco performances I’ll never see, New York inside jokes I’ll never understand. We’ve got a whole feature devoted to Google and how it’s taking over the motherfucking world. Such juicy tidbits, such wry humor, such spot-on quotes. I could spend a day just reading this magazine that’s been sitting on your floor.

Oh New Yorker. I’d like to have the wherewithal to write a story for you. I swear to god I’ve come up with similar epiphanies. God! Why don’t I write that shit down more often! OHHHHH painful. I don’t even like New York, but when I read the New Yorker, I long to once again walk down its congested streets. “New York is like crack,” Maddie says, “You don’t like it, but you want to do it over and over again.” I’d have to agree. Every time I visit New York, I feel like I’m on some sort of drug. First I get really really excited by all the buildings, and the noises, and the people everywhere. Then, I get a little bit overwhelmed. Then I get a lot overwhelmed and start feeling anxious. Jews! Everywhere! Except here the Jews aren’t wearing hippie shmatas, they’re wearing Coach and Donna Karan, and they’re talking loudly in a New Joysey accent into their Razor cell phones. And every corner you turn, you’re not sure if it’s going to smell like rotting garbage. And no one looks you in the face…no one.

But then you go to Central Park, or you eat at some amazing restaurant, or you get lost in pedestrian-watching, or you watch some amazing experimental theatre, and you fall in love, and promise to yourself that, one day, you’ll live in the Lower East Side.

Reading the New Yorker brings back all the joy and all the pain associated with thinking about New York, a place I totally love and totally can’t stand.