Reflections on My Trip to New York City

I just got back from a ten-day visit to New York. What follows is a random, stream-of-consciousness recollection of things that happened.

I must tell you up front, this trip was not as eventful as the one recounted in my Saint Louis travelogue, one which spawned a record 63 comments and introduced us to everyone's favorite psychotic commenter, "Job." Job, if you're reading this, know that I do not think this traveling experience compares to "taking my child off a respirator and watching him suffocate slowly." Now that that's cleared up...

I boarded the airplane at LAX and put in my headphones. (What is the deal with airline peanuts, by the way?) I had a middle seat, stuffed between a Louie Anderson look-alike and a gigantress. Slouching miserably in my cramped seat, I fantasized about what it might be like to travel from Los Angeles to New York twenty years from now...

I walk off my plane at JFK and my beautiful daughter runs toward me. "Daddy!" she yells, jumping into my arms. "Did you bring me anything?" I shake my head no, but she knows better. I pull that Christmas' hottest toy, a robot that poops jewels, from my expensive leather case and hand it to her. Other children stare longingly, wishing I were their dad. Then, a sexy voice. "Hey, stranger." I look up, all the way up, until I'm eye to eye with my gorgeous wife. She gives me a long kiss, which causes my daughter to giggle. My chesty wife runs her hand through my salt-and-pepper hair and her loving gaze says "We're going to do it like three times when we get home, and each time will be the new best I've ever had."

We walk to the Escalade. Good old Ernie, our driver, is holding the door for us. "You're a lucky man, Mr. Walsh," says Ernie, a huge smile across his face. "Don't I know it," I say to Ernie, slipping a $1000 bill into his chest pocket. "Mr. Walsh," says Ernie. "It's too much. I can't --" I put a finger to Ernie's lips. "Ernie. Merry Christmas." I climb into the back seat, uncork the bottle of peppermint champagne, and cuddle close with my family as Ernie shuts the door. "Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Walsh," says Ernie, staring into the night sky with tears in his eyes. "Merry Christmas to you."

In reality, my flight arrived at JFK airport, and no one was waiting for me. No beautiful daughter, no chesty wife, no Ernie. I don't think anyone has ever been waiting for me at the airport like in the movies. What usually happens is a friend pulls up, honking and sweating, and yells "Get in the fucking car or these cocksuckers are gonna make me drive around again!" Not quite as romantic.

I got my bag, stepped outside, and was immediately freezing. There was a time I would have run naked into the Alaskan wilderness while drinking a frozen margarita and dipped my dick into a foot of snow (scraping the ground below, of course). Living in Los Angeles has thinned my blood and turned me into a complete pussy.

I took the subway into Manhattan. Getting back on the subway brought back a rush of memories. (Like the time that a woman almost shat on me.) This time, a three-toothed woman sat next to me the entire ride and repeatedly shouted "I NEED FORTY-FI DOLLARS FO CHRIFFMATH!" I was listening to my iPod, which made it easy to pretend I couldn't hear her. Until she started yelling "Oh! He hear me! You bet yo ass he fucking hear me!" That was awkward.

I met up with my girlfriend in the city, we ate and drank and slept, and the next morning we attended the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. I have written about the Spectacular before, so I'll skip it, as it was more of the same. Except they toned down the creepy "JESUS IS RADICAL AND YOU CHILDREN WILL BOW BEFORE HIM" part. Which was appreciated.

Saturday night, there was a party in my honor -- always the best kind of party. It was great to see old friends, and I learned that when you haven't eaten in 14 days and haven't drank in 30, the booze -- she worky fast! It was one of those glorious nights where you're always the perfect level of drunk, just loud and fun enough to be the center of a party, never dipping into the depressed, nauseous "I used to be somebody!" drunk that creeps everyone out. A great night.

Sunday saw Fred Claus (terrible) and Bee Movie (awesome). They'll be reviewed soon. Leaving Bee Movie, some woman was talking about how the movie terrified her five year-old daughter. There is absolutely nothing in Bee Movie that could be interpreted as scary, even if the five year-old had once been molested by a giant bee. Kids are pathetic these days.

Monday, I checked out Southland Tales (you know my feelings on that) and Lions for Lambs (not as bad as people are saying). Sneaking from theater to theater made me feel alive again, like my life had meaning. Is that weird? That's weird, isn't it?

Tuesday, I did a lot of jogging in Central Park. I ran around the reservoir on the Upper East Side, which is a beautiful track. But, hey, runners! If every single person is running one way, and you're running the opposite way, YOU ARE WRONG! Don't roll your fucking eyes at me when I crash into you. YOU ARE WRONG! YOU!

Bitch.

Wednesday, my lady and I walked through Central Park and up to the Seinfeld diner. I intended to go to the Seinfeld diner every day of the three years I lived in New York, and never once made it up there. Crazy how that happens. Now I have been, and it was pretty cool. They only taped the exteriors there, so my dialogue didn't become fantastically witty when I walked in the door or anything. I had the spinach omelette. As far as spinach omelettes go, this was in the upper 25%.

After that, we walked to see the Macy's parade balloons being blown up. I've done this in year's past, but always with sweet NBC credentials that allowed me to bypass the obnoxious kids. This year, with no credentials and the Broadway strike leaving New Yorkers hard up for entertainment, the line was simply unbearable. We enjoyed some pumpkin pie Tasti De-Lite instead. Screw you, Macy! And your balloons, too! Met my amazing friends Josh and Randi for some drinks at some place with a mechanical bull, enjoyed the cleavage, and called it a night.

Thanksgiving Day, we took the train to Connecticut, where the lady's family dwells. The peaceful ride was broken up by a Jamaican man yelling "You're a lush! A lush and a cunt! You're a lush and a cunt!" It got louder and louder. "A lush and a cunt! A lush and a cunt! Don't tell me what to do! Ya cunt!" Keep in mind, the train was filled with children in their holiday finest, with visions of candied yams in their heads. I turned to see what the hubbub was about, and saw that the Jamaican man was yelling, naturally, at a man in a kilt. On the train to Connecticut. They settled down before it came to fisticuffs, and the loud, obese woman behind us loudly, obesely said "That's why you can't sit a Scotsman and a Rasta next to each other!" She seemed to think it was very funny, but her comment did not get the enthusiastic response she was hoping for.

At Thanksgiving dinner, I opted to eat enough to make up for the calories lost during the Master Cleanse. Mashed potatoes and gravy? Sure! Turkey and gravy? Please! Stuffing and gravy? Absolutely! Carrots and gravy? Certainly! Apple Pie and gravy? I don't see why not! There was also a wine tasting going on, so everyone got very drunk, very fast. Nothing compliments buckets of barely chewed food better than 65 glasses of various cheap, cheap red wines. 

Hey, you know when a good time to go gambling is? When you've had a lot of wine and rent is almost due! Post-dinner, milady and I drove to Mohegan Sun Casino, where the Indian people got back at me for the way they were treated by my ancestors. Let's just say my wallet got scalped. Damn you, Red Man! 

Friday there was a bit of shopping, screenings of The Mist (incredible) and Enchanted (not incredible), and a gathering of friends. Oh, and coconut cream pie? Where have you been all my life? Bravo, sir! Bravo.

Saturday we returned to the city, and I was introduced to the greatest game of all time: Rock Band. I hadn't really played a video game since the original Paperboy. But on my last visit to New York, I got acquainted with Guitar Hero and fell in love. Rock Band makes Guitar Hero look like checkers. Checkers with pieces missing and jizz stains on the board. Me, the lady, Josh and Randi rocked it well into the night. I could have gone for more. If you're not familiar with the game, here's how it works: Colored buttons guide each player through popular songs. One person "plays" the guitar, just like with Guitar Hero. If you have a second guitar (we did), another person can play bass. There is an awesome drum kit with sticks, and someone plays those. And there is a microphone for vocals. We rotated around, had some fun, then got fucking serious with it and decided to go on a "World Tour." 

We immediately clicked as a BAND, and had you been there to hear the glorious sound we created, you would have been witness to the most important meeting of musicians since Liverpool 1957. My vocals routinely reached the fabled "100%" score, even when I switched the settings to "Hard." Friends, we rocked that shit. People came by from other apartments and, after hearing us play, said things like "Finally I understand why music is so important to people." Six hours later, we stumbled into the night, born anew, baptized by rock. 

The next morning, we woke up and went to the National History Museum (where Robin Williams was thankfully nowhere to be found), but all we really wanted to do was play some more Rock Band. So we did. All day. 

I took a bus to Laguardia for my return flight. Pressed between all the foul smelling bodies, a Russian man relentlessly screaming at me for bringing a suitcase ON A BUS THAT ONLY GOES TO THE AIRPORT, I began to have my "20 years in the future" fantasies again. 

I walked up to the ticket booth to check in, and asked if there were any delays. The attendant smiled wide. "Oh my, no! Not unless you're on Flight 4337." Guess which flight I was on?

I caught a connecting flight in Chicago, where there were more delays because, according to the pilot "We're hauling a pretty sizable amount of soft shell crabs!" You can't make this stuff up.

Like my grandfather always said, "any time you're hauling a sizable amount of crabs, it's going to be a long day."

A filthy man, my grandfather.

tags: new york  new york city  subway  travel  airplane  

links: digg this    del.icio.us    technorati    reddit