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About New York City

So, here’s the deal—small town, right? You’d think it’s all pure, apple-pie bullshit. Nah. There’s this dive bar, stinks like stale beer and regret, called The Rusty Nail. Word is, back in ‘89, some chick named Darla ran a whole operation outta the jukebox corner. Little known fact—cops didn’t bust her ‘cause she paid ‘em in meatloaf. Meatloaf! Can you believe that garbage? Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Idiots.

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Then ya have the neighborhood of Oak Ridge. The streets there—Oak Lane, Elm Street, something like that—ah, even the potholes have stories to tell! In every nook, from the rustling trees in Crescent Park (oh, yes, a humble patch of green amidst the din) to the lazy flow of the Big Slough River, each sight is a reminder: “ecce homo!” Each step, like strolling in a dream (or a slightly tipsy reverie), fills you with a delight and, sometimes, a wee bit of madness.

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