In which I’m still crushin’ on NYC.

Here I am (on the right) waiting for the C train at 42nd street in my cheapo $5 Chanel knock-off sunglasses, which I bought on the street from a guy who insisted on cleaning them and removing the sticker for me:

And that’s Aimee on the left, looking totally fucking hot. (I only posted this because she looks so hot. I look like a mafia bride, but since I’m cool I’m posting it anyway so you can see how hot Aimee, The Easiest Woman In The World To Travel With, looks.)

And before I forget, a few more New York impressions:

• Pregnant women walking around wearing high heels.
• Highschool girls with more cleavage than, well, a lot of cleavage.
• The subway platforms are one hundred and five degrees in September.
• Tiny, tiny dogs. Little tiny small tiny dogs. Everywhere.
• You can always smell food when you’re outside, no matter where you are or what time it is.
• It’s never quiet, and it’s never dark. Ever.

God I wanna go back.
——–

In which I come home and ache for NYC.

Oh, sweet Manhattan, my love. I miss you so already.

I misted up getting on the train to Jersey at Penn Station. I know you’ve already forgotten me, you fickle bitch, but oh how I miss you.

~+~+~

I have never responded to any location the way I did to New York. The place totally resonates with me. Everything I’ve ever wanted is there. And holy shit, I could sing there all the time.

Waking up in Manhattan and going to sleep in Iowa will fuck your head right up, let me tell you. I’m currently alone in my house, on twenty-seven acres in the middle of nowhere, in the utter solitude and silence of rural Iowa. I can’t hear a single noise beside the fan in my computer and one of the dogs licking herself.

Talk about culture shock.

I think I’m depressed.

~+~+~

Mr. Brett called me and said, “Baby! How’s New York?!”

“I LOVE NEW YORK!” I said.

“Where you at?”

“I’m outside of Agency.”

“Oh, you’re home already?”

“Yeah, we left Manhattan this morning. I fucking LOVE New York, oh my God. I can’t even tell you. How’s Telluride?”

“We’re in Denver. We’re going up to Ron’s for the night, maybe two.”

“We?”

“Me and Ron and Jeff and Miko.”

“Oh, give those dudes a big, wet, sloppy kiss on the mouth with tongue for me!”

“Normally I would,” he said, “but Miko got hit by a car yesterday and his face is all fucked up. Thirty stitches in his mouth, and his skull is fractured.”

“Oh no, that poor bastard, he has the most consistently horrible luck. How was the very Reverend Al Green?”

“Oh. My God.”

“Oh your God?” I asked.

“OH. MY. GOD.,” he intoned. “He was amazing. Joan Osbourne sang a duet with him, and Maceo Parker was incredible, and so were the Black Crows!”

“You’re so lucky! I’m so jealous!”

So he probably won’t be home until Thursday. But why hurry back? I told him to take all the time he wants. I miss him, but neither of us really wants to be here anyway.

~+~+~

When I went to pick up Bindu I told Barb that I want to sell my house and move to New York. Immediately.

“How would Mr. Brett fit in there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I could just lock him in the apartment. All he needs is a couch and a television!”

~+~+~

Yes, I’m definitely depressed.

I want to go back to New York. I think I’ll start making plans tomorrow for my next trip. Deb said I could stay with her! I need to check out Brooklyn anyway.

I have to go to bed so I can work tomorrow.

Sigh.
——–