You do that thing that everyone else ends up doing: trying to make New York your own. You hope to describe the quirky people a little bit differently, present largesse humbly, paint words of praise to its beauty.

But it’s the same as everyone else. You try to find out what is important to you. Turns out it ‘s important to everyone else. There’s some relief in that, isn’t there?

Yeah, competition is fun, thinking your unique is fun. But when your weaving through the streets, in a hurry, it helps to go with the flow.

Death, Death, Death–will you please get out of my life?

Quit whining, God said.

I answered it.
It was a young black man.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I repeated.
And that’s as racist as I got.

We went out on a date and it was fun. He goes to Columbia, is majoring in Business.

I’m a forty-five year old woman who still thinks dates are big deals. It was a big deal in that we had fun. It wasn’t a big deal in that he didn’t ask me out again.

Well, if you notice it behind his ears, then relax: it’s probably only shaving cream.

Give him a break. He’s in a hurry to get somewhere  and forgets to wipe it all off of him. He’s on his way to work, to volunteer at a soup kitchen, for a clandestine meeting with his boyfriend.

Whipped cream is the least of your worries. Did you remember to pick up kitchen sponges? Did you take out the garbage?

Take him to an art gallery in Chelsea, look at Japanese art–notice the young interns at the reception desk, who are all but hidden, save for their eyes and foreheads.

Notice the whipped cream on the other men. They are in a hurry too. And yet they have to stroll through an art gallery, trying to figure out how to approach those half-headed interns to discuss price.

Wow. For some reason. I don’t remember being 26. It’s like one of those gaps in the Periodic Table of Elements. Not there. Yet to be discovered.

And I was determined to like it. I told people. I dared people to be disgusted by my food choices. They were. It was like a button I pushed. First, in myself for even going to a fast-food restaurant and buying their version of a value meal. But I also I pushed theirs.

A comedian, I am not. There is no way around this circle of wagons. I ate junk food and paid for it–literally and figuratively. And don’t think I gave up so easily. I told strangers too, and that’s where you find your true friends, regarding fast food. Many people were encouraging, encouraged me to do it more, or buy something different next time.

Next time. As if. My last time at McDonald’s was while watching people run the New York City Marathon.

I won’t be doing it for awhile. I shouldn’t have told anyone. I’m ashamed. For a great taste at a great value I’d been devalued and distasteful.

Donuts, of any variety are more acceptable. Marijuana is acceptable. Opoids at least illicit alarm and respect, if you are honest about using them and needing help.

But not fast food. It is the last territory for shame and ridicule, with no redemption.

Or is it? I see people with their take-out, the smell of french fries wafting on the subway. They seem unassuming. Acceptable. But they are not my people. But they could be. If only I’d confess to them.  Their initial discomfiture would only have to do with being talked to by a total stranger, rather by repulsion of food choices. They might understand.

Or not give a shit.

Day in and day out, your coffee says the same things–in varying tones.

At Birch, it studies me awhile, sizing me up–scrutinizing my clothes, looking for my jawline, parading its own intelligence and mirth, like weapons against my barbershop quartet of a face.

At Dunkin Donuts, I am worker among workers–a Joe who is being served a cup of Joe. My calluses exchange glances with the hairnets and jelly-filled pastries.

At Java Jupiters, the barrista makes small talk–which of course, in my head, I turn into big talk. As a flirt-mechanism I mention New Orleans. He says it’s on his bucket list. I end the transaction, by rasing my coffee with cream, with “You’ll love it there.”

But in all of this I am tone deaf, for in any of those places, I am the one paying. So I do have some say. Don’t I? I want to believe I do.

By the time you’ve caught up with something, it no longer holds interest. A moving target keeps you sharp–it keeps you engaged and moving.

Chasing after things is good and you’ll notice their good because they aren’t miles away, just a few blocks away. You can always rest or pace yourself, and you can even sleep on it. Your object of desire will still be there, in the morning, beckoning.

Sometimes, when you aren’t looking for it, it lands right in your hand, in October, as the leaves change and start to fall. In those instances you feel blessed. But face it: you are only interested for so long. Like finding shells on a beach. Un-hard won victories are your opportunities for rest, in preparation for those bigger chases.

I love how earlier this week, I didn’t want to work from home today because the exterminator was coming to my house today–and then I’m thinking what about me? I was thinking, earlier this week, of how I just didn’t want to deal with him–but what if I just listened to him–if I just paid attention. Why pay attention? Because I don’t have a choice. I could leave or pretend or really just stand on my head in a hundred different ways to ignore him–but it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Just listen to him.

I just discovered him this weekend, like all things I went kicking and screaming. I had preconceived notions about him. I heard about the scene in his movie, with the dog poop.

And here’s the thing. I’ve never seen one of his movies. But I’m splashing around in John Waters Pool. He invites you and to do whatever floats your boat.

I love you John.

Thank you.