I F**kin' Heart New York

So, for those of you in the know, New York City is a fantastic place. Full of wonder, and of merriment, and mirth, and trash, and homeless psychopaths who push you off subway platforms into on-coming trains, and left-wing pinko commie nut-jobs who somehow get elected Governor, and more dangerously, Spike Lee. But if you're in the know, you don't need me to tell you all that. It's already tattooed on the inside of your lip, or on the back of your middle-finger (which some of you New Yorkers like to show us with frequent occassion). You can also tell us, without blinking, where the best pizza in any of the burroughs is, which bars let in the under-age drinking crowd, and the best dumpsters and/or restaurants to piss on in mid-town.

For the rest of us, ("The Uninitiated" for purposes of this post) we don't have a clue. New York City is either etched in our memories as that shiny place full of pretty people and whiny emo boys, like Spider-Man. Or it's that wacky 'burg that Mick Dundee romped around in, kicking ass and crossing racial barriers. (Hey! That movie is way fucking deeper than people give it credit for.)

So, would it not be right to say The Uninitiated might have NO FUCKING CLUE the difference in time/distance/direction between various avenues or districts of your crowded little island? For instance, if someone were to ask me how to get from "mid-town" L.A. to "downtown," I would reply: "What the fuck is wrong with you, dipshit? Go back to The Valley and die." Is it so hard then to comprehend then The Uninitiated wouldn't know that Downtown Manhattan to Mid-Town Manhattan is a distance that is seemingly greater than the infinite void of space and time in the Universe?! To quote a famous New Yorker: "Gimme a fuckin' break."

More than once I've had a relative, friend or local dumbass ask me how the hell it's possible that L.A. and San Francisco are six hours apart (yes, it's true). They take one look at those Rand-McNally renditions of California and figure the state looks no bigger than Delaware, so why the hell is everyone living in L.A. if they could commute from Oakland? (Usually, these types of queries are followed by me pulling out a ruler and teaching the person about the "size/distance/ratio" comparison, then beating them mercilessly with said ruler.) Is it safe for me to then imply that having never stepped foot on the Island of Manhattan, I might not know that you need to take a "gypsy" cab to get anywhere in The Bronx, or that despite all evidence to the contrary, Spike Lee isn't that dangerous? You bet your toxic-filled drainage ways you call "rivers" it is.

Therefore, I suggest we all agree on some kind of monumental Peace Accord here, allowing our two cultures to remain true to our roots (New York: "Fuck you!", L.A.: "Fuck if I care."). New Yorkers will hence-forth stop bitching about how L.A. doesn't have any decent pizza, public transportation or worth-while culture. And we Angelino-ites agree to keep Paris Hilton-based incidents within our city limits (To the best of our ability--ever try grabbing her? She practically sweats personal lubricant), and to continue to deliver mediocre movies to your crummy multiplexes for centuries to come.

As agreed to by:

_________________________
New York (or its closest signatory, i.e., New Jersey)

And by:

_________________________
Los Angeles (or any illegal immigrant standing close enough to scribble here)

Knish's Birthday

Low and behold, he hath not been sprung from eternal flame of Dante's Hell, as I long suspected.
(Shit. And I had money on which "circle" he was from, too.)

Apparently, Mr. Knish was born to human parents and celebrates a date of birth. Quelle surprise.

Of course, this now brings up the obligatory, burning question: Should I bother to actually show up to the fucking thing? Does my ever-prescent desire for buttercream frosting outweigh my hatred for this most unholy figure? Will I be able to enjoy a small slice of Hansen's (whilst eye-balling up another one to steal) while my colleagues and assorted office personal glad-handle The Knish in an effort to not seem like a bunch of sugar-addicted hanger's-on looking for a 4:00pm-fix?

I guess no. Because I'm still sitting here and I'm quite sure the cake is quickly disappearing downstairs. I'm somewhat surprised at my own self-control. Staging my own solo protest against an Agent whom I have no power to wage any kind of embittered retribution upon. Seeing as how I'm merely a Trained Phone Monkey (#61 of 90), it's tough to think that this little act of defiance means much more than me going without cake. I could have always gone down, snagged a piece and done the "slip by" without having to have shook his hand or even pretended like I had given a shit. Maybe it would have even meant more if I had just come, taken the cake and then walked defiantly out.

Fuck. No more cake.