Dear New York City,
I love you. Totally. I always have. Even before I first arrived here to rest for a while, I adored you from afar. At that time, The romance may have been fueled by just the experiences and stories heard from those who had seen you or felt you or fed by further other's artistic interpretations and reconstructions, but, even then, the passion and emotion was true and mine. I loved you so much, from before I knew you and now, that I do know you, that love has only grown.
But......
And I say this because of the love I have for you.
But....
Goddamn it, noone in this fucking city has a fucking sense of humor!
Its not sitting well with me and, Big Apple, its time to shape up.
I love you. Totally. I always have. Even before I first arrived here to rest for a while, I adored you from afar. At that time, The romance may have been fueled by just the experiences and stories heard from those who had seen you or felt you or fed by further other's artistic interpretations and reconstructions, but, even then, the passion and emotion was true and mine. I loved you so much, from before I knew you and now, that I do know you, that love has only grown.
But......
And I say this because of the love I have for you.
But....
Goddamn it, noone in this fucking city has a fucking sense of humor!
Its not sitting well with me and, Big Apple, its time to shape up.
I tell folk that I'm the funniest person I know and I really am. Its not an arrogance thing (like 99% of my other declarations), but rather because I get to preview all shameless nonsense that crisscrosses across my front lobe at completely inappropriate times and often tell myself much funnier lines than what I do share with you. The more inappropriate, the funnier. To clarify, I'm not funny only because of my inappropriatness - its not simply causing amusement as a consequence of the unexpected - but rather the arena I do best in - my home-ground, if you will - is that of The Inappropriate. Its under these conditions, that my humor is most comfortable and delivers its best.
Over the years, I have had to learn how and when to internally edit, so as to preserve some sort of respectful public decorum. I push right up against that line, but, believe it or not, I know exactly where I'm standing at all times. For example, if I find myself in the midst of an emotionally declaring and denying back and forth, for some reason being carried out via text message, I would not insert a detached and removed commentary on the perverseness of crying such extreme emotions inside the restrictions of 140 characters. I'd have some witty line at hand, but I'd let it go, for delivery would certainly offend.
However, City of New York, if i were to find myself at 9PM on a Saturday night, in a room designed for hedonistic consumption of food and alcohol, with a loud, thrilling atmosphere all designed to heighten the entertainment experience. And if I were to actually be part of the machinery aimed at providing facilitation of said entertainment. And if noone forced those three, pear-shaped, sour faced, dried up before their time, young women to enter the restaurant -as we may choose to define such a den of the above described entertainment - and, as such, they had volunteered to become party to an evening of entertainment. And if I, the particular individual specifically charged with personally ensuring, supervising and guiding their evening, were to be in a particularly entertaining mood (read as: had a drink or two), than this would be the exact time to let the Dogs of War cry havoc and release the great wit from within. Its entertaining, for God's sake! One should be prepared for a bit of entertainment!
Well, not so here, inside the districts and boundaries of your fine city, New York, your people of without humor, are unprepared for anything other than inquiring as to "your most popular dish", when faced with the, seemingly, challenging hurdle of summing up the maturity of a post-infant to make a decision of desire for themselves. Perhaps it is because they are so flummoxed by this procedure of selection, that when I reply:
"Well, popular might not be the best, for George Bush actually won two elections...",
they stare up at me, jaws, shaped by cleft palate, ajar, with their dull little eyes filled with fear.
Its a joke, you retard!
Something to laugh at!
Something to lighten the mood and insert and maintain levity into a light evening.
But they just continue to stare. Its not the accent, they've seen and heard enough Eric Bana or Hugh Jackman interviews to understand that. No, its the dryness of delivery; the taboo of the subject matter; the timing of the insert and the drollness (I'm aware that isn't exactly a word) of the whole tone. In essence, they didn't even realise it was a joke, let alone begin to 'get' it.
New York! I love you, but lighten the fuck up!
There is always exceptions to such generalizations (all the, seemingly, millions of Australians living in downtown Manhattan for one), but not enough. The 'general vibe' of your streets is just that jokes are saved for either real shitty sit coms starring ex-drug addicts who beat their wives or over acted, over written, ripoffs of BBC shows. (Since seeing The Castle about 400 times, I find it nearly impossible to use the words 'general vibe' and not throw in the word 'Mabo' right after it. Now, only the Aussies will get this joke, for none of you New Yorkers have or had the sense of humor to 'get' what must truly be one of the funniest films ever made. This further proves my point). Outside previously preordained and sanctioned times, such as the two mentioned above, jokes are completely off the limits of polite society. Spontaneous asides, witty banter, playful ribbing, charming chutzpah, political satire, grumpy confessions and allusions to heroin use, are not appreciated here. More than that, they are considered downright offensive. Why? Why can't life here be lived with a bit more humor?
Ill tell you another story, Apple (I hope we are familiar enough now for me to drop the 'Big' from 'your name), that happened on your very streets.
A few nights ago, after drowning ourselves in just enough booze to make the idea itself seem rational enough, we decided to extend our late evening on, in the warm, comforting confides of a West Village Lesbian Bar. ( I'm not sure I needed to capitalize all of that, but you gotta be so carefully politically correct here in NY. This is another thing that gets in the way of having a laugh.) Luckily, we were equipped with our own Lesbian and, as such, felt connected enough to 'the scene' to penetrate it (wow - real unfortunate pun). Not so much. Here, in the humorless Empire State (I've decided to widen my target area), gone are the days of sorority girls, jumping around on bouncy mattresses and jostling with plump, goose-feather pillows, whilst riotous giggling permeates the atmosphere (this is the archetype of lesbians I was brought up to expect). Instead, in its place was a humongous Hawaiian woman barring our entry to said Lesbian Bar.
"You people know this is a Lesbian Bar, don't you?" she opened with.
I craned my neck around her impressive girth and peered through the glass door, trying to locate the tell tale remnants of destroyed feather pillows, that would render that question somewhat redundant. No feathers.
"Lucky I am a lesbian, then" replied our own aforementioned lesbian and Barbara Streisand devotee, with the overt and stated penchant for olive skin girls and Jewish conversion. (Not necessarily in that order. I think she wants to convert first and then covert second.)
"How am I supposed to know that?" recounted The Giganto, still not picking up on our joking and playful demeanor.
"Well, what if I were to stand like this" asked the Streisand Lesbian.
She then proceeded to arc her arms and clasp both hands on hips, bent the top of her spine a little over in a mini hunch and drew the meanest scowl she could sum up, onto her face. It was fucking hilarious. Here's our delightfully funny, saffic friend, providing Giganto with a tone perfect mirror impression of herself. Yes, it was a politically incorrect, grotesque caricature, but it's 3am on a Sunday night/Monday morning - surely the perfect time for that style of humor.
Nothing. Not a smile, not a laugh, not even a grimace out of Giganto. Nothing. Stony silence, whilst she calculated the risk of allowing entry of such jovial folk into the very serious and utterly humorless confides of a New York drinking hole. (and it was a hole - a real shithole of a bar)
She did eventually let us in, but our night was tainted. Our laughter and joy quelled. Our humor faded and our night petered out.
I tell you this story, New York, to show you how, even a small exchange like that one on the sidewalk of Downtown 8th Ave, one that took only a few moments, can and did suck me into the only tragedy of your makeup - the Recession, nay Depression, of Humor. This is the real Downturn that's destroying the city that gave us Woody Allen, Lenny Bruce, Jackie Mason, Richard Prior, Larry David and hundreds of countless others, yet now suffers from an abundance of over-earnest, dimwits, who are so caught up in the fear of exposure and true self questioning, that the laughter and humor of honest inspection and tragic reflection is gone. It was once here, but now is gone.
Not for me, though. Lucky for me, I have friends afar that are always there to kick me in the backside when I get too Manhattan for my own good. So this post is dedicated to them. In particular, a certain blond, eternal teenager, living in St Kilda. Lovee, thank you.That letter, though short (or perhaps, as a different Hawaiian suggested to me today, BECAUSE it was short), had a profound effect. Your letter brought me back. I needed it and I needed the humor it was dealt in and that direct Aussie delivery.
As do you, New York. You need more Aussie style kicks in the arse and less requests for me to "tone it down".
I tell you this, only because I love you.
Yours sincerely,
hershatlarge
