From the “OMG I Can’t Believe It’s Not In New York!” Files

You know, you’re wrong about me. I know what you say behind my back or even in front of my face in these weird languages that I know you make up just to talk about me. You say I’m one of these New Yorkers who says stuff like, “Oh, I never go above 14th Street” and looks down her nose (and don’t think I don’t hear you calling it “Jewy”) (you would add “schnoz” to that, too, if only you were sure that it meant “nose” and not “putz”) at people whose entry into the city involves a bridge or tunnel and mutters, “Fuckin’ bridge and tunnelers”, or, in an economy of syllablage because I’m too cool to exert myself more than is absolutely necessary, “Effin’ B ‘n’ Ts”, with the same sort of disdain ordinarily reserved for remarks about tourists or the poorly dressed (which often are one and the same).
True, I think this city is the bee’s knees and the cat’s pajamas and even their tuxedos and bikinis. True, I think if you can make it here you can make it anywhere but why the hell would you want to leave. True, I love this city with a Woody Allen ferocity. But I still know that there are some truly fabulous things you’ll miss if you take the attitude that if it’s not here, it’s just not worth it. And especially not worth travelling for, except if your mode of transportation doesn’t require you to avail yourself of a bridge or tunnel and you can fly at the drop of your hideous newsboy hat to Paris or Milan or Tokyo or whatever other city you think is even more beeskneesier than this one.
So now I present to you one of the best reasons to leave this city. One of the best reasons to not rent but actually buy a car. Which is this:

wrap_bluesage.jpg
Pacific Rim Wrap
(Click to enlarge, to provoke salivation)

Ordinarily I turn up my schnoz (not having a putz, that is) at the mere mention of a “wrap”, so when my boyfriend ordered this at Blue Sage Grill in Southampton, Pennsylvania, two weeks ago, I thought I’d have to tell him, “It’s been nice knowing you, fella, but I’m taking the next barge to Breakuptown, U.S.A., population YOU.” (And here you thought I was going to say, “Our relationship is a wrap, chump.” See? You don’t know me as well as you think you do.) But this one? This wrap was music to my mouth! Oh! I mean, seriously, Oh!
So “O(h)!” that I almost recreated the scene I can’t stand from When Harry Met Sally. You know the one.
If you’re ever anywhere near the area, or even if you’re not, I suggest, from the bottom of my stomach, that you get you and yours over to Blue Sage Grill. (And if you think I haven’t already tittered and twittered over the word “rim” in the name of the wrap, you really don’t know me at all.)

0 thoughts on “From the “OMG I Can’t Believe It’s Not In New York!” Files

  1. “Is it so wrong that I entertain delicious fantasies about an aluminum baseball bat, freshly heated to skin-searing perfection…”
    Boy, for a second there I thought you were going to in a totally different direction with this blog.

  2. Were it not for the writer’s strike, I would do what any talented writer would do and lift your story, pawn it to either Law & Order or CSI New York, take full credit and blatantly plagiarize myself in court when you sued me for 2.1 million dollars in copyright infringement. Then, feeling just a tad guilty about my professional plagiarism and the numerous accolades and successes it has garnered me, I will decide to start a charity for underpriveleged youth; a charity that nourishes the creative spark that has been lost in our schools. A charity that teaches chorus and music and dance. And I’m going to house it in this great space I’d heard about, recently vacated when its lone tenant was mysteriously pummelled to death with a superheated baseball bat.
    Because our souls know no sorrow when a child blows his trumpet unto Gabriel.
    Damn writer’s strike.

  3. Were it not for the writer’s strike, I would do what any talented writer would do and lift your story, pawn it to either Law & Order or CSI New York, take full credit and blatantly plagiarize myself in court when you sued me for 2.1 million dollars in copyright infringement. Then, feeling just a tad guilty about my professional plagiarism and the numerous accolades and successes it has garnered me, I will decide to start a charity for underpriveleged youth; a charity that nourishes the creative spark that has been lost in our schools. A charity that teaches chorus and music and dance. And I’m going to house it in this great space I’d heard about, recently vacated when its lone tenant was mysteriously pummelled to death with a superheated baseball bat.
    Because our souls know no sorrow when a child blows his trumpet unto Gabriel.
    Damn writer’s strike.

  4. But Jodi, youse cants be doin’ dat to da boy! He’s a very impotent playah in da orchestra.
    Thomas: Beating Dead Horses since 1970.

  5. I was once annoyed late one night at Mi Tierra, San Antonio’s popular 24-hour TexMex restaurant.
    It seems the strolling mariachi band was idling too close to my table.
    Their monstrously awful trumpet player kept blowing bad notes.
    I caught his eye and began sucking the lemon wedge from my margarita.
    Heh, heh, heh.

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