"I'm jay walkin' and I don't give a fuck"

People in Saline are just pissed because they're common. They're common because they've allowed themselves to be -- out of their fear of the unkown. They chose the safety of groupthink over the uncertainty of individuality, and they're paying for it every day in the depressed, lackidaisical way that they live their lives. So, of course their only recourse is to find a way to justify their poor decisions and their boredom. They decide that the way they live is "right" and other ways are "wrong." It allows them to have a scapegoat for the misery they feel, but refuse to recognize.

If someone would have asked me…

One night, at five am a friend of mine was sitting with me talking at my kitchen table. He asked me why I wanted to live in New York and added crassly, "Is it because you've fucked your way out of Ann Arbor? All the girls I know who leave here just ran out of people to screw." I laughed and told him I was desperate to meet people who were like me. He asked me to elaborate. I told him I wanted to meet pepole who were going for it all the way. "In buisness, you mean?", he said.

"No, in anything. In music, any art form, anyone who is trying to grab the brass ring at whatever it is they endeavour to do."

"That's the best reason anyone has ever given me for leaving." He replied.

If someone would have asked me what I anticipated I would have told them fun, excitement, smart people, museums, great libraries, cafes, and culture. I realize now how idealistic it all was. All of those things are here but they don't come wrapped in a shiny bow like I assumed they would. They come underneath a layer of filth and uncertainty.

I've been struggling to find a way to explain to people back home what New York is really like. But the only thing I can reference is a history of clichés born from iconic films and books in which each story reveals only a small part of the experience of being here day in and day out; each story spins the atmosphere to serve its own purpose and reality is buried underneath. So how was I to explain to people how I was feeling and what I was going through; it was so much more than a physical adaptation or an adjustment to new streets and buildings, it has been everything.

I've been doing nothing but drinking it all in since I arrived over a year ago. I've been drinking and choking and nearly drowning on the sheer volume of my gulps. I've been to some museums, some cafes, and some libraries. I've had fun (although overall much less than I expected), I've been excited (much more than I expected), and I've met some smart people. I've experienced dramatic culture shifts simply by crossing a street or moving into a different subway car. None of these things happened in the ways I expected them to.

The "culture" I wanted didn't come from gallery openings, industry parties, or trendy uptown (or downtown) brunch spots; it came in the form of extreme diversity unlike anything I'd ever experienced, and with that came the tragic realization that some people who have been down on their luck all their lives will continue to be, and so will their children and so will theirs. You cannot save them all, most of them don't want to be saved, and the tragedy of their fate stares you in the face every time you step on the train. I live in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn across the street from a family of minor drug dealers. They are two brothers whose father died a few years ago leaving them his brownstone paid and clear. Occasionally in the summer you can hear an altercation across the street, fighting, they are just minor scuffles really. The police come and approach the men wearing black leather gloves. They stand in a circle waiting for a reason to intervene and when the dispute dies down they leave. My first week here I locked myself out of the apartment. A girl staying at our place had become friendly with the older brother. She and I tried in vain to get back in. Deciding it was our only recourse, she went across the street to ask for his help. She was told that he had nothing to break into an apartment with only a kit for getting into locked cars, but he would try to help anyway. He tried for twenty minutes, was extremely polite and respectful, and eventually he got in. Last week I helped him flier our neighborhood to search for his aunt's lost dog. I live in a neighborhood where kids play dice on the corners and little girls jump rope with phone wire. I live in a neighborhood where in spite of class differences or racial differences a neighbor comes to help one who needs it. I'm surrounded by a culture I'm helping to create, not one helplessly preserved in the annals of upper class memory.

The "smart people" I expected to fall into my lap did but their intelligence was clouded over by their extreme insecurities. People were driven only by a fear of inferiority. There was no sense of competition inside of one's self to achieve their potential; it was only to be better than the guy sitting next to them at their local bar. They smoked, they drank, and they snorted their twenties away. Beneath it though was an abiding and unrelenting commitment to be interesting and every single one of them was.

The fun and excitement I expected came to me like this: There were parties in Brooklyn with vegan appetizers and Michael Jackson music from the 80's, dancing in a back room, dancing in a front room, and dancing on a Saturday night in a museum underneath a vaulted ceiling surrounded by European paintings from the Renaissance. There were free concerts in the park. When KRS-1 performed and encouraged each person in the audience to think every day about their dreams, each person felt as if he was speaking directly to him/her. Shopping, there was constant shopping. I remember stumbling into a customer event at Bloomingdales, SOHO and being treated to pink martinis while browsing the racks. There were bars of every stripe with every atmosphere you could imagine, from the seediest to the most posh. Places were categorized by their level of pretension. A stunning Moroccan bar/restaurant sat underground beneath a taco bar housed in a broken down trailer. There was no sign outside indicating its existence. There was an anarchist meeting whose members met, after adjourning, to talk angrily about political change. Being hung over on a Saturday or Sunday gave way to brunch, brunch, and more brunch. There were fashion industry parties in the Lower East Side or SOHO. I remember a gay guy named Tim who confided in me that he had a weight problem in the past, when I commented on his current thinness his nonchalant response was, "I do a lot of cocaine." There were artist's studios. I went to clubs where you get in for free due to whomever you're going out with (and barely know) who brought you out with people they hardly know. Sometimes the music was good, sometimes it wasn't. There was going to see people sing and bands perform because you met a member. There were dinner parties and get-togethers where secrets were confessed and bonds were formed, only to be broken when schedules didn't permit another meeting. There were lovers, some with an attraction never consummated, and others that were over and over and over again. These "fun" times were veiled underneath a layer of distrust, fear, and that ever present thing, "excitement". Beneath it though was the idea of a reality more unconventional and fantastic than anything I could have imagined.

The cafes were noisy, but my favorite was open until 1 am every day. A person could go and stay for hours and I did. I took several books and I didn't leave. I napped there, read, and people-watched in between trips to the bar for coffee and sustenance.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is not free to get into, I was given false information. There is however, no minimum amount for a donation (admission). I dug deep in my pockets and pulled out about thirty five cents. I handed it to the girl, got my button and roamed among history and some of the greatest works of art the world has to offer.

I got a New York public library card. I checked out one book that I have yet to return. I got an email several months ago saying that if it wasn't returned they would send me to a collections agency. The book sits on a shelf in my cubicle at my office. For some reason I can't bring myself to return it.

I learned that speaking your mind is good for your soul. I learned that every man is truly out for himself and they would sell out their best friend to score with a chick they only want to screw once. I learned to take possession of myself completely. I learned that the single-minded attitude I was so ridiculed for back home was far tamer than the single-minded attitude I've adapted to here. Each day is a triumph of resourcefulness and planning. Each night is a triumph of exactly the opposite. Here, you learn to be alive or you leave. Here, you learn.

I have truly had the time of my life and I've barely gotten started. I've had the best food, seen the best performances, had the best conversations, the longest and most embarassing laughing fits, and met the craziest fucking people. In a conversation I had recently at a party at my apartment, a guy told me he'd grown up in New York and spent a couple of years in L.A. before hightailing it back. He told me that it was easy to meet nice people in L.A. but difficult to meet interesting people. "Nice is overrated, I would take interesting over nice any day." He said.

So how was I to explain to people how I was feeling and what I was going through? It has been so much more than a physical adaptation or an adjustment to new streets and buildings; it has been everything.