The Fog Lifts

On my lunch hour, I hopped on the S train (conveniently located in my office basement) and popped over to Times Square to visit the information center and pick up some guides to Open House New York. The suitably NYC-icy guy behind the counter snarked that he had no guides, he didn't know when they were coming and that he wished people would stop asking for them. Thanks, dude..for the full NYC experience. Customer service, NYC-style.

By the way, the Visitor's Center (46th & 7th Avenue) actually is worth a stop while you're in Times Square. Aside from having free, clean bathrooms open to tourists(!!!), they have a couple of banks of vidcam computer terminals, courtesy of Yahoo! and Panasonic, from which you can send free video emails to folks back home. There's also a couple of digicam kiosks, from which you can insert your memory stick and unload your camera to Flickr or whereever, should you run out of disc space while bopping around town.

At the other Times Square Visitor's Center (53rd & 7th), the help was much nicer, giving me a photo-copied version of the Open House New York guide, while apologizing profusely for not having originals and inviting me to return later in the week to get one. Way to kill the NYC-vibe, honey. On my way back to the subway, I walked past the Ed Sullivan Theatre, where yesterday the CBS pages (no fluffers noticed) were teaching the lined up Letterman audience the proper way to applaud, which apparently, is with your hands, NYC-style.

Passing the Winter Garden, the bluehairs lined up for the matinee of Mamma Mia were shrinking visibly from the shouting deranged man wielding a cardboard tube. "There can only be ONE! I am the true Highlander, mutha-fukkas! There can only be one and dat's ME, you old bitches!" I shoulda tipped him, cuz dat's street theatre, NYC-style.

Just steps away, a handsome young man in front of Caroline's stopped me. "Hey, man! Look at this poster! That's ME on the poster! Me! See me? Yeah, that's me. I'm the headliner tonight. The guy on this poster!" Yes, Pete Dominick, you hottie. That's you on the poster. Now kiss me, bitch. Pick-up lines, NYC-style.

In front of Virgin Records, as always, somebody tried to sell me a home-made rap CD. Because middle-aged white guys are forever looking for the next fly MC to bring it real. Three steps later, a boob-jobbed young thing shoved a flyer at me. "Three dollar drinks all day at Planet Hollywood. Cool drinks and hot company", she flirted uselessly. Another three steps and a baby Coca-Cola rep shoved an icy bottle of Blak into my hand. I accepted it. Manhattan = street swag. And how bad could it be? Answer: Surprisingly really, really much worse than you can possibly imagine. Bad music, wasted flirting, digusting swag. Marketing, NYC-style.

I passed the Armed Forces Recruitment Center, where workmen were peeling back the sticky-paper on newly hung official seals of the various branches, which probably hadn't been updated since the Eisenhower administration. Down in the subway, a cluster of sari'd Indian women cooed in admiration at my smooth and stylish, all-in-one action, pocket-to-swiper-to-pocket entry moves. That's how we board, NYC-style.

On the S train again, I realized my fog has lifted. I'm back in NYC, completely.

For now.