Commentary

New York, New York

Oliver Wendell Holmes once opined: "Taxes are the price we pay for civilization." In that case, New York City must pay damn high taxes, for this is without a doubt the most civilized city on the planet.

I disembarked exhausted, drunk, and disoriented to the splendor that is Fiorello La Guardia Airport on a balmy Sunday morning. The birds were gasping, the cabbies belching, and the pace was pure NYC. Glancing nervously over both shoulders, pathetically attempting to appear jaded and hip to the New York scene.

I spent approximately twelve minutes deciphering the console of lights and pictures attempting to expedite your journey into the city. All I could comprehend were the various warnings to beware of illicit cabbies offering rides into the city for a discount. I was beset upon by horrific recollections of poor dumb saps who accepted rides from these purveyors of unlicensed mobility depositing me in Staten Island, six hours later, gripped by communicable TB from the cabby, and penniless from his: "I take you on tour, very cheap, good time!" Forget the cabs, take a shuttle was my instinctual reaction.

I saddled up to the kiosk, "Upper East Side, corner of York and 70th." Next the reply, "Damn... someone's got some cash, that's a kickin' block, wait on the curb for the #3 bus." I vainly muttered that I wasn't from the city, and shuffled off.

As I awaited my discount chariot, I sleepily pondered my good fortune to have one friend who lived not only in NYC, but in the posh Upper East Side of Manhattan. Even more fortuitous was the fact that she would be in Portland for the duration of my stay. While I was disappointed that I would not have a chance to see a friend whom I had not spoken to in person for more than five years, her absence would alleviate the overriding Catholic guilt which grips me whenever I am the recipient of someone's hospitality. Something about ingratitude and circles of hell nearly always pitches me over the edge into the abyss of paranoia. Whoa, where was I going? Uhhhh...

So I arrive at the palatial Leona Helmsley Medical Towers, site of my benefactor's apartment, and next door neighbor to New York General Hospital. The time was approximately 12:30, the first pitch of the Yankees/Mariners game was scheduled for 1:00. I grabbed the number four train running North to the Bronx just over at the Hunter's College/68th street platform. Nineteen minutes later I exited right at Yankee Stadium. This my friends is civilization, plain and simple. NINETEEN MINUTES! from a platform three blocks away, to the entrance to The House That Ruth Built.

I quickly bought the best ticket available from an imposing fellow whose appearance, coupled with the impending first pitch dispelled any false bravado of price dickering. "Third base line, twenty-five bucks... I'll take it" uttered my mouth in my best New York tough guy rapid fire delivery. He slyly grinned at me when I handed him thirty and, reminded himself that he forgot to include the NYC Rec Commission five dollar service charge. "Oh Yea, whatever," I muttered and rushed inside, this is the South Bronx after all.

Doc Gooden was on the mound, and it was a sunny day. The M's jumped out to a ten run lead, chased the good Doctor nearly back to the white lines of his heyday, then watched it all evaporate and had to score in the tenth to win it, 13-12. I was forced to temper any enthusiasm for the game with reverent regard for the friendly New Yorkers seated around me. Following an Alex Rodriguez home-run, I was a bit animated, I overheard a nice Brooklynite exclaiming "This fuckin' guy must be from Seattle, I hope he don't forget where the fuck he's at." I toned it down. I actually didn't care, this being AL ball, but intimidation, hot sun, and large beer cups have a way of clouding my better judgement, as well as my sanity. Needless to say I stayed among large crowds and headed towards the platform.

Home safe and sound mere minutes later, I became further enthralled with the Big Apple. Not only can you get anywhere without needing a car... ANYTHING CAN BE DELIVERED. And let me tell you, your imagination is the limit. Over the course of the week I ordered everything from sushi to Jamaican jerk-chicken to the requisite pizza. But the fun didn't stop there, videos and dry cleaning, both pick-up and delivery, no addl. charge, even entire grocery orders. There is not much more to life than calling up the corner grocery for a sixer of Ballantine Ale, a bottle of seltzer, a meatloaf hero and a two-pack of Charmin, all from the comfort and privacy of your couch.

Two nights later the pinnacle of New York's hedonistic civilization was revealed. Late one night while channel surfing Time-Warner's cable offerings, I stumbled across public access channel 37, better known after midnight as "The Hooker Channel." I couldn't believe it, some seedy program titled "New York Debutantes" with naked and getting nakeder young Asian women posing to the directions of a fellow who queerly resembled Gene Shalit, was the evenings main event. Interspersed between segments of "New York Debutantes" were advertisements for Call Girl services, complete with copy such as: For a hot night on the town, or an intimate night in, call: (212) xxx-xxxx. I counted over fifty distinctly different companies, of which, the five I called to inquire all were legit. I spoke briefly with Meringue, the dispatcher for the evenings: "Account number?" "Uhh, no, I just have some questions." "Oh, right, a talker, well any of the girls do that, but it's the same charge, what are your preferences?" "No, no, I just want to ask you a few questions, about the business." "Oh, sorry honey, I'm on dispatch, I'm not on until Thursday, but I can make a date now if you like me." "Uhh, yea, right, Thursday's good... look, how much are we talking about?" "It's a $300 flat fee, plus gratuity." "What's that include?" "Anything" "What's anything?" "Not on the phone honey, you know the rules... it's like a date, we just see what happens." "Okay, thanks, yea, I'll have to call you back, wait, do you give student discounts?" Click!

So the moral of this piece is, if you don't have a car, can't get a date, and don't want to leave the apartment, this is definitely the city. Basically, shy, sex-addicted agoraphobics who don't drive, this is the city for you. But beyond that, just visit and behold the wonders of a vertically integrated city. Hookers! Phone order HOOKERS!

Please close the door when Harrison Lynch opens his mouth