Note: I'm having to recreate this post since Blogger lost my original. And that pisses me off because it was clever. Clever, I tell you. And funny as hell.

Christmas in New York

Even looking at the words makes my guts knot up. Why, you ask? Well, if you're asking then you don't live or work in Manhattan.

The reason is simple: tourists. And by tourists, I mean anyone who doesn't live or work in the borough of Manhattan, who comes into the city for any reason. You see them everywhere. Blocking traffic in Times Square so they can take a picture of Toys R Us (I mean, it's just another fucking store. Get over it.). Or speaking some sort of moon-man language at each other (usually German) while slowly strolling five abreast down Madison Avenue. They crowd around little card tables on the sidewalk to buy knock-off Fendi purses, while asking, in all earnestness, "Are these real?"

No, you stupid cow, they are not real. And you no longer deserve to live.

This time of year tends to sneak up on you. First, there are a few more people than normal around Thanksgiving. More people seem not to know where they are supposed to be on the sidewalk. Simple rule: Keep to your right and you'll never go wrong. Corollary to Simple Rule: If you scream that at someone and throw half a bagel at them, they will run away from you in terror. But they will also have a cool story to tell their friends.

But the real turning point is when they light that damn Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.

I try to avoid that area, generally. But during the Christmas season . . . I'd rather gnaw off my leg than go there. Sadly, because of work I often have to (go there, not gnaw off my leg). Slaloming through a sea of tourists encumbered with boxes and children . . . perhaps even boxes of children, who knows . . . is enough to turn any Kris Kringle into a Scrooge. And I'm more Scrooge than Kris Kringle to begin with.

I knew I was in trouble when I started walking to my focus group (Money, money, money, money . . . MOOOOONEY) and the streets were gridlocked. So were the sidewalks. There were parents with more kids than the Von Trapps. Jersey girls with hair taller than a Christmas tree (and equally decorated) dragging their drunken, leather jacket wearing boyfriends. And on that note, who gets drunk to go to a family-oriented event. I mean, they're Guidos so I don't expect a Vulcan-like sense of decorum and logic, but come on. You don't have to get drunk for every event. Or is it just to drown the embarrassment caused by their girlfriends' hair. I managed to dodge them all and my five-minute walk to the focus group (Money, money, money, money . . . MOOOOONEY) only took fifteen minutes.

After the focus group (Money, money, money, money . . . MOOOOONEY) was over, the streets were once again gridlocked and the sidewalks full.

Arrgh.

This time the crowd was from that other level of hell, Brooklyn. Sneering girls and white hip hoppers and poseurs, oh my. The fellow who stood next to me on the train, wearing his baby blue velour Sean John tracksuit, gold chains and knit cap (oy vey), had eyes so dilated that I could see his brain. Waitress, I'll have what he's having.

I guess there's nothing to do but hunker down and wait for New Year's Day. By the time I've finished my hoppin' john, with any luck the out-of-town freaks and weirdos will have left and we local freaks and weirdos can get back to our normal routines.