Brunch in Manhattan

New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

4. Everyone Else

It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.

So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.

And so the dance goes on.


The Thing About My Weight

I have a confession to make:  I starve myself.  Periodically.  But not because I’m an anorexic teenager in high school, but because I’m a high school wrestler.  113 pounds– the weight limit I must constantly drop to in order wrestle that weight class.  Now, if I were to take those 113 pounds of meat-sack and convert it into gold, I would be worth 3,616,000 dollars– that’s 46,471,747.20 pesos!  Ay carumba!  I’m not, although, like a mesh of toothpicks refusing to eat so that her thighs don’t touch as she struts down the catwalk.  It’s only cut about 1-3 pounds.  Nonetheless, I am always hungry.  Like, about-to-eat-off-my-foot-and-my-neighbor’s-foot-hungry.  Like, I’m-going-to-write-a-ton-of-stories-on-my-blog-centered-around-food-hungry.  Seriously, when I’m out of season, I don’t usually inscribe a lengthy tale on how amazing bacon-guacamole-Nutella-bacon would be as it melts away in my mouth, encasing it in a warm, creamy, crunchy, scrumptiously luscious– AHH!  I have to stop!  I just wish all that gold I’m worth could be golden-foiled-wrapped chocolate instead…

Speaking of which, does anyone actually happen to be selling 46,417,747.20 pesos worth of chocolate?  With Nutella, preferably?  Because I’m prepared to sell my foot for it.

It’s the struggle.

Bacon Jam and Avocado Grilled Cheese Sandwich 500 4611