Is New York America's Unhappiest City?

New York, America’s unhappiest city

New York City has been declared America’s unhappiest city by researchers from the University of British Columbia and Harvard.

The paper, “Unhappy Cities,” leaned on survey data from the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that asked respondents: “In general, how satisfied are you with your life?”

Researchers then tweaked that data for control factors such as race, education, marital status and family size. They concluded that New York, Pittsburgh, Louisville, Milwaukee and Detroit are, in that order, America’s least happy cities.

Envy contributes indefatigably to unhappiness, and it is difficult to avoid envy in New York. I don’t subscribe to the idea that neighborhoods with diverse incomes generally make people happier. When you’re in a building with kingly penthouses and you’re in a claustrophobic studio – like my last apartment – you really see up close how the other class lives. In Manhattan at least, those situations are common. It is much easier to keep up with the Joneses when the Joneses are a fellow suburban neighbor with a lifestyle roughly the same as yours. Subdivisions don't usually have a McMansion next door to a Steinbeckian shack.

A lot of people move here to build an identity, to reinvent themselves as winners. They don't just come to be a lawyer, they come to be a New York lawyer. Many of these transplants were large fish in cramped ponds. They arrive and suddenly realize that in Manhattan they’re just average (or worse). They're whole scheme to be the crème de la crème goes sour, and overachievers don’t take underachievement well. They probably would have been happier staying in Omaha, being the best lawyer in town and sucking on a small regret about what might have been in New York (and telling themselves, and probably believing it, that they would have conquered New York). 

Those who do try to keep up with the manic Manhattan competition do so at the expense of health and social lives, which of course begets unhappiness. Those competing in Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx have a hard time even saying they're in the competition (Staten Island is actually a floating car dealership).

A city with a lot of dreamers is going to have a lot of broken dreams.

The near future of New York will be a trip to the past

Is New York the Next Detroit?

New York City Mayor Bloomberg is on his way out, and as sometimes happens when a politician heads for the exit, he let leak some molecules of truth...

“Avoiding the hard choices is how Detroit went bankrupt,” he said in a speech Tuesday, according to the New York Post. Bloomberg, the founder and majority owner of Bloomberg LP, the parent of Bloomberg News, thinks that his successor as mayor will have a unique window to act, because all the major public sector unions are currently operating without a contract.

Mr. Bloomberg is talking about his successor in hypothetical terms. If a successor were to come in and act like a grown up for a day or two, New York City's fortunes might be marginally improved. Of course this isn't going to happen.

You probably aren't following the New York City mayoral race (or the comptroller race where the maniacal Eliot Spitzer has a real shot at being able to torture us again), and there is no reason why you should be. Every candidate is running to see who can best combine the worst aspects of David Dinkins ('90s disaster) and John Lindsay ('70s disaster). The only difference between the current candidates is weight and gender.

New York has been red hot for many years. Its economy didn't shatter as much in the crisis and has recovered better than much of the world. And New York City is now a hot place to work and live. No longer is it a commuter city full of Long Island and Connecticut residents. Brooklyn, once known for its pedigree of streetwise rap stars and street-hardened boxers, has become a white hot place full of families and couples intending to start families. You heard me right. People are setting down roots in Brooklyn with the intention of raising families there. In the old days young couples frolicked in New York for a few years, then moved to the suburbs when it was time for kids. Things have changed.

New York's crime rate has had a 20-year decline. When you cruise the sidewalks, your path is not constantly blocked by homeless people and scam artists. No one is carrying designated pick-pocket money to appease potential muggers.

I'm thinking that's going to change. Although Guiliani (especially) and Bloomberg are both horrible human beings, at least their initiatives occasionally overlapped with reality. New Yorkers are about to discover that 10% reality, 90% fantasy is far better than 100% fantasy.

What I think is coming is the most cynical breed of populist policing mixed with the most cynical breed of populist economics. In other words, higher taxes, higher crime rates, more public debt, and much worse public services. And don't think that the higher crimes rates will be because of fewer laws. There will be more asinine laws passed to generate revenue raising fines. And when it comes to crime, you can bet tax paying residents caught in wispy misdemeanors will be shamelessly inconvenienced and milked, while those benefiting from their taxes will be told they're the ones being ripped off. Yeah...that's going to cause some friction. Should crime rates spike, expect the next mayoral administration to issue lots of calls for "understanding." Muggings will probably be renamed "cultural exchanges."

We are going to see a wonky, liberal arts curriculum approach to governance, which will push much of New York's celebrated "creative class" (and its tax base) to flee. It will be an early '90s flashback. The younger people who have only lived here during the prosperity have no idea what the old New York was like, and given the mushy world they grew up in, they are the least prepared to handle it. Well-practiced criminals are not intimidated by anti-bullying slogans. They do not drop their weapons upon hearing ironic comments. And your Superman tattoos? Not scary to a dude with his strangled cell-mate's name carved into his neck. It brings to mind the younger Wall Street traders who had never seen a bear market before and had no idea what to do when 2008 struck.

Instead of the "hard choices" Bloomberg referenced, there will simply be a greater distribution of hardship to New York's net taxpayers. This is how it always goes down. But having said all that, I still don't plan to leave. It is better to die in a place you enjoy than live long and prosper in Squaresville.

I Heart New York Tourists

Here's a sentiment you never hear: I like tourists. I work in an area crowded with them, and I don't get tired of their presence.

New Yorkers make a show of gibing tourists, I think partly because so many of the people who live here are transplants themselves; not so removed from those tourists they're bashing. New Yorkers still love crowning themselves "real New Yorkers," and evidently one of the keys to differentiating yourself as a real New Yorker is to ridicule the less real as they stroll these mean streets.

Ironically, New Yorkers spend a lot of time bragging about their city, so you'd think they'd interpret the unending desire of tourists to experience New York as a validation of their boasts. That Chinese vacationer who stepped on your shoe six times in the three minutes he was on the subway? He and the millions of others who visit each year are telling you you're right to be living here! No one in Baltimore has to worry about dodging tourists.

Another irony: Manhattanites frequently crow about how many countries they've visited. On the dating site OkCupid, under the category "Six Things I Could Never Do Without" (surprisingly, I am never on these lists), every New York woman lists 'passport" as one her six things. You'd think people who are so often tourists themselves would have more sympathy for the travelers who are checking NYC off their list.

I'm a real New Yorker, and I'm about to let you in on a little secret: It isn't the foreign tourists that chafe New Yorkers; it is the American tourists from the South and Midwest. They are the unwashed menace New Yorkers view as reprobatic, cultural Luddites. Doesn't matter how green their money is; their states are red, and that makes them the enemy. The current New York mentality is an inversion of the film Death Wish, with people fleeing TO New York to escape the threat of suburbs and small towns. The difference is that while Death Wish is largely fantasy, the danger present in that New York was fact. The danger posed to New Yorkers by Southerners and Midwesterners is entirely fantasy.

13 Slogans You'd See if Tourism Boards were Honest

State and city tourism boards concoct catchy slogans to bait people into visiting; "Virginia is for lovers" (ironic, considering Virginia had anti-sodomy laws until 2003), or "I love New York." National governments spend big bucks promoting themselves around the world: "Incredible India." Most of the time, these slogans either provide no incentive for one to visit--how does commanding me to love New York encourage me to show up?--or they present caricatures of the destination that the government of said destination (the one that financed the caricature) will later complain it doesn't deserve.

Anyway, here are some more accurate slogans to give you an honest picture of some of the places you might think of visiting:

Quebec: A sanctuary for Francophones who have discovered deodorant.

Paris: A place that guilt trips you for not loving your significant other as much as you claim to.

India: An "anti-materialistic" place that materialistic Americans visit so that they can feel better about being materialistic.

London: The only city improved by constant, obscuring fog.

Florida: The one state where being a resident can equally be a sign of big success or complete failure.

Delaware: A territory so desolate it feels the need to catch up to Maryland.

Virginia: West Virginia gentrified.

Pennsylvania: The only state where you can be Amish and not miss anything.

New Jersey: A bogeyman that exists to scare New Yorkers into working harder so they can afford to keep living in New York.

Massachusetts: Thanks to all the brains being turned on at MIT and Harvard, everyone else in the state feels comfortable turning theirs off.

New Hampshire: Live free of relevance and still die.

New York City: Because no one is from there, everyone who lives there wastes all their time obsessing about what it is to be a real New Yorker.

Atlantic City: A place to go when you've seen all the other rest stops in New Jersey.




My Twitter feed; a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there: https://twitter.com/greatMikePayne

Small talk only comes from small brains

I spent many years working many different types of retail, and never ceased to be amazed by how insulting and condescending the public could be. Because of this, I have to talk myself out of drop kicking any customer I witness being condescending and/or trite.

Case in point: fruit stand workers in Manhattan. Across Manhattan, there are gentlemen who stand on the sidewalk in almost any kind of weather and sell a variety of fruits and vegetables at a lower price than you typically find in grocery stores. What a wonderful convenience.

What isn't wonderful is all the nonsensensical small talk and patronizing tripe fruit stand guys are subjected to by the idiot public.

The last two weeks have brought sub-freezing temperatures to New York City, and I keep hearing morons telling the fruit stand guys to "Keep Warm" and "Don't let yourself get too cold!"

Like this guy doesn't know enough to protect himself from the elements when the windchill hits 10 below.

I'd love to hear a fruit stand guy shout back:

Really, you mean mittens are a must when it's so cold not even Pyro can get a match going? I've spent the last six hours using these completely frozen grapefruits to do some duckpin bowling on the sidewalk, and here I was thinking I just had a bad batch. Thanks Human Version of Wikipedia! My humble Bengali roots didn't prepare me for this highly technical knowledge.

If you really want to make these guys feel better, give them a tip.

One Angry Man

I “served” on a jury in the summer of 2007. It was just one day. The parties settled, so my service amounted to sitting in a room for several hours next to a bunch of other frustrated jurors-to-be. Naturally, I walked out of that courthouse with my bosom popping, as I always do after performing sacred civic duties.

Cut to a few months ago: I received a notice in the mail saying that if I haven’t served on a jury in the last six years, I am eligible to regress back into the jury pool.

I wrote back, giving my address at the time of service and the year in which I served (a little less than four years ago). In return I received a summons for jury duty. Apparently, my name, my address at the time of service, and my year of service wasn’t enough to help them narrow things down. Never count on a bureaucrat to connect any dots (or to even have a pen for the dot-connecting).

The juror website for my state offers no useful info. for contacting someone to explain any of this, because if it provided this function, people would use it to clear up the kinds of misunderstandings that lead to their being called to serve on juries when they aren’t actually eligible to serve on them. This is not an accident.

So I go to the Manhattan courthouse to explain this. I brought my new summons, along with my original summons from 2007, the jury questionnaire I filled out in 2007, and a paystub from 2007 showing my old address. This would be enough documentation to get a home mortgage loan, a lease on a pre-owned hovercraft, and an orphan from Darfur, so I figured it would be more than enough to verify that I sat in a jury room for one day in 2007.

When I showed the woman at the courthouse my paperwork, she acted like I’d handed her a used heroin needle. “No, you have to have your original certificate of service!” Evidently every document related to said service is irrelevant. I started to ask if she could just check with Queens (the county I served in), but she interjected with “We have no way of checking the records in Queens.”

Jury duty is spoken of as this sacred function, and in some cases, the decisions made by juries are a matter of life and death. Yet the databases of New York’s five boroughs lack the ability to communicate with each other about the folks performing this sacred duty. It seems Lady Justice is also blind to fax machines.

She gave me the number to call in Queens. I got someone on the line and gave my name, my old address, and the date on which I served. Within seconds, the woman in Queens was able to verify that I had served. I then asked how I could obtain a new certificate of service to satisfy the people in Manhattan. She said I could either go all the way out to the Queens courthouse (Jamaica, Queens, which is only slightly closer than Jamaica the island), or they could mail it to my old address. I told her I didn’t live there anymore. She said they could only mail it to the old address. I tried to ask if she could somehow communicate to Manhattan that Queens had a record of my service. She said my only option was to trek all the way out to the Queens courthouse to get a copy of the record. And of course, they don’t have evening hours. Why make things at all workable for the people who are employed and pay the taxes that keep courthouses operational in the first place?

So I go all the way out to the Jamaica Queens courthouse. It takes about an hour to get there. After going through security, I ask the guy where to go to obtain records. He sends me to a spot on the other side of the courthouse. When I get there, the signs I see give me a hunch that I’m in the wrong place. While on line I get on my cell and call the Queens helpline to make sure I’m in the right place. They tell me to go to the jury room for records. I head to the jury room. There are a handful of jurors-to-be sitting around (I’m guessing everyone was at lunch), but not a single official in sight. Literally not even one.

I walk back out and try to speak to a different security guy. He cuts me off and gives me another room number. I go upstairs to this new room; it’s marked as the room for jurors with questions. Not exactly what I was asking for, but at least we’re getting warmer.

In this room there was a woman leaning against the counter. She asked if she could help. As I started to explain why I was there, she cut me off, pointed to a bench and said, “Someone will be with you.” Before I could give any details, she just commanded me to sit…like I was a troubled dog on a troubled dog reality show. So I sat on this bench. NO ONE ELSE WAS WAITING. No one. Just me. There were probably 5 or 6 courthouse workers behind the desk chit-chatting (I learned that one of them was trying to lose weight). I sat there while the people behind the desk, who according to the signs, are there to answer questions, did nothing. They certainly weren’t answering any questions (except those related to their co-worker's diet strategy).

Finally a guy appears and offers to help. I explain my situation, and am again told to go to the jury room. I retreat back down the stairs and trudge back to the jury room. Once again, not a single official in sight. I started walking around in circles, thinking I must be missing something. After making a few laps around the mostly empty room, I find a little nook in the corner with an open door. I see two guys inside. I ask if they can get my records. One of them says YES HE CAN. DING! DING! DING!

Some obvious: Why weren’t there lots of signs identifying this as the records room? Why didn’t anyone on the phone or in person tell me to look for this room within the jury room? I can tell you its location wasn’t obvious.

The guy in this room was actually helpful, and I managed to get two copies of my certificate of service.

I went all the way back to the Manhattan courthouse (another hour-plus journey). I dealt with the same woman as before. I handed her my certificate. She adopted a nagging tone and lobbed this at me: “Come next August, you’ll be eligible again.”

Not: “Hey thanks for being patient with our embarrassingly outdated process.”

Not: “Hey thanks for being honest enough to comply.”

Not: “Hey thanks for paying the skyhigh taxes that allow me and my Kafka-villain colleagues to buy the paperwork we use to tapeworm your time.”

Nope, just another rap on the knuckles as I walked out the door. And we’re supposed to trust this system to make a sound judgment about whom to execute?

Random Acts of Randomness

You probably heard about that shooting that happened yesterday by the Empire State Building. I used to work just two blocks away from there, and less than a month ago, I had my farewell company lunch at the Heartland Brewery; the restaurant you saw on the news, the restaurant that had the gunfire right in front of it. Yep, not thirty days ago, I was eating lunch there. You’re probably thinking: “Wow, makes you think.”

Not really.

Yes, it could have been me. But it could have been me ANY day. It could be me today. A similar shooting could take place at the deli around the corner from my apartment. I’d be caught flat-footed, and would fill up with lead before I knew what was happening.

But getting back to yesterday’s shooting: The shooter had been out of work for what…a year, so hypothetically he could have stopped by during any of those days; not just yesterday. I walked by there quite frequently. Any day over the last year, I could have been there on a day when the shooter snapped. I could have been caught in the crossfire.

But what is always lost in the idiotic media coverage of these kinds of events is that that chance—the chance of encountering unpredictable violence-- exists every single day. Every time you interact with the world, worst case scenarios are all around you (and you can also get hurt at home of course). Every square inch of Earth has the potential for violence. Every square inch of Earth has already experienced violence. Every time you take a step forward, you are walking on someone’s grave. It wasn’t always concrete.

Every single day you are surrounded by disaster, and despite what the news might lead you to believe, extreme violence can happen anywhere at any time. Your parents weren’t totally crazy to plant that idea in your idea. Every subway car you ride probably has at least one person on the edge. Every mile of highway you drive down probably at least one person with a kettle of violence brewing inside him. And he already has a deadly weapon…his car.

But although violence can happen anywhere at any time, it rarely does. And the kind of chaotic violence that took place by the Empire State Building is such a low probability event that it isn’t worth thinking about. It doesn’t make sense to alter your life one bit to account for the possibility of ultra-low probability events. The only thing to “learn” from these events is that yes, you’re never completely safe anywhere, and when you see something that looks amiss, there is nothing wrong with crossing the street. It can pay to be paranoid.

Yes, in aggregate, some places are more violent than others, and yes, walking down the street at 3:00 AM is probably a bigger risk than doing it at 3:00 PM. But that is about all you can do to “avoid” violence; basic risk management.

So turn off the news and go on with your life like nothing happened. Be vigilant, but don’t lose sight of the cold, hard statistics, which favor your continued (mostly) safe existence. In other words, be a nerd with an edge (too bad those skinny jeans will make it nearly impossible to run away from the perpetrators).

Mel's Valedictorian Diner

Restaurant grading has become a big thing in New York City. Each restaurant now sports its report card in the window; Grade A, Grade B. Takes me back to my old forged report cards... But alas, like with any other restaurant-related phenomenon in NYC, people are taking restaurant grades far too seriously. Recently I was out with someone who refused to go into a restaurant because its report card said "Grade Pending." I was like..."You eat at home, don't you? What kind of grade do you think your kitchen would get? Summer school. That's what it would get. Or maybe Cooking as a Second Language."

Foodies will eat anything because they'll believe anything

Manhattan is famous for its quaint little specialty restaurants. Some are enjoyable. Who doesn't love a Hungarian deli? But lately the lovable shops have become outnumbered by surreal foodie hubs that appeal to a total of four freakish palettes. The specialty shops have gone from specializing to festishizing.

You walk through the Village these days and encounter tempting delights like:

Crepes and Capers!

Cayenne Muffin Sliders

Mama's Grilled Cheese Milkshakes (served by poodles on mopeds)

None sound appealing, but because they're so specialized, foodies (who claim not to fall for America's unfortunate eating trends) can't help themselves.

A perfect example of this is The Meatball Shop. People keep harassing me to try it. I have asked those who have gone there: before The Meatball Shop, when was the last time you had a meatball sandwich?

I don't know, 15 years?

SO WHY ARE YOU STANDING IN LINE FOR 20 MINUTES TO GET ONE NOW?!

But all they do is meatballs! It must be good!!!

You hate meatballs! And you're a vegan!

Yeah, but you can get vegan meatballs!

If you have to get a fake version of the restaurant's specialty to justify going there, you shouldn't be going there. I don't care if Groupon had a special.

I'm going to open a restaurant that only serves school lunch food. That's right. The kind of crap that made you gag when you were in school...now it's at a restaurant! Complete with angry, wart-laced lunch ladies and warped plastic trays that have been in use since the Civil War.

Of course, too much choice is better than too little. Better to roll your eyes at New York's fetishistic cuisine than to be stranded in some part of the country where they really do Thank Goodness It's Friday.

Renter's Remorse II: The Move

I finally found an apartment. Thanks for asking.

An apartment I had viewed and declined in December was posted again on Craigslist. In light of the toll my apartment hunt was taking on my wellbeing, the reservations I had when I first viewed said apartment suddenly seemed nano-sized. The apartment was also listed by an individual owner, not a property company, allowing me to escape the cabal of vile secretaries and boil-covered middlemen you normally encounter at property “management” firms.

The downside to this new apartment; it was in Midtown Manhattan, which is like Jersey Shore for 90-year-olds. Midtown is a place where the residents are prehistoric, short of breath, and dressed like they’re gonna party like it’s 1929. Where plastic surgery has found a way to create cheeks that are saggy and dog-like, yet wrinkle-free. Where the women wear enough granny perfume to destroy three ozone layers. Where Casual Friday means you don’t wear mink underwear.

Oh well, I was happy to have the apartment hunt behind me. And although some fellow comedians (Jhoel Walkowski, Mick Diflo, Kip Potharas, and Dan Goodman) offered to help me move, I decided to book a professional mover off Craigslist.

I didn’t have much to transport; a TV, an office chair, 6 boxes and 3 suitcases…no big deal. As is always the case the night before a move, I was unable to sleep a wink.

The next morning the movers show up (almost on time!). I go downstairs to greet them. It is warm and sunny; a perfect day for a move. Out of nowhere the super of the building appears…

“No no no…this isn’t happening today!”

He tells me that in order to move out, I have to get permission from the property manager. The mover has to fax their info. to the building’s management company, it takes at least 3 days to get approval, and you have to pay a $500 security deposit in case something happens to the building.

I explain that I’m not even moving real furniture. We’re talking about a TV, an office chair, 6 boxes and 3 suitcases…no mattresses, no china cabinets, no Arks of the Covenant. Simple move; in and out in 10 minutes.

He again tells me it’s not going to happen and gives me the building company’s number. Of course they don’t answer.

Now I’m standing with the movers as they look on in disbelief. The clock is running.

I try pleading with the super. He shakes his head like a cartoon sheriff: “This ain’t happening today.”

I couldn’t believe it. In three years I had never had an issue with this super. I also never asked him for anything. I'm the guy who when he talks to supers takes this tone: “Can you just make it so the raw sewage only comes out of the cold side of the faucet?”

Now I can’t move out, I have taken a day off work for nothing, I’m looking at a three-day waiting period to move out (who knew it was easier to buy a handgun than to transport a coffeemaker?), and I have to pay the movers who moved nothing a $60 traveling fee.

Serenity now!

That afternoon I get my landlady on the phone. She freaks out about the obstruction and says that she is going to move me herself. My landlady is probably less than 100 lbs. I ask if she thinks she can physically do it. She insists she can. I tell her the super is going to catch us again and cause problems. She says we’ll do it early before he starts work.

Morning comes. My landlady is running late. The super catches her entering the building and a standoff ensues. Had it been the Old West, they might have drawn pistols…

My super examines my sparse belongings and agrees to let me move out, but insists on going by the moving-out gospel. He puts down cardboard in the hall (so that the suitcase wheels wouldn’t damage the floors?). He makes us go through the basement and up some tricky stone steps. He makes my landlady write him a $500 security check in case of damage (the only way we could have done damage to the stone steps was if I had been moving a jackhammer with no off switch).

My landlady is in such a rage she develops superhuman strength and insists on moving most of the stuff herself! And she did. With ease. And her last name isn’t even Ver Magnússon!

We get the stuff onto the sidewalk. My landlady gets her check back. At least something has gone right.

Now we have to find two cabs to take us to the new building. We wait out in the bleak, blustery morning air. Cabs are seeing us and quickly zipping past. They usually don’t care for moving furniture.

I finally get one minivan cab to stop. We load half my stuff and proceed to the new building. My new building has a long list of rules about moving that now have me quivering with fear. What if I get to the new place and they have some rule about no moving via cab?

I nervously call my new super to let him know I’m on my way and that I'm doing a cab-move. His response: “I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

WOW...didn't see that coming.

I get to the new building and the new super graciously helps me move my stuff from the curb to the freight elevator. Talk about a tale of two supers!

It takes another 30 minutes for my poor landlady to get a cab. This incredible woman used her day off to move my stuff, and had to idle in the freezing cold while being passed by cabs, all because of the absurd obstructions of a city that prides itself on getting things done quickly.

My new super was ultra-helpful getting my junk into my new apartment, and did it all with a smile. And my beleaguered, put-upon landlady uttered not a single complaint. What a stroke of luck that I had them involved.

So anyway, I’m happy to be moved. No so thrilled about where I moved to. Only fossils and folks with the soul of a wet cigar move to Midtown. I’m a little bit fossil, a little bit wet cigar, so I guess I belong.

Renter's Remorse

For weeks I have been in a tizzy trying to find an apartment. Rent in Manhattan is spiking because sales are slow. No buyers means more renters and fewer vacancies and higher broker fees. Some brokers are now trying to charge 15% of the annual rent as a fee!

Naturally, I have done all I can to avoid brokers. I have stood on line at open houses (only to find that the apartment was 12' x 14'. Not a typo.). I have been stood up by owners who were supposed to show me their apartment (leaving me standing helpless in the piercing cold). I have looked at probably 20 apartments. I have filled out applications and unsuccessfully battled to have them reviewed in a timely manner. I have fielded lots of calls from brokers ("Yeah, you called about an apartment." Nope, never made one call). I have sent at least 150 emails. You get the picture.

A slow motion nervous breakdown was setting in. I was about to drop out of life and move back in with my parents. Suddenly I got a call from a broker...

Broker: I have an alcove studio in your neighborhood that just opened up.

Me: What floor is it on?

Broker: Second floor.

Me: Does it laundry?

Broker: Yes.

Me: How big?

Broker: 600 square feet. A real alcove studio. You're going to love it. I can show it tomorrow during the day. Can't wait until evening. It will go fast.

Everyone always says apartments are going to go fast. However, during this apartment search, I have found that to be true. A few apartments I was scheduled to see after work were gone by the time I was supposed to see them.

I agreed to view this promising alcove studio on my lunch break...

I arrived at the agreed upon spot and stood in the vengeful winter wind. When the broker's lackey appeared, he said we had to take a walk to get the key. So much for the "convenience" of hiring an apartment finder.

We walk a few streets, shivering every step of the way. I stress that I'm on my lunch break and don't have much time. This bounces right off Brokerbot. He has his canned questions, and they're going to be sputtered no matter what:

How many apartments have you seen?

When can you move in?

I told him I could move in Feb. 1st. He said immediate move-in was required.

I wait outside while Brokerbot enters a building to get the key. He comes back out and starts confusedly reciting the address over and over. The address that he can't seem to decipher indicates that the address is actually a few streets north of what the broker originally told me (those few streets make a difference). We start hiking north...

We reach the building. It looks like an ogre's mouth. An ogre unconcerned about dental hygiene.

We trudge up the dilapidated, Frankenstein Castle steps to the third floor (not the second like I was told).

We reach the apartment. It is a construction site. Literally. No walls, no doors, nothing. In fact there is a work crew inside gutting and rebuilding the dump from scratch!!!

For the sake of who knows what I asked about laundry. There is no laundry. Another falsehood. It also isn't anywhere near 600 square feet.

Me: I can't do an immediate move-in to an unfinished apartment.

Brokerbot: I've seen them renovate apartments in a day.

After being lied to about every single detail of the apartment, I'm supposed to take Brokerbot's word for it that the apartment will be renovated quickly and presented in acceptable working order. And in the meantime I'm going to be paying rent on this junkyard until the renovation is complete. AND paying a broker's fee for my troubles.

I start storming down the stairs. Brokerbot follows me.

Brokerbot: This is a good price. It will go fast!

I reach the sidewalk. Brokerbot is relentless.

Brokerbot: It will go fast (In fairness, Brokerbot may have just been a wind-up doll programmed to recite three phrases).

Me: I know I didn't speak to you on the phone, but the apartment isn't where I was told it would be. I was told it was on the second floor. It's on the third. I was told there was laundry. There's no laundry. And it's not even finished! You didn't show me an apartment. You showed me a construction site!

Brokerbot: It will go fast.

Maybe it will go fast, but not as fast as a person's faith in humanity when talking to apartment brokers.



To be continued...

Scenes from a New York Barber Shop

I need a haircut. I need a lot of other things too; complete facial reconstruction or a decent Brad Pitt mask, but there are only so many shopping hours in the day.

On my way home this afternoon I passed a hot Eastern European woman who was distributing flyers for a neighborhood barber shop offering $10.00 haircuts. I asked her if she came with the haircut. She said yes, but only if I multiplied the price of the haircut by 1,000,000. There are only so many zeroes in my bank account.

The barber shop was nearby, and one of the barbers was idling out front, so I assumed they were hungry for business. Maybe I'd even be a miser and talk them down to $9.00.

I asked the guy if the flyer was for his barber shop. He said no. I looked around and didn't notice any other hair-clipping establishments on the street. I looked up at his awning. Indeed, it was the same address as the one on the flyer.

"This coupon isn't for your barber shop?"

"No, that's not here."

"So this isn't for your shop?"

"No, not here."

I appealed to the awning. His reaction told me the appeal isn't a form of jurisprudence that has reached the barber community.

Classic New York. You get an offer for a discount, and the whole thing turns out to be fine print. It's not even a "bait and switch." It's a "bait and deny all knowledge of the bait." And the baiter acts like you're the idiot.

I gave up haggling with the guy. Whether the coupon was "real" or not, it definitely was for his shop. How this "misunderstanding" came about is for the reader to decide. I'm all for conspiracy theories, but I rather doubt one of the barber's enemies from the Old Country took the time to print fake flyers for his shop and then hired a hot chick to hand them out. True, she may not exactly have been "hired." I have heard of Eastern European hotties being used for sex trafficking. What I haven't heard of is them being used for dandruff trafficking.

I still need a haircut.

SLOW COOKED FOR THE SLOW-WITTED

If someone tells you he knows a great BBQ spot in New York, severe ties with that person. There is no such thing. In a city crawling with scams, the illusion of "quality BBQ" is one of the hardest to tolerate (you thought I was going to say "hardest to swallow" didn't you, you cynical skank).

Most NYC barbecue destinations are wickedly overpriced. Leave it to Manhattanites to pay a premium for blue-collar cuisine. To those not held captive by Zagatspeak, barbecue should be synonymous with bargain. You will see a humble backwoods church scraping together funds for a summer barbecue. You won't see that church holding a Palm Sunday Beluga Bake.

NYC barbecue isn't so much a parody of the South as it is New York self-parody. What could be more New York than overpaying for a third-rate version of po' folks' grub? Instead of blogging, I should open a rib shack called "3-Course Monte."

Before you know it, these conned-mopolitans will be paying top shekel for "gourmet military rations."

Speaking of "down home" food in NYC, I'm seeing sweet potatoes on more and more menus, and I'm not liking what I see. Most restaurants don't realize or don't care that sweet potatoes contain more water and therefore must be prepared differently. Now that SP fries are everywhere, a generation of suckers is being raised to believe that soggy, orangish salt sticks are a cherished delicacy. How will we know when we've lost sweet potatoes for good? When Ronald McDonald has toxic "McSweeties" falling out of his McFro.