Ever run into a person from New York City? Certainly you haven't run into anyone from New York City, but rather someone
who, after leaving their farming village or mid-level, mundane existence in
some random suburb across the United States who read a romance novel or
pseudo-intellectual novel or watched a cinema film of questionable value and
decided hey, New York City is the place
to be! Because Sinatra sang about it
(dude, he sang about everywhere), then it must be A-OK!
So they pack their bags and run up there and maybe five
years later, they infest some other city in a more civilized portion of America
and say ridiculous things like "I'm still not used to the pace here after living in New York"
or bemoan the dearth of Chinese joints open at four in the morning or lament
the lines into the nightclubs are too short.
Or refer to Manhattan as THE CITY
and expect everyone to know what they are talking about.
With the exception of the horrible events that took place
against America on September 11, 2001 a.d., I love it when bad things happen to
New Yorkers. Frankenstorms, massive
blackouts, the Yankees losing in the playoffs ... these things give me a
perverted sense of glee and it honestly is not because of some geopolitical or
socioeconomic or historic facet, but rather because of New Yorkers or former
New Yorkers or even wannabe New Yorkers.
No, it is not the city that I hate, but rather the people.
Some will jump to defend the arrogant populace, claiming
that New York has such great theatre.
Really? Those plays aren't
reproduced across the country in smaller, more friendly confines? How many of those playwrights are actually
from the city? I've seen better plays
from writers in Dublin, Brazil, other places... No, you don't get that
one.
I actually like Saturday
Night Live when it's good, but those players are trained in Chicago's
Second City.
The crossword puzzle from The New York Times trumps all other crossword puzzles, but the
great Will Shortz is from Indiana and is Indiana-proud, so they don't even get
that.
You see, with the prolificacy of the Internet, we are no
longer reliant on Hollywood or New York City for great works. Film can easily be made, showcased, and
distributed without selling out to the Great Western Casting Couch, sucking up
to sycophants and braving earthquakes.
Theatre and literature can actually exist outside of the five boroughs, without
having to deal with the nation's largest taxi queue. Some folks are realizing this, but it is
hardly a movement. No, the only thing clinging
our art so desperately to these two outmoded cities are the limited mindset of
the Perfectly Average.
So hail the land of your birth, or re-birth, or a reasonable
facsimile thereof. To have an
inferiority complex because you aren't exactly like thirty million other
douchebags is just plain ridiculous.
There is no need to go packing your bags to run off to The City because of outmoded societal
goals. Thanks to brilliant writers like
William Gay, Cormac McCarthy, Daniel Woodrell and yes, even Faulkner, the South
is again beautiful and mysterious and crooked.
So why on earth would we need New York?
So with that, I hail a city that, in a steel cage match,
would bludgeon the shit out of the City that Never Shuts Up. If they can make it there, they can make it
anywhere...
TOP TEN SONGS ABOUT
DALLAS, TEXAS
Inspired by the stylings of Jimmie Rodgers, "the Blue
Yodeler," Autry celebrates one of Big D's greatest institutions. Known as "The Dallas Hotel" by locals,
the imposing structure looms large just South of downtown in the psyche of
everyone crossing the river for liquor.
It doesn't rate highly on its own
Yelp page, but don't let that sway you from enjoying its amenities next
time you are in town. True to the
nickname, it allegedly was once a working hotel, but contrary to urban myth,
not the one where the Beatles stayed during their 1964 tour. That was the Cabana Motor Hotel which,
coincidentally enough, is now a minimum security jail.
There is no other song that sums up my experience growing up
in Dallas or, more appropriately, South of Dallas. If you've ever driven a Plymouth Turismo,
perhaps you understand. In the
succession of shitty cars I drove as I crossed the landscape of Lancaster,
Duncanville, Wilmer-Hutchins, Ennis and environs, Cedar Hill, and yes, even
DeSoto, I spent many days with my car (or my friend's cars - think: shitty VW
bug with a skull painted on the hood) on the side of the road. This was before cell phones, when a person
had to walk to the nearest payphone. In
Texas heat. No, people are pussies now,
plain and simple.
