It's a Mad Mad Mad Madhattan World

Yesterday on the phone, my father suggested that I should document my time here in Manhattan so I can look back, and remember how poor I was. And it seemed like such a brilliant idea; though my life becomes redundant from my perspective, I transport myself back to where I was a year ago, stuck in the Midwest, the proverbial buckle of the Bible Belt, and thinking of what sorts of shenanigans I manage to get myself into. So, without further adieu, it is my adventures in Manhattan.

I've been living in this fair, fine, fiscally draining city for nearly three months. In that time, I have experienced much of the City. I have been harassed not only by construction workers, but Teamsters, illegal immigrants, and fratty NYU college kids. I have gotten horribly lost in Alphabet City, The Village, and anywhere and everywhere off the grid. I have seen (and met) several celebrities, and been mistaken for some myself (Kirsten Dunst, Piper Perabo, and Nicole Kidman, in case you were wondering. The Nicole Kidman, unfortunately, was by a tourist group from Korea. We all look the same). Indeed, New York is grand.

There is everything you could ever want here, if you have the motivation and the economy isn't as lame as my great uncle's old Carin terrier, Colonel. Within a mile of my humble studio, there are culinary delights - anywhere from Ethiopian to Peruvian to Scandinavian. There is the wonder of "Hot and Crusty." Though I was at first hesitant to eat somewhere that sounded vaguely like the symptoms of gonorrhea, I have learned to embrace all that is East Village.

I always love riding on the subway. Most New Yorkers are so jaded to it that they lose the experience, but not I! As a New New Yorker, the novelty has not yet been lost. Today, for instance, there was a guy on the L train knitting a sweater. A sweater. On the L train. Love the oddity.

A few weeks ago, a co-tern (co-intern) and I went to a photographer's book expo. Among the French Connection plaid shirts and United Colors of Benetton jackets, there were photographs. Of exceptional, unique teenagers from across America. There was a football player from Minnesota, a goth kid hanging out on a candy-colored playground. And just then, while Lindsay and I were enjoying the simplicity and honesty of these photographs, there were yells. Oh no, I thought! Teenage-hating-ne'er-do-well's! But my fears were assuaged momentarily. Oh, it was just teenagers in spanx and glitter and...

CHEERLEADERS.

Everything I fought so fiercely against in high school.

They began their cheers to baffled onlookers. I wouldn't wonder if this was the first specs of glitter every SoHo-nian hipster had seen since their own high school days. Then there were the flips. One cheerleader, hoisted in the air by the ever-cliche male cheerleader. She stands on one leg like a pelican. And then does a complicated triple dismount maneuver. At that exact moment, with the cheering of the crowds and the heat in the room and the flashes of the glitter, I wanted to be a cheerleader.

Gross. Please don't judge me.

So, that is my life in a nutshell. Two unpaid/lowpaid internships - advertising and journalism - I suspect that my dreams will be pushed to the wayside, but until that day, I remain hopeful. And I keep my eyes open.

You know you love me, XO X---

Not.

Until next time, loyal reader(s), I remain,

East Villager