Street of Dreams

Ah, 8th avenue, in the 40’s, at 12:15am on a weeknight! Such charm. Such beauty. Such je ne sais quoi (that‘s right I‘ve been to Paris.) And on a balmy, summer’s evening such as this - such a fine variety of aromas. Has there ever been a more enchanting locale? Come. Join me. Take in this unique, and sidewalk-clogging blend of the slimy, sleazy, scary, skeezy (if it’s not a word, it should be) denizens; who cross paths with the somewhat wide-eyed, somewhat anxious and definitely, somewhat alarmed, Phantom/Wicked attending tourists; while also sharing that very same real estate with the bridge and tunnel-ers, rapidly hoofing their way to and from the Port of Authority. Add some, post-witching hour, alcohol into the mix, and Ringling’s animal abusing, traveling show is no circus compared to this. Now I unabashedly, unashamedly love New York. I always have and I always will. It is a place of which I never tire. It’s inimitable, irreplaceable ... I love New York the way mid-life crisis, Republican men love Sarah Palin. Well, actually my love of New York is much more wholesome than that, but you get the point. And I should find a certain like-able, colorful, character to 8th avenue, but when you have to trek it almost daily, any kind of charm quickly wanes. I suppose I should be more tolerant and less judgmental, but I pay a lot to live here, so I’m not going to be. So, please, step aside, five astride vacationers. Keep it moving, nine to five suburban dwellers. And pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again, 8th avenue irregulars. I just need to get to where I’m going with minimal muss and fuss.