Tuesday, April 19, 2016

New York, New York.

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This Gershwin classic is, of course, about London.

And my post is about New York.

The city where I've spent my life.

Where I've lived, played, worked, raised two daughters, paid taxes, and if my retirement plan holds out, will die.

It's the city I love.

The city that hands you a surprise or a laugh every block.

This morning, feeling less than sanguine about the state of America (the result of voting once again for a candidate I dislike and using 1930s technology to do it.) I was feeling beaten and careworn and, yes, worn out.

I stopped at a deli--a beaten little place on 10th Avenue and 47th Street. Amid the cats' piss and methadone. A rickety linoleum floor. Dripping pipes. And a short-order cook cursing at his eggs.

Then I saw this guy. I asked if I could take his picture.

"Yeah, gahead," he said. "A lot of people comment on this one."

I snapped. I laughed.

And felt better, somehow, about the state of the world.

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