Let me start by explaining that I am not one of yours. I am an “Angeleno,” by way of Chicago, an outsider, a frequent enough visitor who certainly wishes he saw more of you. But as such I’d also have to believe it’s easier for me to tell whether you’ve gotten slow or gray or skinny or fat, than it is for your husband or sister or mother, a lover or a lifer. And I’ll tell you the truth because that’s all I’ve got.
Some would say you lost your heart a long time ago, well before LCD blew up and Chumley’s fell down, “Gossip Girl” closed streets and brought Hollywood to Hell’s Kitchen, before Interpol started playing arenas and Passerby shuttered and your “cool kids” started going out like suckers, before the LES turned into yuppie town, before Giuliani and the Disnification of Times Square, before most of us were old enough to really know who you were in the first place.
Recently I watched some of your biggest defenders become defectors and have spent much time listening to other exasperated lifers, unhappy with the new you, talking about calling it quits. All the talk was starting to get to me and I disembarked at JFK wondering whether or not you’d be there to greet me again, or if maybe, just maybe, you’d finally become that dreaded city for the rich by the rich, so many worried you’d be one day.
So this visit I took my time. I walked a little slower and looked a little harder and sure enough, found you once again…
in Columbus Park mornings of Tai-chi and mahjong.
in late nights at Lit with Mr. Mustache spinning oldies.
in the new kids with cool haircuts still smoking and swinging at Sway at closing time after all these years.
below the surface, in back rooms, in Chinatown after dark.
in dirty water dog and dumpling vendors.
in the “meat lover’s.”
in the Toughskin 10-year old on his scooter calling out winos in the park.
in drunken Jersey imports cat-calling sloppy, mini skirt girls in the Meatpacking district. Yes, even in them too.
in masterfully constructed late night deli sandwiches.
in your disdain for all things L.A. and your joy in sharing it with me.
in the rats that own, while you still rent.
in long walks home in sweater weather.
in cream and sugar morning coffees at Fay Da.
in the homeless man drying his wet money in the forced air of a JMZ subway grate.
in the hot young tongues wrapped around each other between Pim’s Cups in the dark corners of Employees Only after midnight.
in well-crafted downtown disco sets at China Chalet dance parties, where the bar’s dead and the dance floor’s packed.
in smiles shared with the Indian dude behind the counter at Doughnut Plant.
in falafel stands owned by Arabs 100 yards from the footprint of the Twin Towers.
in the doo-wop group filling duffel bags with cash down in the 14th street station.
in the Upper West Side preps smiling as they lead their Waldo pledge somewhere secret and public that will beg the question.
in a clap along to Phoenix’ last song in the refugee camp outside the gates of Summerstage.
in an endless, backbreaking limbo line after hours in the backroom of Café Select.
in the moon that inspired a Christopher cross song hanging in a batch of blue clouds over the Hudson.
in my girl from Far Rockaway on the A train who shared with me about the loss of her mother at 20 as we admired the weathered graves of The Evergreens.
in missed connections and new discoveries.
in the know.
in the now.
in the everyday.
So for what it’s worth I still love you.
As if you even care,
kostrzak
