Last week, a writing professor at Columbia (you know, the lesser of the Ivy League schools) sent a horrifying e-mail to her former students, singing the many praises of her new job, new writing program and new city. While she spent the majority of the e-mail bragging up Columbia, she did include these choice gems toward the end:
“Although I have taught at a number of the most highly regarded MFA programs in this country and in England, there’s only one other place I’ve ever taught where there was a comparable atmosphere, and that was MIT, where I taught for 3 years. At both places the crackle of intellectual energy in the air is almost visible, like blue fire.”
“The crackle of intellectual energy in the air is almost visible, like blue fire”?!? Bitch needs to go back to writing school.
Anyway, she then continues on the many joys of living in Manhattan! The MOMA! The Met! “Al Pacino on stage as Shylock in the Merchant of Venice…This is Cloud Nine living on the Upper West Side (which is known to my agent and my Norton editor, who live in Greenwich Village, as ‘Upstate Manhattan.’ ) We love it.”
Oh, Upstate Manhattan! You silly girls, you just so crazy! What I wouldn’t give to wrap myself up in a Coldwater Creek pashmina, swap kitty photos and share a bottle of White Zin on a Saturday night after a show at Lincoln Center with you!
Basically, real New Yorkers visit a museum like once, twice, three times tops, per year–and that’s just because we’re trying to find a family-friendly activity to appease Mom and Dad that doesn’t involve the Olive Garden in Times Square. We’re all too busy working and would rather pull out a vital fingernail with a tweezers than go to the Met on a weekend.
Welcome to the worst kind of people in New York—the recent, overexcited, overexaggerating, overcompensating transplant. Moving to New York does not automatically make you smarter, funnier, more talented and/or more interesting than everyone else in the country. It just means you’re a masochist who has an unnatural ability to share tiny, dirty spaces with millions of other dirty, disgusting people. Or you’re a trust-fund brat with a fully funded two-bedroom to share with your sorority bestie in Murray Hill. Either way, you’re an asshole, and the rest of us really don’t want you here.
Here are some other things you, Rest of America, are missing by Not Being in New York:
1. According to the NY Times in 2008: “More than one-fourth of adult New Yorkers — 26 percent, compared to the national average of 19 percent — are infected with herpes simplex virus 2, the virus that causes genital herpes.” Leave it to us to overachieve, even in the STD game.
2. Despite an MTA hike a year or two back and more service cuts and completely inferior service, the MTA is talking once again about hiking rates by 17 percent for unlimited passes to $104 per month. We are the costliest pass in the country, with Chicago coming in a close second with, yes, an inferior system to ours. Just one ride on the moving toilet that is New York City’s subway system and even the staunchest environmentalist may be rethinking their travel options. Fuck, I miss my Civic.
3. Hey, do you enjoy paying a shit-ton of money to live above a very large extended family that is constantly arguing in Hindi and spitting? Neither do I.
4. Public defecation. It happens. And it happens to everyone. You will witness this if you live here.
5. $7.50 for a Guinness. A Guinness?!? I mean, that’s not even some high alcohol content, IPA shit from a unicorn’s ass or anything like that.
6. “Here he is… Mr. Brooklyn!” The onslaught of Zach Galifianakiseseses. Funny on the screen? Debatable. Funny when he’s trying to fuck you? Definitely not.
7. Nepotism to the nth degree.
8. Nightclubs and lounges. It never ceases to amaze me how skanky and cheap they are—here is where Vegas has NYC beat for the most part. While clubs/lounges tend to have a sleaze-factor everywhere, at least Vegas manages to swap the furniture out when it gets disgusting. Visit a NYC club and it looks like the cast of Jersey Shore dropped their drinks and gizzed everywhere.
9. Puke-stained sidewalks. Everywhere.
10. And probably the one thing that will strike fear into the hearts of even the most hardened New Yorker—bed bugs.
So, suck on that, ’Mer-kuh. But, oh yeah. We got art museums.