Audio By Carbonatix
New York City
is an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord. The shops, the bars, the shows, the sights — it’s all laid out for you, much like the spread at a Country Buffet. And when you first walk into that Country Buffet, stomach empty, tastebuds curious, this chaotic orgy of options looks like the greatest place in the world. Chicken and dumplings? Country-fried steak? Navy-bean soup? Why, yes, yes, and then yes again, sir. And while you’re at it, go ahead and fill this bejeweled goblet I brought from home with your creamiest macaroni and cheese. Fill it, I say! I’ll be at the potato bar, snorting Bacon Bits.
But after you finally eat your fill, you suddenly see Country Buffet for the black Hades of gluttony that it is. The fried shrimp and orange chicken don’t seem nearly as appetizing. Those kids stuffing their fat fucking American fatty fat fat cheeks with mashed potatoes and gravy don’t look remotely endearing. And that musty old geriatric melting in the booth? Well, you just want to smother the life out of her right there in the restaurant, don’t you? It’s okay to feel that way, because it’s not your fault. It’s the fault of Country Buffet.
And after five recent days in NYC, I realized it wasn’t my fault for feeling that way, either. It was the city’s.
Allow What’s So Funny to use a big word like “quantify,” and quantify my statement by saying that these are my feelings and my feelings alone. I understand that certain people love New York and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. But unless I had millions of dollars and could exist in a Trump-like bubble of wealth in that city, thus avoiding having small children blow their snot into my jacket on the subway, I could never cut it there, just as I could never eat every meal at a Country Buffet.
My New York friends do not understand this sentiment. In fact, they are quite baffled by it. For them, New York is the epicenter of the universe, the one and only place where success can be measured: “Adam, you’re a creative type, when are you going to move to New York and really have a go at it?” Never mind that these people were all creative types in college, too, and are now either selling real estate, in law school, or working for a nonprofit — the three options available to mid-twenty-somethings in that city. For them, the only mark of success is to “make it” in New York, like someone put Frank Sinatra on repeat, and all they can think about is when is somebody going to start spreading the goddamn news? And boy howdy, if you tell those people that you’re pleased as punch out here in Denver, Colorado, it’s enough to make their heads pop.
“Denver, really? I mean, what’s going on in Denver?”
When a group of friends asked me that, I thought about all the things I could mention: the beautiful weather, the open sky, the vibrant, accessible, supportive cultural scene exploding in every corner of the city. But instead I decided to put it in terms that they, as New Yorkers, could understand: “Our homeless people be off the motherfucking chain.”
And it’s true. I’ve always felt that you can judge a city by the caliber of its homeless, and on that front, Denver is positively cosmopolitan. This past Christmas, I saw a man at an intersection holding a sign that read “Ho Ho Homelessand Disabled.” Come on, people, that’s brilliant! I gave him five bucks. Then the other day on Colfax, I saw a guy walking down the street with all of his possessions wrapped up in a white sheet and — get this — tied in a ball to a stick, like he was a goddamned hobo or something! Excuse me, Tom Joad, but California’s thataway. But by far the best example of Denver’s increased transient activity, and thus its ascension into the realm of world-class cities, cities besides NYC that are worth living in, comes from a Denver Police Department report uncovered by What’s So Funny’s two illegal-immigrant interns, Octavio and Miguel. (Just try to get at ’em, Tancredo; both those cholos know mex-jitsu.)
The incident happened at Colfax and Josephine, and the report reads: “Investigation revealed that the above listed suspect went up to the victim’s listed vehicle and began cleaning the front windshield with a squeegee. The victim told the listed suspect to not touch her car, and the victim drove away. The listed suspect then hit the victim’s vehicle with the squeegee, breaking her windshield. The listed suspect then fled the location.”
Holy shit, that’s amazing! It sucks that homegirl had her windshield broken, but let’s look at the bigger picture: We’ve finally got squeegee guys! And not just squeegee guys, but well-dressed ones: The suspect was described as wearing jeans, a red jacket and a pink hat. A pink hat! Here in Denver, we have an irate pink-hatted squeegee guy who pretty much doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s the rugged and rough Wild West.
So, New York friends, while I appreciate your provincial invitation to come live inside a Country Buffet, I think I’m going to keep it meat-and-potatoes here in D-town for a while yet. After all, your homeless squeegee guys were rounded up by Giuliani and sold to Mark Burnett for future Survivor episodes years ago. Out here, ours are just getting started. It’s an exciting time to be alive. It’s an exciting time to be in Denver.
