New Yorkers. They grouse. They groan. They mumble. They grumble.
A train’s on time? It’s crowded. Grab a cab? It’s dirty. Get an apartment? It’s small. See a dress? It’s expensive. Land a job? It’s hell. Lose a lover? It’s tough. Have a lover? It’s tough. Crave a lover? It’s tough.
New job? Yeah, but the boss is a pig. New hair tint? Yeah, but the colorist is sick. A parking spot? Yeah, but I just got a ticket. New guy? Yeah, but who knows how it’ll go. New husband? Yeah, but who knows what I got. New divorce? Yeah, but who knows what I’ll get.
Favorite actress? To someone else: “She’s fat.” Favorite politician? To someone else: “He’s stupid.” Favorite new wonder drug? To someone else: “It’s so powerful you have to be in perfect health to take it.”
Locals are born cranky. A newborn goo-goos to the obstetrician: “You tawkin’ to me?” Anyone perfectly content within these five boroughs is an out-of-towner.
Satisfaction seems not in our genes. A New Yorker’s DNA stands for Don’t Never Admit satisfaction.
Everything about the city is dissed. Crowded. Noisy. Costly. Rude. Busy. Uncaring. Uncompromising. So, ask, so why don’t you move, and they answer: “You nuts? Leave New York? It’s New York. I should leave New York? I love New York.”
Every area has detractors. East side? Snooty. West side? Leftish. Midtown? Mobbed. South Bronx? Too ethnic. Tudor City? Too white-bread. Westchester? Too far. The Village? Too many signs saying, “Keep on the grass.”
Apartment-to-apartment, jammed into a vertical metropolis, there are high heels above clattering on a rugless floor. Below, it’s constant barking from a pet. Also the pet owner. Next door? Walls are thin, and there’s always arguing. Your other neighbor leaves messy garbage. And the super? MIA. In the Witness Protection Program. Never around when you need him.
A lady with a job, home, career, family, car and a gym: “I can’t stand that nobody walks on the right.
Rush hour. Filled with people. Whatever direction they’re going, they should stay on the right. Brits hug the left, so you don’t know how and where to walk to keep going forward.
You bump into hurrying people with packages and can’t go your way or get out of their way. It’s a world of strangers who couldn’t tell which way an escalator’s going even if they had two guesses.”
Another’s pet hate — feet. “A slob making himself comfortable in the train. Plopping up sloshy sneakers on the opposite seat. You stand there. Stare at him. Doesn’t budge. You have to ask does he mind removing his feet? With a 52 waist and IQ to match, this guy glares at you like he’s Newt and you’re Mitt. Eventually, you sit on top of whatever was on the bottom of his shoes.”
The newest misery deals with our newest environment-friendly, high-tech green light bulbs, which last forever and take forever to turn on. If they plop, you must leave the room, open the window, air the environment, get rid of the mercury. An executive in a sleek high-class skyscraper with sealed windows asks, “How you supposed to open them? The next time someone asks what I think about LED, I’m going to answer, ‘He’d make a great president.’ ”
Modern-day manners. One soul — such a lamebrain she should wear orthopedic hats — complained about elevator manners.
Besides eating in them, snapping gum, carrying food, working iPads, fingering cells, “People never look at you. In a department-store elevator, their eyes are raised high only to read what’s on what floor. They never say, ‘Good morning.’ ” So a next question to her should be, what’s she want from them? Make eye content? Speak? Say what? Between floors 4 and 5 ask about their sex lives? What?
Nobody holds doors anymore.
Passing through one that’s shut, if someone’s so close behind that they could wear your clothes, secure that door for them. Do not let it bang back in their face. Or, hold the thing to let the person behind succeed you, and pass through first. Part 2 of this complaint being if it was held, simply sailing by like that person’s a doorman is a no-no. Not necessary to tip, but try a simple “Thank you.”
Maybe Bill O’Reilly, who hasn’t had a new book in at least two weeks, could do one on doorway manners.
Subway riders who leave tumbled, discarded newspapers. Or squeeze past carrying dribbling plastic foam coffee cups. Or shake wet umbrellas. Any ongoing passengers are relegated to the status of maids. Cleaning seats. Cleaning themselves.
Vendors with pushcarts but no Purell. Laundromat users with slugs but no coins. Waitstaff socializing with colleagues while you wait to be waited on. Salesladies socializing with colleagues while you wait to be waited on. New York could actually have the world’s largest zoo. Just build a fence around the entire city.
Our streets. People can’t hear through earbuds. Can’t see through cellphones. They walk into poles and leap in front of busses.
Music blares so loudly that passersby can lose their hearing. Trot alongside, and your health insurance goes up.
One small P.S.: Ever note how even the unemployed carry iPads, wear Nikes and zip North Face jackets?