Tag Archives: New Yorker

Philip Roth Says He Has Had His Last Sandwich

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Philip Roth Says He Has Had His Last Sandwich

The Borowitz Report

May 20, 2014

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NEW YORK (The Borowitz Report)—The novelist Philip Roth announced today that a sandwich he ate last week, a turkey one with lettuce and tomato on wheat, would be his last.

Roth’s retirement from sandwich eating, announced in an interview with a Dutch literary magazine, came as a surprise to the worlds of publishing and sandwiches.

In the interview, Roth attempted to soft-pedal the reasons behind his startling decision, saying only, “I had my first sandwich when I was three or four. That’s almost eighty years ago. That’s a lot of sandwiches.”

The response to Mr. Roth’s renunciation of sandwiches was skeptical, with some readers of the interview questioning whether the acclaimed novelist had not left the door open a crack to sandwiches in his future.

When asked by his Dutch interviewer if he had sworn off deli meats, Roth said, “I could see a situation at a buffet where they’d have those mini slices of rye bread, and I’d make an open-faced thingy with roast beef and maybe a pickle or whatnot. But that’s not the same thing as a sandwich.”

As if to quell any misunderstanding, on Tuesday afternoon Roth issued the following statement through his publisher: “Not only have I had my last sandwich, I have made my final public statement about sandwiches.”

Photograph by Jenny Anderson/Getty.

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COOL PEOPLE -Grateful for Bob Weir -An interview by the New Yorker and bio

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COOL PEOPLE -Grateful for Bob Weir -An interview by the New Yorker and bio

Bob Weir Biography

Environmental Activist, Guitarist (1947–)

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Quick Facts
Name Bob Weir Occupation Environmental Activist, Guitarist Birth Date October 16, 1947 (age 66) Education Menlo Atherton High School, Fountain Valley High School Place of Birth San Francisco, California AKA Bob WeirFull Name Robert Hall Weir Zodiac Sign Libra
Synopsis
Early Life
Musical Career
Personal Life
Cite This Page

Bob Weir was a rhythm guitarist for the legendary rock band the Grateful Dead from 1964 to 1995 and later reunited to tour with former members as The Other Ones.

Synopsis

Guitarist Bob Weir was born on October 16, 1947 in San Francisco, California. In 1964, he started a band that was eventually called the Grateful Dead, with Jerry Garcia and Ron McKernan. In 1972, Weir put out his first solo album. He also performed with other bands throughout his time with the Dead. After Garcia died in 1995, Weir toured with RatDog, and later reunited with former Dead members to tour.

Early Life

Bob Weir was born October 16, 1947, in San Francisco, California. He was raised by wealthy adoptive parents in the suburban town of Atherton, California.

Weir started playing guitar at the age of 13. As a teen, Weir first attended Menlo Atherton High School, but his struggles with undiagnosed dyslexia and his poor academic performance led his exasperated parents to send him away to boarding school. There, at Fountain Valley High School, Weir met John Perry Barlow, who would later write lyrics for the Grateful Dead. After Weir was kicked out of Fountain Valley, he spent most of his time hanging out in Palo Alto, California, checking out the Bay Area folk-rock scene. He spent his days at a record store where Jerry Garcia gave guitar lessons, and his nights at a club called the Tangent. At the Tangent, Weir had the good fortune to see several rock legends in the making, including Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane and the familiar face from the music shop, Jerry Garcia.

Musical Career

In 1964, when Weir was just 17, Garcia convinced him and Ron “Pigpen” McKernan to start a folk-rock and blues band called Mother McCree’s Uptown Jug Champions, with Weir as their rhythm guitarist. After first renaming the band the Warlocks, the band eventually settled on the name the Grateful Dead and expanded to include drummers Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, bass guitarist Phil Lesh and several different keyboardists over the life of the group.

Although the Dead played nearly 100 shows yearly throughout the 1970s, Weir also participated in other musical projects during this time. In 1972 he put out his first solo album, called Ace. He also performed and recorded with other bands, including Kingfish, in the 1970s. In the early 1980s Weir toured with Bobby and the Midnites and contributed to recording two albums with the band. During this time he met recording session musician Brent Mydland, whom he would invite to join the Grateful Dead as a keyboardist in 1979.

Weir refocused primarily on playing with the Grateful Dead in the late 1980s and continued to tour with them extensively until Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995. After Garcia died, Weir started touring nonstop with RatDog, the band he had recently started with bassist Rob Wasserman. In 1998 Weir reunited with remaining members of the Grateful Dead under the band name The Other Ones. The Other Ones recorded a new album in 1999 and toured in 2000, the same year RatDog’s first album was released.

Weir would tour with former Grateful Dead band members again in 2009. The 2009 tour made Weir and Lesh nostalgic for the band’s old chemistry, leading them to combine members of the Dead and RatDog to form a new successful band called Furthur.

Personal Life

While Weir has devoted most of his time and energy to music, he has also been active in a number of social causes. He’s been a board member of Seva, a foundation that combats blindness in South America and Asia, and has also been an activist for Greenpeace. Together, Weir and members of the Dead formed the Rex Foundation, which provides community support for creative endeavors.

In his off-stage life, Weir also has two daughters—Monet and Chloe—with Natascha Müenter, whom he married in 1999.
Robert Hall Weir. (2014). The Biography.com website. Retrieved 05:07, May 08, 2014, from http://www.biography.com/people/bob-weir-20878671.

“Robert Hall Weir.” 2014. The Biography.com website. May 08 2014 http://www.biography.com/people/bob-weir-20878671.

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BLACK THROATED WIND BY BOB WEIR


April 28, 2014

Grateful for Bo

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I went to the Tribeca Film Festival to see “The Other One: The Long, Strange Trip of Bob Weir,” because I have always liked Bob Weir, the second guitarist of the Grateful Dead. Usually you would call such a musician a rhythm guitarist, but Weir isn’t anything like a garden-variety rhythm guitarist. To the initial exasperation of his bandmates, who wanted someone to keep time more diligently, he developed one of the most unusual styles in rock and roll, built on lyric asides and cunning contrapuntal remarks that suggest a line of melody travelling through the map of the chord changes.

The Grateful Dead embodied a singular approach to the mathematics of simple song forms. It occurs to me that it represented something like a model of the unconscious as it rises into awareness. The patterns of the drummers, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart, suggested pressing impulses and intuitions, the way some poets describe hearing the rhythms of the words before the words arrive. Phil Lesh’s bass playing, the rudiments of which were taken from classical music, especially Bach and Beethoven, amounted to a layer of permeable ground. He was sometimes engaged with the drums and sometimes with the stringed instruments in the range above his own. Jerry Garcia’s guitar was the conversational voice, articulating the thoughts that ascended to the level of social discourse. In between was Weir, following the example of the left hand of the pianist McCoy Tyner, he told me years ago, inverting chords and finding passing phrases among them, mostly supporting but sometimes subverting, too.

Not that the endeavor always succeeded. There were fallow periods, periods of fatigue, and periods when Garcia’s health and drug problems seemed to dog and shadow the music. There were nights of singing and playing out of tune, of being out of sorts, and there were nights when at least one member was not entirely sober. In what they were attempting, failure is, anyway, easier to achieve than success.

Weir is a modest man, unassuming, a gentleman. He says in the movie that he takes no pride in what he has accomplished, because he regards pride as a suspect emotion. He began playing in the jug band that became the Grateful Dead when he was sixteen years old. He would arrive at his parents’ house sometimes at daybreak, after playing all night with the band, and have breakfast and go to school. Eventually, school fell aside. His mother told him that she and her husband and their daughter, Wendy, were a family and that they could no longer live with his comings and goings, and so he left and moved into a house with the band. He ran away with the circus, he says.

His nickname for a time was Mr. Bob Weir Trouble. He threw a water balloon at a cop from the roof and was arrested. When he learned that the draft board had to save every piece of correspondence from a citizen, he began sending his draft board stones and sticks and anything he could fit into a mailbox. At an airline counter, he produced a cap pistol and started playing cowboys and Indians, which got the Grateful Dead banned from the airline. His roommate at the band’s house was Neal Cassady, who is Dean Moriarty in Kerouac’s “On the Road.” Weir’s most widely performed song, “The Other One,” which the Grateful Dead played often, in variations, for nearly thirty years, describes his flight from home, with Cassady driving Furthur, the Merry Pranksters’ bus. Weir says that he never listens to old Grateful Dead music, and in the movie he says that the pleasure he took in the band’s first gold record was in being able to give it to his parents and show them that he had accomplished something. Weir was briefly in the audience for the movie, with his wife and his younger daughter—his older daughter was home in California, rehearsing for a school play. I happened to be sitting about four seats from him. I was curious to see how long he could stand to watch himself onscreen. Roughly ten minutes in, he rose and disappeared down a hallway, and didn’t come back. At the end of the movie, he performed for about forty-five minutes.

The last thing I want to say is that I saw the Grateful Dead for the first time, at the Fillmore East, in the fall of 1969, when they were still essentially a regional California attraction. I had gone with friends to the Saturday-night late show to see my favorite band at the time, Country Joe and the Fish, who were the headliners. Bill Graham announced that the order of the concert would be reversed, and that Country Joe would play first. This was to accommodate the Grateful Dead, who were known to play for hours.

The Fillmore was a small theatre. I was sitting in the third row. Not long after the Grateful Dead took the stage, at around one or two in the morning, I fell asleep, for how long I have no idea. I tried not to, but I was seventeen years old, and not used to staying up late. I kept feeling my chin fall forward, and then I would open my eyes to a different tableau, which gave the concert the atmosphere of a dream. Country Joe had performed as a band. The Grateful Dead took the stage like a troupe of minstrels. There were seven of them: two drummers, two guitarists (Weir and Garcia), a bass player, a man who played the piano and the organ, and Pigpen, a small, slight figure in denim, with a thin beard and a crumpled hat, who sometimes played the organ, sometimes the conga drums, and other times just wandered around the stage, standing in front of the other musicians and pointing a camera at them. Sometimes, one of the drummers got up from his kit, walked over, and struck a gong or shook bells, like a shepherd. A man who looked like a gang biker came from the wings now and then, and knelt and held a cigarette lighter to a tube on the floor, and an arrow of flames shot toward the ceiling, like those flames on top of gas wells. The fronts of all the amplifiers were covered with elaborately tie-dyed fabric and were lavish and arresting to look at, like something from a bazaar in a country it was difficult to reach and a little scary to visit. An intricate wooden sign, embedded with lights, descended from the ceiling. It read “Grateful Dead” in the same curving, mysterious, psychedelic font as the cover of their album “Aoxomoxoa,” a nonsensical palindrome.

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I was a senior in high school. The spooky flames, the disorder that seemed only half under control, the carnival atmosphere, and the powerful, serpentine music were my first awarenesses that the world was deeper, more capacious, and more thrilling than I knew. I thought that the music I was hearing would need hieroglyphs, not notes, to represent it. Weir played his guitar as if he were exploring it, with curiously studious gestures. Rhythm guitarists in those days strummed. Weir, however, appeared to be apprehending and enacting possibilities within the fabric of the music. The band itself seemed like the exemplification of a mystery, and the musicians like sorcerers. They were young men then, all in their twenties, and they had a great deal of energy. My friends and I had gone into the theatre a little before midnight, and by the time the concert was over and the doors had opened, the sun had risen. People who had slept all night were walking on Second Avenue in their day clothes. The sudden transit from darkness to daylight made it seem as if I had emerged from a forest or a tunnel. I remember a man carrying a copy of the Sunday Times and a container of coffee. He seemed, obscurely, to have the faintest head start in time on me. We found my friend’s car and drove home to the suburbs and our parents’ houses. I now knew something that they didn’t know: life is more than we imagine it to be.

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Perhaps 1969 was late to be arriving at such an awareness, but it wasn’t so late for a boy at a school in the suburbs of New York. A few of my friends seemed to know about it, but not everyone. It was still a secret to hold, a freemasonry. And what is adolescence but the reducing of the world to a manageable idea that you can share safely with others.

Read “Deadhead,” Nick Paumgarten’s piece about the vast recorded legacy of the Grateful Dead, and Alec Wilkinson’s Talk of the Town stories about Weir, “Blind Date” and “The Musical Life.”

Copyright ©1987 Robbi Cohen/Dead images

Video of the Day: A Short Documentary About the Original Beatniks

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Video of the Day: A Short Documentary About the Original Beatniks

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Video  of the Day: A Short Documentary About the Original Beatniks

If the only Beat Generation writers you can name are Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs, then it’s time to educate yourself about the rest of the gang. A great place to start is Original Beats, a short documentary by Francois Bernadi that we learned about thanks to Dangerous Minds. The film, shot in the mid-’90s, follows Herbert Huncke and Gregory Corso — the oldest and youngest member, respectively, of the Beat inner circle. In fact, while Corso’s work may be more famous, Huncke was hugely influential to the movement, introducing the major players to (’50s) hipster culture and even coining the term “Beat.” (Sadly, he was also a lifelong junkie who spent his last years in poverty; Jonathan Lethem recently wrote a New Yorker piece about the time he caught Huncke shoplifting at the bookstore where he worked as a high schooler.)

The documentary offers an entertaining look at the origins of the Beat movement, as well as some readings, and a number of epic anecdotes from Huncke and Corso, from Huncke’s first glimpse of Times Square to both men’s stints in prison. One of Corso’s stories, about a time when he and Allen Ginsberg read in Chicago, ends with this wonderful moment: “One of the people in the audience said, ‘Mr. Ginsberg, why is there so much homosexuality in your poetry?’ And Allen said, ‘Because I’m queer, madam!’” Enjoy Original Beats after the jump.

A DOCUMENTARY ABOUT THE BEATS

Inside the counter-culture: An intimate look at Warhol, Ginsberg and friends through the radical lens of legendary photographer Richard Avedon

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Inside the counter-culture: An intimate look at Warhol, Ginsberg and friends through the radical lens of legendary photographer Richard Avedon

By Daily Mail Reporter

PUBLISHED:          00:59 EST, 18 May 2012       | UPDATED:          01:37 EST, 18 May 2012      

Richard Avedon was one of the most well-known fashion and portrait photographers in American history. However, many of his photographs had a distinctly political flavor.

His work photographing hippies, artists and icons of the beat generation was said to capture their very essence and offer an inside look at the counter-culture in a way that few portrait shooters have been able to match.

A collection of his radical portraits are on display at Gagosian Gallery in New York City this summer.

 
 
Louis Ginsberg and his son Allen Ginsberg

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The counter-culture: Allen Ginsberg, the beatnik poet, was a frequent subject. This work is titled: Louis Ginsberg and his son Allen Ginsberg, poets, Paterson, New Jersey, May 3, 1970

 

 
Allen Ginsberg's family

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Allen Ginsberg’s family: Hannah (Honey) Litzky, aunt; Leo Litzky, uncle; Abe Ginsberg, uncle; Anna Ginsberg, aunt; Louis Ginsberg, father; Eugene Brooks, brother; Allen Ginsberg, poet; Anne Brooks, niece; Peter Brooks, nephew; Connie Brooks, sister-in-law; Lyle Brooks, nephew; Eugene Brooks; Neal Brooks, nephew; Edith Ginsberg, stepmother; Louis Ginsberg, Paterson, New Jersey, May 3, 1970

Avedon was known for shooting stark, minimalist portraits of his subjects that let their own personalities shine through.

‘A photographic portrait is a picture of someone who knows he’s being photographed, and what he does with this knowledge is as much a part of the photograph as what he’s wearing or how he looks,’ he said, according to the Atlantic.

 

 

The beatnik-generation luminary Allen Ginsberg was one of Avedon’s famous subjects. He photographed the poet in 1968 as he embraced and kissed his longtime lover, Peter Orlovsky.

He photographed the Chicago Seven, the protestors who were charged with inspiring a riot at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago.

 
 
Andy Warhol

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Andy Warhol and members of The Factory: Gerard Malanga, poet; Viva, actress; Paul Morrissey, director; Taylor Mead, actor; Brigid Polk, actress; Joe Dallesandro, actor; Andy Warhol, artist, New York, October 9, 1969

 

 
Andy Warhol, artist, New York, August 14, 1969

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Andy Warhol, artist, New York, August 14, 1969

Andy Warhol was another subject whom Avedon exposed to his camera lens. He captured the scars on his chest left by a 1968 murder attempt.

Not all of Avedon’s subjects were trend-setters outside the mainstream.

He convinced Rose Mary Woods, President Richard Nixon’s secretary, to stand for a portrait. 

The Mission Council, which helped dictate the US involvement in the Vietnam War, also stood for a photograph. 

Avedon died of a brain hemorrhage in 2004 while on assignment for The New Yorker.

The exhibit, titled Richard Avedon Murals & Portraits, is on  display at Gagosian Gallery, West 21st Street in New York City, through July 6.

The Mission Council

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The Mission Council: Hawthorne Q. Mills, Mission Coordinator; Ernest J. Colantonio, Counselor of Embassy for Administrative Affairs; Edward J. Nickel, Minister Counselor for Public Affairs; John E. McGowan, Minister Counselor for Press Affairs; George D. Jacobson, Assistant Chief of Staff, Civil Operations and Rural Development Support; General Creighton W. Abrams, Jr., Commander, United States Military Assistance Command, Vietnam; Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker; Deputy Ambassador Samuel D. Berger; John R. Mossler, Minister and Director, United States Agency for International Development; Charles A. Cooper, Minister Counselor for Economic Affairs; and Laurin B. Askew, Counselor of Embassy for Political Affairs, Saigon, South Vietnam, April 28, 1971

 

 

 
Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky, poets, New York, December 30, 1963

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Lovers: Avedon captured this intimate moment between Ginsberg and his longtime lover. The portrait is titled: Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky, poets, New York, December 30, 1963

 

 
Florynce Kennedy, civil rights lawyer, New York, August 1, 1969

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Florynce Kennedy, civil rights lawyer, New York, August 1, 1969

 

 
Dao Dua, "The Coconut Monk," Mekong Monastery, Phoenix Island, South Vietnam, April 14, 1971

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Dao Dua, “The Coconut Monk,” Mekong Monastery, Phoenix Island, South Vietnam, April 14, 1971

 

 
Rose Mary Woods, secretary to President Richard Nixon, Washington, D.C., August 10, 1975

 

Rose Mary Woods, secretary to President Richard Nixon, Washington, D.C., August 10, 1975

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2146182/Richard-Avedon-exhibition-offers-intimate-look-counter-culture.html#ixzz2sYrUEWSC Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook

man puts his virgin hair up for sale on Craig’s List!

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Man puts his ‘100% virgin’ hair up for sale
The New Yorker shows off his ‘jet black’ hair, which he is selling for £400 (Picture: Craigslist)

It looks like a bargain: One careful owner, it’s in great condition and can be sold to your specifications… but this is no second-hand car up for grabs.

Instead, anyone looking for 69cm (27in) of thick, long black hair is in luck. A New Yorker is selling his ’100 per cent virgin hair’ which has never been cut or messed with – all for just $600 (£400).

The seller in his early 30s claims on Craigslist that his locks have ‘never been dyed, permed, or chemically altered’.

And he boasts that the hair is ‘jet black, the way a raven shines in the moonlight, the color of a deep dark sleep’.

If that description doesn’t have you reaching for your debit card, he also assures any potential buyers that he never uses straighteners, curlers or hot rollers and always lets it dry naturally.

And the man, who insists he is a non-smoker who ‘says no to drugs’, said he would not sell his wonderful mane unless he received a high enough offer.

‘Only serious offer please,’ he declares.

‘Hair cutting can occur at the time/place/method of your choosing.’

See the full advert here.

ASK A NATIVE NEW YORKER IS IT OK TO MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH OTHERS?

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Ask A Native New Yorker: Is It OK To Make Eye Contact With Others?

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A young Jake Dobkin throws up his hands and says “Fuck it, maybe I’m just a preppy after all!” (Courtesy Private Jake Dobkin Collection)

Are you relatively new to this fine metropolis? Don’t be shy about it, everyone was new to New York at one time… except, of course, those battle-hardened residents who’ve lived here their whole lives and Know It All. One of these lifers works among us at Gothamist—publisher Jake Dobkin grew up in Park Slope and currently resides in Brooklyn Heights. He is now fielding questions—ask him anything by sending an email here, but be advised that Dobkin is “not sure you guys will be able to handle my realness.” We can keep you anonymous if you prefer; just let us know what neighborhood you live in.

This week’s question comes from two newcomers who aren’t sure what to do with their eyes:


Dear Native New Yorker,

I’ve lived here for about nine months, and as I’ve been making my life here I’ve been tempted to tilt my head toward the sky to examine the beauty of the skyscrapers around me. The problem is when I do this I look like some tourist. How do native New Yorkers steal a glance of the architectural splendor around them? Or don’t they ever?

Dear Native New Yorker,

I’ve heard New Yorkers don’t make eye contact with each other on the street, so since I moved here last year, I’ve kept my eyes down, but now I’m always bumping into things. How do you guys live like this?

A Native New Yorker replies:

There are many New York stereotypes that seem ridiculous to us natives—for instance that we’re rude (that’s just honesty, motherfucker!), or that we can’t drive (or maybe you just don’t know how to cross a street, motherfucker!), or that we curse a lot. These misperceptions often come from the way the city is portrayed in movies and television, which are probably filmed in Vancouver, and lies put out by less cool cities like Dallas to make themselves feel better about not being so dope.

The most pernicious of these aspersions is that New Yorkers are rude, and that this rudeness can be seen in habits like not making eye-contact. This is blasphemy: history shows New York to be the most welcoming city in the country, through waves of immigration from the 17th century to the present. Our open-minded, multi-ethnic culture comes out of our roots as a Dutch trading post; traders don’t care much about religion, or background, just about whether you have money. In this sense, New York is still essentially New Amsterdam.

As for eye-contact, we natives make it all the time, especially in the neighborhoods where we live and work. In fact, I’d say that in general New Yorkers are more friendly, and make more eye contact that people in small towns and out in the rural countryside, where there’s a tendency to fear strangers and grab for your sidearm when some suspicious outsider comes sidling up the street.

If a New Yorker isn’t looking you in the eyes, it’s not because we’re being unfriendly, or we’re scared, it’s just because we’ve got something better to do. On the subway, for instance, we’re probably keeping our eyes down, but that’s because we’re reading about cronuts on our iPhones, or avoiding getting shanked by the crazy guy on the seat opposite.

By the same token, New Yorkers also occasionally look up and admire the architecture, pause to enjoy a Manhattanhenge sunset, or just to thank the Lord they don’t have to live in Boston. The reason you don’t notice this is that when a Native does this, they move to edge of the street, so as not to impede the flow of traffic, which is just another demonstration of our essential kind-heartedness, and conscientiousness towards others.

So raise your head proudly, and the next time some tourist tells you New Yorkers all act a certain way, tell them to shove it up their ass.

Ask A Native New Yorker anything by emailing our Tips address here.

Contact the author of this article or email tips@gothamist.com with further questions, comments or tips.
By John Del Signore in  on Aug 29, 2013 2:50 PM