Take Life One Donut at a Time

That's the logo on my Garfield sleep-shirt. It's pink, it's funny, he's slurping down Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I love Garfield. I also realized I love Kmart, since it reminds of that old Brooklyn staple, Korvettes. Anyone with me? Wasn't that the greatest store ever? Walmart and Target just doesn't give me that Korvettes vibe.

In my quest to reconnect with my city of yore, I rented two NYC gems last night on DVD: Taxi Driver and Night Shift. Both show how boring the hellish gentrification Times Square has become. Bring back the deuce, it was waaay more entertaining. Robert DeNiro in his twenties, Cybil Shepard pre-Moonlighting, Michael Keaton after Mr. Mom but before Batman, and the Fonz as a straight-up businessman with a funky prostie neighbor. Every now and then, I need to take a break and look back. It soothes me. Before Duane Reades, before Starbucks, there was the smelly, scary pit that Travis Bickle complains about in an old checkered Taxi. He makes a crack about making good money: "I can make $300, $350 a week if I work long hours." Funny, people are still making that now, with the same hours. Unless you're a yuppie. Then the money's supposed to be handed to you.

As for the pseudo-NYers that interviewed me on Friday, one was from Queens (and he couldn't be bothered talking to me, he wanted to talk about himself), one was from California (she had no idea there were ice rinks in NY--that's what I get for dragging my skate bag with me with resumes shoved underneath), one was from Boston (although she's lived rent-stabilized on the West side since the 60's), and the receptionist was a straight-up homeboy from S.I. (imagine Puff Daddy answering the phones). They weren't too clear on what they wanted: a receptionist who HR can borrow to read resumes who can also work to edit the guy who liked talking about himself--he said he hates writing, then compares himself to Hemingway in the sense that he stands up when he writes (?????)--and the Bostoner/West Sider who didn't like it when I said doing reception is actually a step back for me so I can help her out on their outdated computer system. (AADA, anyone? Hell? Punishment? Thankless dead end? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?.....Bueller?) I'm clear on what I want. They weren't. I pointed out their rather confusing advertising, and I got the "that's too bad face." A limp handshake from Ms. Why-do-you-have-skates-in-August and a "We'll be in touch" pretty much tells me all I want to know. I had a feeling I didn't want to work there, but I won't say no to an interview. I get to polish my verbal "package."

I remember when this used to be a straight-up no-prisoners kind of town. But, with the gentrification, brings with it the pigheaded disgusting melange of "Well, where WE'RE from, people aren't like that." Yes, my pretty yuppies, but it's New York you're coming to. What ever happened to When in Rome, etc. ? Isn't it when you go to a new place, you try and adopt the way that place is? Oops, sorry, wrong meeting. I keep making sense. Ridiculous.

So, I sit, ready to shop in the supermarket Duane Reade will buy out, across the street from my former sushi heaven which is now a Starbucks and wonder what tack I should take now. I also have to do laundry.

Sundays just keep getting stranger.