It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes Six Police Officers Waking You up at 5:30 in the Morning To Cry
In 1936, Edward VIII, eldest son of King George V and brother of the future King George VI, abdicated the throne of England. He had no ideological or philosophical differences with his government. He bore his people no ill or malignant will. In no way did he intend to bring shame to his family or tarnish his father’s name. He was in love, and the object of his affection was an American named Wallis Simpson. His love, virtuous though it was, sparked one of those proverbial “constitutional crises” that send all those guys with powdered wigs into convulsions. Mrs. Simpson, it turned out, was divorced, twice divorced if we’re going to be completely honest, but it hardly mattered. Once would’ve done the trick.
Rather than subject his country to all that vitriol, he elected to surrender the monarchy to his younger brother, George. Pretty noble guy, if you ask me, especially if you overlook all that silly stuff about sympathizing with the Nazis. He was created Duke of Windsor, which is neat.
Why am I telling you this?
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about parting with my beloved New York City, and whenever I do that, I spend at least a moment or two waxing rhapsodic about Edward, who once turned his back on the crown.
This just in: I’m not normal.
I once wrote a piece for the Columbia Updater titled Autumn in New York. At the time, I was convinced that autumn was my favorite time of year in New York City. As October fades into November though, and it fades, don’t let anyone tell you differently, I find myself looking forward to December and the day they put that bow on the Cartier building, that gigantic red ribbon that seems to wrap this whole city in a tidy, stocking-sized package.
It turns out winter, not autumn, is my favorite time of year in Manhattan.
Bundle up and take a stroll down Fifth Avenue past the Plaza Hotel. Mingle with the families on line in front of FAO Schwartz, a line that can trail off for blocks as Christmas approaches. Smell the roasted chestnuts in the air and buy a bag to nibble on while you walk. Ride the elevator up to the observation deck at the Empire State Building. Wear mittens. Rent Hannah and Her Sisters. Run with scissors.
If you aren’t aware that you live in one of the greatest cities since Troy, then you are failing in your quest to be alive. Don’t forget why you’re really here. If I have to tell you, you probably can’t be helped.
I’ve lived here almost my entire life, which is really saying something. I’m 217 dog years old. In all that time, I’ve never felt as though I knew what would happen on any given day. New York surprises me, and she almost always does it in style. A few months ago, she had six of her police officers wake me up at 5:30 in the morning by banging ferociously on my bedroom door. Evidently they were acting on an anonymous tip from Oklahoma alleging that children were being beaten and abused in our lavish Aron Hall digs. I’m not making this up.
Now isn’t that a wonderful surprise?
Manhattan is very much a feline. She’ll purr like a motorboat if you stroke her right, but she’s not averse to whipping out her claws if you take her for granted. And if you’re not careful, you’re liable to find a dead mouse in your slipper.
Needless to say, I remain a loyal fool when it comes to my island, and I have no real intention of leaving anytime soon. I will always feel the pull of Charing Cross Road in London and Paris’ Left Bank. I have an unexplainable attraction to Chicago and even a bizarre, romantic notion that I will someday have a life near Los Angeles. That’s in California.
For the time being, those loves will remain unrequited. My heart belongs to another, and I forsake all others for my sweetheart on the Hudson. We may not always get along, but we’re in this thing together, for better or for worse. Something tells me the Duke would understand.
(Author’s note: Under no circumstances should you run with scissors. It’s dangerous and it looks weird.)
Mount Sinai Mosaic: Nov/Dec 2002
Rather than subject his country to all that vitriol, he elected to surrender the monarchy to his younger brother, George. Pretty noble guy, if you ask me, especially if you overlook all that silly stuff about sympathizing with the Nazis. He was created Duke of Windsor, which is neat.
Why am I telling you this?
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about parting with my beloved New York City, and whenever I do that, I spend at least a moment or two waxing rhapsodic about Edward, who once turned his back on the crown.
This just in: I’m not normal.
I once wrote a piece for the Columbia Updater titled Autumn in New York. At the time, I was convinced that autumn was my favorite time of year in New York City. As October fades into November though, and it fades, don’t let anyone tell you differently, I find myself looking forward to December and the day they put that bow on the Cartier building, that gigantic red ribbon that seems to wrap this whole city in a tidy, stocking-sized package.
It turns out winter, not autumn, is my favorite time of year in Manhattan.
Bundle up and take a stroll down Fifth Avenue past the Plaza Hotel. Mingle with the families on line in front of FAO Schwartz, a line that can trail off for blocks as Christmas approaches. Smell the roasted chestnuts in the air and buy a bag to nibble on while you walk. Ride the elevator up to the observation deck at the Empire State Building. Wear mittens. Rent Hannah and Her Sisters. Run with scissors.
If you aren’t aware that you live in one of the greatest cities since Troy, then you are failing in your quest to be alive. Don’t forget why you’re really here. If I have to tell you, you probably can’t be helped.
I’ve lived here almost my entire life, which is really saying something. I’m 217 dog years old. In all that time, I’ve never felt as though I knew what would happen on any given day. New York surprises me, and she almost always does it in style. A few months ago, she had six of her police officers wake me up at 5:30 in the morning by banging ferociously on my bedroom door. Evidently they were acting on an anonymous tip from Oklahoma alleging that children were being beaten and abused in our lavish Aron Hall digs. I’m not making this up.
Now isn’t that a wonderful surprise?
Manhattan is very much a feline. She’ll purr like a motorboat if you stroke her right, but she’s not averse to whipping out her claws if you take her for granted. And if you’re not careful, you’re liable to find a dead mouse in your slipper.
Needless to say, I remain a loyal fool when it comes to my island, and I have no real intention of leaving anytime soon. I will always feel the pull of Charing Cross Road in London and Paris’ Left Bank. I have an unexplainable attraction to Chicago and even a bizarre, romantic notion that I will someday have a life near Los Angeles. That’s in California.
For the time being, those loves will remain unrequited. My heart belongs to another, and I forsake all others for my sweetheart on the Hudson. We may not always get along, but we’re in this thing together, for better or for worse. Something tells me the Duke would understand.
(Author’s note: Under no circumstances should you run with scissors. It’s dangerous and it looks weird.)
Mount Sinai Mosaic: Nov/Dec 2002
posted by Michael Novick at 11:29 PM
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