When I was younger and I’d talk about why I wanted to move to New York I had all these lofty reasons like how it was the cultural center of the world and I’d become a better person as a result.
As with many things, there’s a disconnect between the expectation and the reality.
Expectation: Going out in new neighborhoods all the time.
Reality: Going to the same bar four nights a week because you’re 100% certain you’ll be able to hang up your jacket.
Expectation: Going to tons of Broadway shows on the cheap.
Reality: Broadway too expensive, a friend of a friend gives you his Netflix login.
Expectation: Surrounding yourself with new and fabulous people who wear horn glasses and go to readings.
Reality: Stay friends with the first people you met when you moved here (or coworkers) because it turns out it doesn’t matter where you live, you hate new people… Especially if they’re wearing some type of quirky eye wear.
Expectation: Major Career successes.
Reality: Developing long, elaborate fantasies about winning the lottery or becoming a full-time student on the train ride to work
Expectation: Getting to be really fashionable and test your limits, because in New York you can do whatever you want and no one will judge you.
Reality: Getting out-hipstered by 21-year-olds whose dads pay their rent.
Expectation: Overall fabulousness as depicted by “Sex and the City” and every New York romcom ever. Standing under the Empire State Building and spinning while looking up and smiling.
Reality: Becoming ok with the way you smell not being 100% fresh because laundry is too expensive and who has time for that anyway? So you douse yourself in a little bit of perfume and comfort yourself by mentally referring to it “my musk.” No twirling space underneath the Empire State Building, but you do get offered to skip the line by those ticket sellers outside.
The most shameful of these is the missing out on cultural shit. Over Christmas my Grandfather asked me how often I go to shows or museums and I gave serious thought to replying, “Sometimes I go to bars in Koreatown.”
It’s not for lack of trying, but I really have to work to get myself off my ass and outside to experience the loveliness that is New York . On Sunday a huge group of my friends and I ventured all the way to an art installation in Long Island City.
I love this type of art because of all the ways I can think to act like a douchebag when I tell other people about it. I totally love bringing up the type of pretentious, stoner stuff I talked about for hours on end in college. You know, shit like, “what if we all see colors differently but we learn the names for what we’re seeing and just assume that we’re all seeing the same color? Like, my blue is actually your green but we can never know. Let’s go watch Requiem for a Dream again.”
I took a bunch of photos of the installation and I’m excited to use this new photo collage app I have, so below I have tried to explain what we saw in the douchiest way possible. I dare you to try and out pretentious me in the comments.
Oh, and yes, we did wander through Queens and find a shit bar afterwards. You can really only expect so much of me.
Peace, love and this post was a statement on government, duh,