26 REDS & A BOTTLE OF WINE

Woody Allen once said that the world is split into the Horrible and the Miserable. He was onto something.

Here in New York City, after September 11, people were saying things that didn’t make a lot of sense. All these upper middle class people who had happily moved themselves ghettos for a sense of cultural diversity were now panic stricken at the thought of being blown up Jerusalem style. People who had no problem walking down Myrtle Ave. (once called Murder Ave. by Digable Planet) at two in the morning, alone and drunk, were now scared shitless at the prospect of traveling above the six floor of an office building.

People were buying parachutes for Christ sake.

I had a friend who called me in a panic every time a train was late or a police car sirened by or if a plane looked like it was too low in the sky. Literally New York was waiting for the sky to fall. But mostly people were talking about getting out of New York.

Now, leaving New York City for good isn’t just something you do. New Yorkers aren’t here for kicks or the fucking weather and we’re certainly not here for The Knicks. We’re here because we have to be. Living in NYC requires an almost constant reaffirmation. So deciding you want to leave is a bit like deciding you want to stop using heroine three times a day.

And some people did. My friend Billy took his two little girls and his wife and moved out to East Hampton. My friend Katie went all the way to Colorado. But for the most part we just all grinned and bared it.

On the BBC the other day they were talking about how scientists are all in agreement that San Francisco is due for another big one and since we know this why don’t people leave. Anyone wondering that has never lived anywhere they like. After all, you’re going to die somewhere. Pick you’re spot.

In other words: While you’re running from terrorists, earthquakes and black teenagers boys this happens, and you look like a jackass.