Manhattan Hillbilly

Rebooting the Hillbilly

Apologies for my hiatus from blogging during the past few months. My work responsibilities cut back on the amount of time I had for documenting New York City from the Southern point of view.

Fortunately, my employer has been kind enough to help out by going bankrupt, exponentially increasing the amount of time I have available for writing.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be back documenting New York City as the hillbilly I still am. Until then, rest assured that everyone up here still talks funny and there's still no place serving good grits or barbecue. 

Two Speeds: "Tourist" and "New Yorker"

I thought it was a myth. It's a dyed-in-the-wool reality.

There really are two speeds when you're walking the streets of New York: "New Yorker" and "Tourist."

This has become abundantly clear to me as I walk to and from my new office in Times Square, and occasionally walk through the Rockefeller Center area to have lunch with the misses near her office.

Both areas are chocked full of tourists. In less than three weeks, I've already been in the background of 18,433 photos of family members visiting Times Square, including four where I actually held up "bunny ear" fingers behind people I didn't even know.

Walking to and from my office -- as I come to work, go to lunch, and head for home -- I bump into tourists. Literally. I'm usually walking at a fast clip rushing to find a quick sandwich shop or hot dog vendor so I can get back to my desk; they're usually staring up at the NASDAQ sign on the ABC News studio. (Useless trivia: My office is directly above the ABC set where they broadcast Good Morning America. I keep jumping up and down on my floor hoping to dislodge a ceiling tile onto George Stephanopoulos's head).

So invariably you have to learn the pedestrian equivalent of defensive driving -- you anticipate what's going to happen and plan escape routes for when a tourist stops in mid-sidewalk or inexplicably reverses course because they want to get just one more picture of the huge "Lion King" sign. You look for the telltale signs: The expensive, but not too expensive, camera slung around the neck. The shiny-brand-new Yankees cap. The New York Subway Map clasped firmly in the right hand, but never quite refolded properly. When you see these signs, you try avoidance, or at the very least keep a safe distance to avoid a catostrophic collision.

I mentioned this great performance piece in a previous posting, but Manhattan Hillbilly fan Catherine Stotts forwarded me the video, so enjoy:

   

As for me, after eight weeks I'm now moving at New Yorker speed. Except when I walk past the Wall Street Journal newscrawl . Whenever I first come out of the subway, I always stop dead in my tracks to read -- just like a tourist.

My new job?

Why have a career and pay for a gym membership, when I can have two-in-one?

 

Countdown to chaos

This will officially be the most insane week in the world. Consider:

Today: Have to finish organizing everything for the packers and movers. Anything that isn't going to New York has to be out of the house by the end of the day. We've had two garage sales and given away so much stuff that our kids and friends are sick of us offering free furniture, food and clothing. My son and daughter are rummaging through the freezer since we can't take any food. They seem disappointed that there's way too much healthy food and not enough beer.

Tomorrow: Packers come to box up everything. Pet shippers arrive to crate up and take 66.6% of our beagle population to the airport for shipping to a kennel in New York. Have to unplug the refrigerator, since it has to chill for 24 hours before they can load it on the truck. I will have a moment of silence in front of my grill, since I will not be able to take it to New York. Are my days of cooking outdoors over?

Thursday: Loading the moving truck. Taking our remaining beagle to the vet to have some minor surgery. Spending the rest of the night cleaning up the house and spackling and painting so it will look good for the buyers who we foolishly think are out there and who -- in reality -- will never show up to see our handiwork. Spend the night sleeping (sic) on an inflatable bed.

Friday: Drive to Knoxville for my class reunion. Lunch with my mom, who probably will be wearing black as she continues to mourn my moving so far away from her. Then heavy drinking with people I haven't seen in three decades.

Saturday: More drinking, hoping to distract myself from the enormity of what I've done.

Sunday: Nursing hangover, a final brunch, and then a long drive to a motel in Hagerstown, Maryland.

Monday: Drive into New York. Take out a loan to pay for the parking down the street from our new apartment. Pick up keys, and finally see what it looks like. I'm going to love it, even if I have to lie when I say that I love it. Spend rest of day cleaning and painting.

Tuesday: Moving van shows up. Try and hold off getting hernia until after lunchtime.

Wednesday: Do whatever the misses says. Or else.

Thursday: Help the misses navigate the subway to her new job. Then continue searching for one for myself. Pine for barbecue, grits, waffles and fried chicken.

The dreaded man purse

This is the enemy.

I've had at least two New Yorkers tell me that it will be only a matter of time before I begin carrying the dreaded, emasculating "man purse" around the city.

The idea's as popular with me as an outhouse breeze.

Having walked the streets of New York for several days in a row, I can understand the appeal. Your arm gets about two inches longer carrying a briefcase around. Walking from interview to interview, you need to carry a few things to get yourself ready: hairbrush, breath mints, resumes, etc. Slinging on a messenger bag around and keeping all this weight on your shoulders is more comfortable.

And makes you look like a girl.

I'm a hillbilly from the south, and men don't wear purses. It's not a negotiable point. And I'm willing at this point to tough it up and wear out my hands carrying a briefcase. Heck, I'll even join those who sling on a backpack if I have to. As somebody who regularly hikes the Appalachian Trail, I think that looks pretty manly.

But a man purse? Let me try this expression out for the first time: Fugggit aboutit!