Top of the heap

My mother has always said that I shouldn't hate--that I can dislike something but shouldn't want it dead. Very good advice. Shame I haven't taken it.

I hate many things, including but not limited to: Aerosmith, bananas, the Food Network's Rachel Ray, oatmeal-raisin cookies, The Matrix movie series, Pontiac automobiles, chain restaurants, radio dj banter, local news, The Kansas City Star, AND losing a blog post. I have lost this particular post three times, due in no small part to a conspiracy perpetrated by my computer, Blogger, Picasa, and former Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz. But blog on I must. Thus, I present the angrily composed, out-of-order, themeless, abridged version of "Big Apple, Bigger Bagel":














My first New York City cab ride was delightful. The driver smelled like a boiled all-beef hot dog, he drove quite wrecklessly, his name was incapable of being pronounced by a Western tongue, and the seat was covered in what I choose to believe was maple syrup.
















My vagabond shoes, assorted subway grime, and a Philadelphia cream cheese package. These cream cheese packages are all over the place, what with all the bagels and what not. They are sort of like the East Coast's version of grass.




















Tennis is not a sport for the elements, especially not a suave, smooth operator like Tropical Storm Ernesto. Fortunately, though, Lindsey Davenport kept us entertained during rain delays by wrestling (successfully) a baby giraffe, which the USTA keeps on hand for just such an event.















I made it to the city in time to see some of the very early performances at the MTV Video Music Awards. This little number, by a rising star named "Harold with Rockefeller Mainetenance," featured a vacuum cleaner AND a broom. The following act, starring two guys named Jake, was even hotter . They call themselves "The Trashmen" and spend a lot of time working with litter, bags, and dumpsters.
















So grand, so central, so fuzzy. Believe it or not, Grand Central is even MORE impressive in person.















If you look closely you can see my shoulders and right ear behind this sour-looking gent. This picture serves as proof that I made it to the big city.




















Not trusting a random New Yorker to take my picture without stealing my camera, I took a lot of pictures of other people taking pictures of other people--like this one of some gay rollerbladers (they pretty much rule the city).

















As many of you know, I'm a bit of a Ford Taurus freak. So little did I know that when I was snapping an action shot of this 1999 beauty I was also capturing the coffeeshop from Seinfeld. Maybe the best picture ever.
















New York is a melting pot, and sometimes it is difficult to take pictures of the city without some of that melting pot spilling over onto the screen. My only picture of the Empire State Building is obscured by two Puerto Ricans, a Russian, and a 300-pound white guy.

















I hate to hyperbolize, but this was probably the best lunch I've ever had.