Sick Chew-Spit-Crash-Burn-Break Love

Everyone has their opinions about New York, mine being somewhat skewed by relativity factors. I find everyone so courteous and polite here. So peaceful and laid back. My alarming anger management problem, developed over the course of the China bicycle commute years, seems to have dissipated quite a bit. In two months of being here, just one relapse in one irritated subway information attendant incident; a low blood sugar run in with one large lazy man who spat words. He, being well-versed in the language of subway sign ambiguity, didn't give a crap. hehe.

Most people you meet who have lived here for years, will sit down and give you what I like to call the 'New York Talking To.' Though it differs in content, it always conforms in tone. Last night's did not disappoint. Gently leading in with phrases of the 'this town will chew you up and spit you out' variety, and gradually devolving into the 'crash and burn' and 'break you' bent (all backed up with the required sordid tales, of course). All, in the end, leading to the usual sum-up: 'God I love this city.' Yep.

So why all this twisted, incomprehensible, baffling love everywhere? You can't define it, and I definitely won't try to explain, I'll just tell you about my NYC night.

I met a musician last week, during my foray into event-ing. He invited me to his gig this week, at the Italian Cultural Centre.

The Italian Cultural Centre is like the Park Avenue equivalent of a high school auditorium. Reminicent of a dusty scented gym, minus the torn basketball hoop and with better velvet curtains. The $10 entrance admission I initially found steep, but as I mounted the grand staircase to the recital room, I realized the value of my purchase: the place, slightly earthy and unkempt, 60% posh, 40% just what it was... and just what I like.

The entertainment, of the lovely variety. A great 6 piece band, a piano composer whose songs were inspired by her singing cat and by conversations with people she loved. An eclectic spotted crowd of about 40; very nice old Italian men sitting by themselves (ripe for my conversation starter of 'Bocce ball?'), made-up elderly women (not sitting with the old men) with big false teeth sitting in fur coats, and a painter with a tendency to summer in Italy; he didn't want to forget how it felt the rest of the year.

That was 7 o'clock. Concert out, and a glass of wine awaiting us all on the folding table outside.

Fast forward to 9pm. O the simultaneous worlds of NYC. I meet up with a friend made through ChinesePod, and find myself at a rock concert up the street from my house. The band looks slightly washed up, but they are compensating with super-gelled hairdos. A 64-year old woman, not at all washed up, commands the stage, lustily performing with a sexiness this 30-ish gal could only dream of. I use 'command' in the military sense of the word. This kind of raw confidence only a 64-year old ex-Meatloaf collaborator giving a concert in the East Village could have. A 15 minute rattling subway car ride is all that separates this woman from her fur coat clad peers up the avenue.

The audience seemed to be full of other near-senior citizens, the apparent unifying factor being that you had to look deceivingly younger than your age to be part of this crowd. The interrogation of the night inevitably came around to, 'How old do you think I am? Her? Him?' I throw out a safe, 37? 52! 41? 65! A scary entrapping question usually posed by people with grudges they are looking to justify, but safe on this night. Plastic surgery? Heathly rock-star lifestyle?

At the risk of feeling that I'm in an unhealthy, even dysfunctional, relationship, I will say... I'm in the scary grips of a crash-and-burn-chew-you-up-spit-you-out-and-break-you love affair.