We've named our cultural embassies whatever string of stereotypes we can fit onto a billboard. In some cases we've forgotten the idea of Mexican food and gone with the Mexican inspired salads, baby-sized burritos and something called "hard" tacos.
But this isn't a tirade against a particular brand of restaurant which I love which doesn't carry the namesake sauce.
This is about the cosmo part of cosmopolitan. It's about the tomato, lettuce, cucumber, onions, raisin, tofu and oil and vinegar mixed in the salad bowl I'm living in right now. Perhaps I should see it as my castle with a moat to keep outsiders funneling through the tunnels - drawbridges - in which they transport their wares from the outskirts.
I stand upon a hill, Murray's actually. But I'm caught next to a piece of flat metal triangles and place they call Grammercy.
I walked back from the 70s in a time traveling machine all they way down the 20s. Throughout it I saw flappers and pant suits that would have made American Dreams shed a tear of happiness. But I also saw hot little pencil skirts paired with running shoes and flipflops. A man wearing camo shorts with cowboy boot and a tank escorting a nice little emo girl with an obvious desire to become vampire.
In a building for a minute. Then a storm that lasts but 5 minutes. Then out again as you paddle your own little canoe into this curious stream where I'm learning how to set the rhythm. I don't like the swinging arms, burrowed brow and slight hunch of back that some of them sport. I don't have the swagger that some sport accompanied by track jackets, 3/4 basketball shorts and shinny Dwayne Wade's. The power walk characterizing the suits is intimidating but easily replicated - a sense of purpose without one. The leisurely tourist pace seems to taunt everyone behind them as they fly in concord formation.
The place around the corner is called the American Dream. Apparently it involves grimy windows and yellow artificial light.
TBC.
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