Love is All Around Us

August 5, 1998

The tourists have been in town for two months now. It's easy to spot them. Sure they've got cameras. Sure they walk around with mouths agape while staring at The Empire State Building. Sure they order the "numba tin" at Chinese restaurants. ("Numba tin" is the way they say "number ten" in Georgia and Alabama.) But the easiest way to tell a tourist from a local? Locals wear suits. (Sounds like another Ozzy song: "I said locals wear suits and you gotta believe me.")

It's so obvious, but that fact only struck me this week. When I'm walking around between sales calls during the day and I see a crowd of people in shorts and "I (Heart) NY" T-shirts on, I know they're tourists. But if that same crowd were wearing business attire, I probably wouldn't even notice them.

Why am I telling you this? Well, if you are traveling somewhere and you want to blend in with the natives, bring a suit.

Now this theory falls apart on the weekends. Nobody wears suits on weekends. However, even on Saturdays and Sundays in the summer, you can usually still tell who the tourists are in New York. The tourists are the ones in Manhattan. The locals are out at The Hamptons or down at the Jersey Shore or somewhere else other than here.

That is if they have money. I don't, so I hang around here.

So there I was this past Saturday, participating in a literary pub crawl of The West Village, hosted by a local theater group. We went from bar to bar (The White Horse Tavern, Chumley's, Cedar Tavern, Minetta Tavern), drank beer, and listened to the tour guides talk about the famous writers who found inspiration and actually did creative work in these historic pubs.

Most of the folks in the tour were from around here. They were a middle-aged, seemingly affluent crowd. Maybe the idea of driving all the way out to the end of Long Island didn't quite appeal to them as it once did. Strolling around the Village on a Saturday afternoon was pleasant enough.

The group moved slowly and quietly. Women adjusted their straw hats and men pulled white shorts up around their bellies and pushed Blue Blocker sunglasses up to the bridge of their noses.

Just a calm, mellow procession, enjoying the cobblestones beneath our feet.

On our way from Chumley's (where F. Scot Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda had their wedding reception) to The White Horse Tavern (where Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas drank himself to death) some greasy guido punks started taunting us with "You speakee English? You speakee English."

Because we were a large tour group, I guess they assumed we were foreigners visiting the Big Apple.

Genteel citizens would ignore such sophomoric behavior. Judging by the people in our group, I figured we'd all just let it go.

I was wrong.

"We're locals you asshole!" an old woman in a white sundress shouted from our crowd.

That one sentence, epitomizes to me, what being a New Yorker is all about.

Fuck You,

Broadway Jim Jenkins

P.S. Yes, I currently do live in Hoboken and not New York. But that's only temporary. I spend most of my day in Manhattan anyway. Besides, Hoboken is only five minutes from the City. Why am I explaining myself to you? Fuck you!

		Love is All Around Us
		August 5, 1998 The tourists have been in town for two months now. It's easy to spot them. Sure they've got cameras. Sure they walk around with mouths agape while staring at The Empire State Building. Sure they order the "numba tin" at Chinese restaurants. ("Numba tin" is the way they say "number ten" in Georgia and Alabama.) But the easiest way to tell a tourist from a local? Locals wear suits. (Sounds like another Ozzy song: "I said locals wear suits and you gotta believe me.") It's so obvious, but that fact only struck me this week. When I'm walking around between sales calls during the day and I see a crowd of people in shorts and "I (Heart) NY" T-shirts on, I know they're tourists. But if that same crowd were wearing business attire, I probably wouldn't even notice them. Why am I telling you this? Well, if you are traveling somewhere and you want to blend in with the natives, bring a suit. Now this theory falls apart on the weekends. Nobody wears suits on weekends. However, even on Saturdays and Sundays in the summer, you can usually still tell who the tourists are in New York. The tourists are the ones in Manhattan. The locals are out at The Hamptons or down at the Jersey Shore or somewhere else other than here. That is if they have money. I don't, so I hang around here. So there I was this past Saturday, participating in a literary pub crawl of The West Village, hosted by a local theater group. We went from bar to bar (The White Horse Tavern, Chumley's, Cedar Tavern, Minetta Tavern), drank beer, and listened to the tour guides talk about the famous writers who found inspiration and actually did creative work in these historic pubs. Most of the folks in the tour were from around here. They were a middle-aged, seemingly affluent crowd. Maybe the idea of driving all the way out to the end of Long Island didn't quite appeal to them as it once did. Strolling around the Village on a Saturday afternoon was pleasant enough. The group moved slowly and quietly. Women adjusted their straw hats and men pulled white shorts up around their bellies and pushed Blue Blocker sunglasses up to the bridge of their noses. Just a calm, mellow procession, enjoying the cobblestones beneath our feet. On our way from Chumley's (where F. Scot Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda had their wedding reception) to The White Horse Tavern (where Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas drank himself to death) some greasy guido punks started taunting us with "You speakee English? You speakee English." Because we were a large tour group, I guess they assumed we were foreigners visiting the Big Apple. Genteel citizens would ignore such sophomoric behavior. Judging by the people in our group, I figured we'd all just let it go. I was wrong. "We're locals you asshole!" an old woman in a white sundress shouted from our crowd. That one sentence, epitomizes to me, what being a New Yorker is all about. Fuck You, Broadway Jim Jenkins P.S. Yes, I currently do live in Hoboken and not New York. But that's only temporary. I spend most of my day in Manhattan anyway. Besides, Hoboken is only five minutes from the City. Why am I explaining myself to you? Fuck you!