I am allowed to run
topless through New York City.
This is possibly the single, most valuable piece of
information I have gleaned after living just one week in Manhattan.
As someone who has never been
averse to getting their tits out for the lads (okay, that was in my younger
days – I found the lads became considerably less encouraging when I hit 50), I
find the legal right to immodesty rather appealing.
The leniency in relation to body
parts is, however, a smokescreen to hide a ton load of other things that you can’t
do here. George, the very handsome maintenance man in my building, looked at me
aghast when I asked for instructions about turning the heating on. I had left
LA in temperatures of over 100 degrees, so the East Coast might as well have
been Iceland. He politely explained that if the temperature rose above 55
degrees outside, it was illegal to have the boiler on; I had missed The Big
Switch Off by just one day.
Seriously? I can’t have heating
when I am cold? So much for being able to get anything you want, day or night,
in the city that never sleeps.
The ramifications of this law,
however, are as nothing compared to the alcohol laws. In California, bar staff
will chop off your arm if you so much as try to touch your glass a millisecond
after 2am. While the drinking laws are a lot more flexible in NWC (basically,
one person will tilt your head back while the other force feeds you liquor),
establishments that have a “drink in” licence can’t sell you anything to take
out. How thrilled was the sales assistant in Brooklyn Kitchen at the bottom of
my building filling me in on that law.
Everyone takes great delight in
telling me what I can and cannot do; but the thing that dominates life
more than anything else is the city’s emphasis on GREEN. Heaven forbid that you
do something non-PC that threatens the future of mankind.
Now, I’m no environmentalist, but
I do my bit. I contribute wine bottles for recycling and I no longer empty my
bladder in public swimming pools (oh, come on – I was only four). But the
obsession with saving the planet that is not going to combust for several
million years after I have gone is ridiculous. I care far more about saving
myself. The planet can go eff itself. It’s like that safety announcement they
make on planes – “Fit your own mask before helping others”.
Trust me. I’ll be
fitting my own and diving onto that slide without a second thought for the
suffocating two year old next to me.
I have no idea when or why NYC
went so green, but I don’t like it. Take my Bosch dryer. It takes three hours
to dry one sheet; in fact, given the heat, my washing dries more quickly
sitting on a door handle in under an hour. When I complained, I was told that
nothing can be done because it is an eco-friendly dryer. Quite when the Germans
became so caring about saving anyone but themselves is beyond me.
Jaywalking is accepted, although
discouraged, and everything comes with a warning, even more so than in LA,
where people have a pathological terror of being sued.
Take El Colmado, the very nice
tapas bar next to Brooklyn Kitchen (with so much in one spot, don’t expect to
see me in civilisation ever again). I quite fancied a couple of oysters and a
glass of Prosecco, but then noticed, on the menu: “Consuming raw or undercooked
meats, poultry, shellfish, or eggs may increase your risk of foodborne
illness.” Just the vegan Prosecco for me, then, thanks.
What the heck is a “foodborne”
illness, anyway? And why, as a customer, do I have to take responsibility for
undercooked food? Train your chefs in the art of handling the control panel on
a griddle, that’ll do the trick.
I have, nevertheless, been doing
my bit for law enforcement, with the CTC (Call The Cops) policy that fared me
so well in LA. When one cab driver started to lose it with me when my card
wouldn’t swipe in his machine, I threatened to CTC, and, enlisting the support
of the front desk staff, saw him off.
I should tell you, by the way,
that the name of my building is Gotham West, which, as a tribute to Batman’s
home town, I refer to as Gotham City. Expect to see me in Gotham City prison
when, inevitably, I breach one of the laws here.
In the meantime, I’m heading
for downtown Manhattan to get my kit off for the lads.
To the Batmobile, Robin!
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