‘Only in New York’ is one of the corniest, most hackneyed things anyone could ever say, but it really is a thing: some shit only ever happens in NY. And that’s why I’m changing the name of my ‘True Stories’ column to ‘True New York Stories.’
I went to the gym today. I go to the gym; I have to. It’s either that or become a self-loathing blob that cries while he eats. I went to the gym for my Saturday spin class and… Yes, I do a spin class; get over it. I’d like to see you do one–they’re absolutely brutal. Anyway something happened at my spin class (this isn’t the ‘true new york story’ part, but it’s worth telling, anyway), something bad– very bad. Someone farted. The only thing less funny than a fart in a spin class is the charred remains of a baby caught in a house fire. And this was no ordinary fart–it was evil. I won’t talk you through the obscene notes that made up its bouquet, but I will tell you I almost barfed on my leotard. If I had to guess who’d dealt it, I’d say it was the pallid carrot-top on the bike next to me. Why those blood clots can’t take the feathers off before they eat the chicken is beyond me.
Anyway, the True New York Story. So, today was unseasonably warm for this time of year, and so I walked to and from the gym in just my shorts and a hoodie. It might have been a little chilly on my legs, but steel doesn’t feel the cold, so I wouldn’t know. On my way home a cheerful old man with an enormous Band-Aid on his forehead stopped me in the street. ‘Hey!’ he said, pointing at my legs. ‘It’s warm but it aint that warm.’ I laughed and said it was totally warm enough for shorts. He chuckled. ‘You think you’re in Miami or something, buddy?’ I laughed again and wished him a nice day. Friendly old man, I thought. Then, when I was less than 5 paces away, he said right out loud for all the world to hear, ‘What a fuckin’ schmuck!’
Only in New York! True Story.