you’re not a real new yorker until someone asks you for directions, or a pigeon poops on you in port authority, or a pigeon—who looks like he really needs to poop—asks you for directions to port authority.
you’re not a real new yorker until you live in manhattan. or you drink a lot of them and puke on a really expensive street corner in tribeca.
you’re not a real new yorker until you’ve performed in a production of my new play the bodega monologues. excerpt: “my bodega is warm. my bodega is inviting. my bodega has a $10 minimum for credit cards.”
you’re not a real new yorker unless you’ve finally given up defending our mexican restaurants’ cuisine to californians because it’s just not worth it.
you’re not a real new yorker if you haven’t ridden the cyclone, the staten island ferry, or a cross-town bus that, for no apparent reason, is technically moving backwards.