New York City: the Melting Pot of America and the Goo-Chunks That Fly Out of It

Some of you guys (my Mom and my sister's turtle Humphrey) might be wondering why I haven't written anything in a while. Now I'm not going to name names or burn any bridges here, but I'm also not going to lie to you or treat you like an idiot like some of those other writers (Streeter & Neil) do. And I'm also not going to give you the runaround and then not call for weeks at a time (just Streeter). I'm going to tell you the complete truth about why I haven't written in a while. Honestly— nothing funny has happened. Simple as that.

Absolutely nothing has occurred in my life in the past several months humorous enough to warrant a column. No drunken debauchery, no funny observations, no crazy parties. There hasn't been a single midget (except for my Fourth of July party, but that doesn't count because her breasts weren't real). My drunk uncle Leroy hasn't pulled any crazy stunts recently (except in June when he was arrested for a particularly offensive karaoke set, but that doesn't count cause it was only a misdemeanor) There hasn't even passed a single fart (except when Leroy was informed that whatever he said could and would be used against him in a court of law) I haven't done anything of note in the past three months" nothing at all… watched a lot of M*A*S*H I guess" but that's about it.

Oh and I was busy. Though I may not have mentioned it to you before, I just transferred to New York University. That is, unless you are New York University, in which case I've mentioned it at least twice. Previously, I attended a loud, proud Southern school in Virginia. It was not loud and proud in the way that the manager of your local Banana Republic might be loud and proud, it was loud and proud in the way that Jefferson Davis or the Beverly Hillbillies might be loud and proud. "'Banana Republic' Proud occasionally leads to kinky bondage— Jefferson Davis Proud occasionally leads and regular bondage.

My previous school was so southern, you couldn't swing a cat without hitting:

A.) a Walmart
B.) Another airborne cat.

—that is, if you didn't hit the Walmart again, which had quadrupled in size and become a Super Walmart since the first cat you swung and was now rivaling Monaco as the smallest sovereign nation.

New York University is located in what many refer to as "the Melting Pot of America", whilst my previous college was somewhat of a "Straining Pot of America." The ethnic demographic at my old school might best be described by the following:

Thus, moving North was a rather dramatic change. A practical simulation of such a drastic shift might be conducted by switching breakfast food brands from Kellogg's to Marlboro.

Of course, the culture shock was magnified by the fact that I live in the fine borough of Brooklyn. Apparently, I saw the riot scenes in Do the Right Thing and the charred, post-apocalyptic remains in Escape From New York, and the lovely drug rings depicted in Requiem For a Dream and just couldn't wait to move in. If New York is the Melting Pot of America, Brooklyn might be the finely ground goo-chunks that fly out when you take an electric eggbeater to the pot. I live across the street from a walled-in Hasidic Jewish community, down the street from a house that has adorned its windows, cars, and children with the Puerto Rican flag, and my building supervisor is of an ambiguous ethnicity which I swear is some sort of Anglo-Egyptian combination, but which my roommate swears is Klingon.

If nothing else, the whole situation provides a fair amount of entertainment. I saw a man almost get into a brawl with the grocery store clerk because he asked for a pack of Peanut M&Ms and was off-put when the clerk responded by showing him to an aisle filled with tampons. You see, as obscured by a thick Hispanic dialect, the phrase "Do you know M&M Peanuts" is only a stone throw away from "Do you know feminine products?" And not only did the grocery store clerk know feminine products, he seemed very proud to have cornered the market on them.

However, until you find yourself standing in line at a French Deli owned by an Asian couple on the corner of Avenue of the Americas & Houston Street, ordering that "all-American" cuisine named after the German town of Hamburg, you have not begun to smell the Melting Pot of America. Tragically, I did find myself in this situation. It was so mind-boggling, I almost wussed out and didn't eat at all, but I thought that might be too French of me. So instead, I blew up the deli, destroyed its infrastructure, then stuck around for a couple months in the name of Freedom and went home.

Juuuuust kidding!— I never went home. I'm still there. I'm just not sure why anymore.