So this morning, like the rest of them, I suppressed my urges and used my weird hands to press play on my iPod instead. And, like I always do, I ended up making an accidental playlist. Today's consisted of only one song: Simon and Garfunkel's "The Only Living Boy in New York." I love this tune but it always makes me upset that a) I have somewhere to be, and b) sorry for myself for no good reason. But mostly, and most obviously, it makes me think about street wandering and hot Central Park nuts and writing my bum off in New York.
Right now that city is drawing me to it like bees to knees and I don't know why. Maybe I'm bored. Or boring. Or both. Or maybe it's because I'm craving the romance of a real writers' city. If not New York (but almost always New York) then Paris or Havana. Toronto has its good writing places and its great writers, of course. But the energy and the drive and the desperation are not as they should be here. And today, thanks to you Garfunkel, this place is so much less than good enough. I want New York writers. I want their feast of books near coffee, their towering jumped-from buildings, their peanut-buttered keyboards. I want... oh f$&# me. I want what Franco's got.
Darn it, Garfunkel. Your soaring, sad harmony with whatshisface has made me even more jealous of Franco. It's made me want to apologize to him, Garfunkel. It's made me regret happening to him yesterday because all I want right now (and almost always) is a spot on his cold Greenwich stoop.