Tag Archives: Pam Houston

Eating Flesh with All the Other New Yorkers in Mordor

SoHo fashion ghetto

SoHo fashion ghetto

I’m in NYC now, the Chobani cafe in SoHo to be exact. Everyone here is beautiful. Many people have shopping bags and are wearing patterned clothing that is expertly mixed. Also, since when does Chobani have a brick and mortar store where I can buy a $2.50 coffee or get yogurt creations? It’s a crazy world.

I’m in a fashion ghetto. There are designer stores as far as the eye can see, and everything except the trash on the ground screams I’m not good enough. Even the pigeons look groomed. Thank God I wore all black today. Maybe people will think I’m making a fashion statement and not just wearing the top layer of my backpack. Also, since when do I care what people think? New York is changing me.

If you ever wonder where all the attractive people in your hometown have gone, they are either in California or NYC. There are too many people here to fall in love with. My heart can’t take it. But could I date a man who spent more time thinking about his appearance than I do? Could I date a man wrapped up in his Warby Parkers and the New York lifestyle? Is that what I want for the children?

When I got in last night, the friend I’m staying with in Brooklyn told me that New York City is Mordor, that the people who inhabit Mordor are orcs, and that orcs eat human flesh. We are human flesh eaters.

San Francisco is too shiny, I said. I need something dirtier.

New York is the grossest place on earth, he said.

Good, I said.

He had to leave at 4:30 this morning for work at the cafe and gave me directions to the subway. It’s just around the corner, he said. The vagrants will help you find it, he said.

Good, I said. In the morning, I remarked on just how much his neighborhood reminded me of Cairo.

I sat today on the High Line – the former above-ground railway turned into walking path/garden/park – and read the book I bought in Capitol Hill. It’s called “Cowboys are My Weakness.” It’s a collection of short stories about women who fall for burly, hunty, meaty, cowboy type men and are invariably hurt by them. It’s not exactly feminist literature, but Chobani isn’t exactly a coffee shop. Sue me.

In one of the stories, a woman flies to New York to meet up with a man her father knows. He plays a Texan cowboy in a soap opera. They kind of fall in love in Chelsea. I’ll be in Chelsea tomorrow night.

Cowboy, if you’re out there, meet me tomorrow at UCB. If you’re the one for me, you’ll know what that means.

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