Central Park, it turns out, was a let down. It was grey, with spots of dirty ice, dog shit and pigeon crap everywhere; it was also littered with broken bong pipes and kleenex. But their were few people. No matter how big people say Central Park is, I felt it was tiny.
But how could it be so void of people.after all there were millions of people in New York.for all its legend, Central Park seemed unused by anything but the dogs and the pigeons. And what made it worse is that I found out every bit of it was micromanaged and stage-planned by an architect; none of this nature was nature; it was a farce, and every bit of its random rock outcroppings were random only by design. What an insult! I thought, and left.
I headed for Times Square, and watched the yellow flow of traffic from the center divider. Times Square was aesthetically superior to Central Park. It didn't try to be something it wasn't. It was anarchic and driven by individual forces and busy and complicated and mad. Soon, I was back at the tradeshow and walking the empty exhibit floor with my publisher and Donald Trump.
I said, "You need to ask him for a picture." She said, "No way, I'm too shy." Strange, all 120 employees at my company fear this woman, and she can't get the courage to ask someone for a picture?
"Look," I whispered, "The only reason Donald is here is because of your show. Do it."
And when she did, the picture turned out stunning. I found Mr. Trump to be very commanding in person. Tall and dressed in a tuxedo at 9:30 AM on a Saturday morning. How New York. I kept busy, and so was on a diet of Coke and Pepsi. At least I'll be able to get dinner at the Banquet tonight. When I showed up, the show staff was going nuts. "We overbooked the banquet," they said, and so I gave up my seat and decided to introduce myself to guests as they entered into this beautiful ballroom. Bill Gates chauffeur and secretary. Some lady in a pink dress who wouldn't stop smiling. And lots of black and white and grey and beige. And so when a young man walked through the door sporting a bright blue blazer, an orange silk shirt, and gold chains, it hit me.
He said, "I remember you from the show!" "And I remember you, whats your accent?" "I am Yugoslavia, but I live here in New York," "ECross Countryuse me for a minute," I said, and ordered him a Long Island Ice Tea. "Vat is sis for, thank you very much." And I said, "Sir, some former production manager for our magazine all the way back in Los Angeles bought this for you." I had finally met my first Gold-chained Guido.
They existed after all.
But I found that New Yorkers were a good group of people. They were engaging in conversation, elegant in style, and aware of the arts. Their city was beautiful in its own gotham way; and they loved drink and food. Why did L.A. work so hard to make me believe New York was one big Jersey accent? I say, just mow down that awful Central Park, put up some more buildings and free bathrooms, and New York will be close to perfect. I still hadn't eaten since the day before, and at 11 PM, I escaped my photography duties at the banquet and headed for a hot dog stand. I bought two, and a couple Cokes, looked for a good place to eat, and ended up next to two guys sleeping on the vents next to a Shoes store.
I asked them where was a good free place to use a restroom around here, and they said, "Grand Central Station." Soon, Richard, our MIS operator, came walking down the street, looking for food since he also opted out of Seared Ahi and hand-picked leaves, or whatever they may have eaten in there. I looked up at him walking by, shivering in the 10 degree weather and said, "Hey man, need food tonight?" and stuck a hot dog in the air. We sat out there, in the blowing wind and talked about computers among the homeless.
After that, I found the restrooms at Grand Central Station locked, and ended up paying the bathroom concierge for a mint. ($1) After that, it was 10 dollar shots with Mr. Rinella, and Dom Perignon, and then off to some Irish hole-in-the-Wall. By four, I was madly searching for NCAA results in my room. At 6:00 AM, I was up, scurrying for the lobby and chauffeur. In the plane, on the way to L.A, the stewardess made some joke about Valley girls..."What does a Valley Girl with a stunted leg say...'Not Even.' " I figured there was a 91 percent chance no one laughed at that joke. Maybe ninety three. Then we landed at LAX.
)
){kind=link}