Letter From New York

New York. The city that embodies the phrase "one size fits all." Like Dick Cheney's heart, like George W. in the White House, like a midget in a pair of Rush Limbaugh's swim trunks, a student in new York City is in way over his head. In the interest of educating the non-urbane, and of cashing in on my always entertaining hijinks and personal revelations, I have decided to start writing this little diary of my experiences in the city that never shuts up (or the fondue pot we call NYC, or the giant, steaming, dung-infested hell hole of New York, take your pick). As I am well aware that your internet reading time is limited, allow me to introduce myself and my upcoming column "Letter from New York."

I am an eighteen-year-old Dramatic Writing major entering my freshman year at New York University, a college so large that certain departments have ceased communication with the main body of the University and have become tiny fascist dictatorships, run by small men with big glasses or contacts that change the color of their eyes. I come from Seattle, land of grunge music, coffee, Bill Gates and rain. I am a reasonably good-looking fellow. If I were on television at the same time as, say "America's Funniest Home Videos," you would probably watch me. Unless it was a cute-baby-making-gurgly-noises episode, in which case Saget would win out. I'm reasonably confident you'd pick me over a "Seinfeld" re-run, but you'd have a tough choice between me and "Cheers."

In writing about my exploits here in the city, I imagine I will be forced to write about my friends and relatives. In the interest of sparing them undue embarrassment, their actual identities will remain concealed. In other words, my girlfriend, Patricia Thompson, will be known, for the duration of this column, as Patricia Thomas. Patricia attends Rutgers University, which I will cleverly mask as Rutgers College. She has brown... no... black hair. Her number is 732-994-9995, but we'll just call that 800-555-5555 (Note: This isn't even a real number). And I have promised not to make any mention of her tendency to drool while sleeping and watching televised sports. It is through this series of codes-- ciphers, if you will-- that I shall be able to maintain the anonymity of my friends, and yet still share with you whatever humiliating anecdotes and nude photos I happen to acquire. You're welcome.

In the months to come you will learn things about me, things that will simultaneously amaze and frighten you. I know what you will say: "Tommy, these stories are so amazing and frightening. They must be untrue!" And they might very well be, as I plan to make most of them up. I have found honesty to be about as useless as a college education and showering regularly.

So the introduction is complete. Grease up your hog and gird your loins, "Letter from New York" is up and running. Like God on sodium pentothal, I will tell all.

About the author:

Tommy Wallach is a freshman at New York University.