From Jason Brenner's, "My 20 Inches," Fall '97 From Jason Brenner's, "My 20 Inches," Fall '97 I want to be a part of it, New York, New York." Now, I realize many of you reading this column -- furious that I have just insulted the city where you will utilize your Wharton educations to exploit those less fortunate -- have just started emitting smoke from your ears. I can already hear your complaints: "How dare he put down the land of milk and honey!" "How dare he dishonor the splendid stretch of road that represents everything decent and just in our society (Wall Street)!" "How dare he criticize the city in which I will make my first million and spend my first year in jail (after failing to report taxes on my first million)!" And several of you are bitter and angry that I have just insulted the city that holds a wealth of your childhood nostalgia. Just as I hear the Wharton geeks yapping at my disrespect towards the Big Apple, I can hear native New Yorkers doing the same. "How dare he insult the city where I used to travel from Long Island to shop on weekends!" "How dare he insult the city where I used to travel from New Jersey to shop on weekends!" Why, you may ask, am I going on a tirade against the city that holds such worldwide prestige and has become a symbol for this fine country we like to call the United States of America? Simple?because it sucks. Allow me to explain. After spending New Year's Eve in the Big Apple, I have come to the obvious conclusion that my views differ starkly from those of Old Blue Eyes: I have no interest in "spreading the news." Three hours of my night were spent on two trains shuttling me between Grand Central Station and Westchester, where I spent the night. During those three hours, I counted the number of vices I saw being committed: three joints, an uncountable number of cases of beer, one pile of vomit, one fight between a girl and her boyfriend (shortly followed by a fight between the same girl and some guy she never met before). In fact, I believe public transportation travelers managed to break eight of the Ten Commandments during those two train rides. (Someone actually may have been coveting his neighbor's wife but I couldn't confirm that for certain.) New Yorkophiles (no relation to pedophiles -- at least not the ones I know) tell me the cabs in New York are omnipresent to the point of absurdity. That was a bigger lie than, when visiting Penn as a cute and naive pre-frosh, my campus tour guide told me the University was as a perfectly safe campus. After suffering acute frostbite on my extremities (don't worry, I won't go into details) while waiting to hail a cab, we arrived at our destination: some cheeseball club -- from the inside it looked remarkably like Gimbel Gymnasium with snazzy neon lights. The line to enter, however, was about three blocks long. The last time I saw a line that long, hundreds of Penn basketball aficionados cued up outside of Abner's to receive their free cheesesteaks. (Ah, those were the days when we could beat basketball powerhouses such as Cornell and Lafayette.) When we arrived inside the club, we picked up our $50 tickets. Not to worry, admission included two hours of open bar and boy was I planning to take advantage of it. (That's right! I'm 21 now, and I can wolf down as many drinks as I want and there ain't a damn thing the LCE can do about it.) We approached the bar and, after waiting behind what seemed like a hundred thousand people, I ordered two measly beers. "That'll be $12," said the bartender who was wearing more leather than even the best endowed cow. So much for open bar. Well, I made the most of the situation and lived through my New Year's Eve in the Big Apple. Don't expect me to go back though. As dear old Sinatra "wakes up in the city that never sleeps" and prepares for a day of hailing taxis, fighting crowds and being ripped off left and right, I'll be fluffing my pillows in a nice cozy bed in Baltimore.
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