Beautiful woman reads a book in Russian by the light of the refrigerated pastry case.

In Caffe Reggio on MacDougal Street in NYC last Saturday. Here's the top comment about Caffe Reggio at Yelp! on the Caffe Reggio page at Yelp!:

I sat in Caffe Reggio and drank an Americano, because I had to remind myself that I could, in fact, sit in Caffe Reggio and drink an Americano. It's downstairs from my apartment, and it's been there for thousands of years, and yet I seldom make my way inside. I could feel something deep inside me stirring, and suddenly I had an intense craving to break free from the pattern I had been running as of late. I wanted to be free. My my routine of sulking, and whining, and going to the same places that I always went day in and day out had exhausted me. So I opted for a little bit of history, and a little bit of Old New York, and I began to write a rant about why these things were at the same time toxic as they were healing. It went something like this:

It's been a constant topic of discussion, and it seems to be on all of our minds: New York is dead.

Rent is too high, and we've chased out all of the artists. Nightlife is not what it used to be. Everything is too safe, and Manhattan has become a Disneyland for the wealthy. We hear this every day, and it's forced down our throats by our friends and loved ones who have given up the dream and moved to a more attainable and temperate Los Angeles. New York is a desolate wasteland of broken dreams and failed attempts at success. It's been the winter from hell, and every time the weather drops below freezing we call it a Polar Vortex, which is something that never existed in history before a few weeks ago. It's all we have to talk about, and much like anything in this life, you are what you dwell upon.

Today, for the first time in months, I decided to take a long walk. I went outside with my light leather jacket, put the fucking Amelie soundtrack on my headphones, and just walked. Springtime was starting to peak [sic] out from behind the dirty snow drifts, and I knew that everyone could tell. There was a lightness in the air, and I could feel myself trying to come back to life. It reminded me that New York would make a comeback soon, even if it were my own private revolution. It's not New York that's dead: it's us.

This is coming from the most seasonally depressed, self-sabotaging, wallowing, weak-willed person in all of Manhattan. I had my heart broken into a million pieces this winter by a person who didn't care about me, and I too fell trap to this sick notion that this was all New York's fault. I thought for a moment that I was too poor to make art, and I was too uninspired to make a difference, and too safe to make any waves in this desolate tide pool of a town. But you know what? It's bullshit. All of it.

There's no such thing as being bored--only being boring. Moby wrote an article recently that's been popping up all over my newsfeed about how much New York is passé, and it's a waste of time. [Link.] Why all of a sudden are we all listening to what that little bitch Moby has to say? What the hell does Moby know? Well you know what, Moby? Eat a dick. Oh--wait--dicks aren't vegan. Eat a soy dick: the worst kind of dick there is.

Don't like New York? Fine. Move to Los Angeles. Maybe then rent will finally decrease, and the artists might be able to live here again. In the meanwhile, if you think New York needs some action, then look to the trees and see that very soon the leaves will be sprouting again, and we'll all be outside reminded of how lucky we are to live in the most beautiful city in the world.

If you miss the art, go out and make some. If you want to find the old New York grit that everyone talks about, then go out and dig for it--it's still there. Even if it's only in your heart and your demeanor, as you take your coffee black and sneer at tourists on the sidewalk through oversized black sunglasses.

I'm sick of this debate, and I won't take part of it any longer. This has been my home for fourteen years, and she's murdered me every single winter to the point of cracking. But I'm looking forward to spring, and every spring after that, and I won't give up on her. It's the least I could do.

That's by Chase C., whose Yelp! reviews are collected here at the Chase C. page at Yelp! If you read the full Yelp! oeuvre of Chase C., you won't need the light of a refrigerated pastry case, since it's all and only on line, but you might want some background music, so here's the fucking Amelie soundtrack.

If only the empty seat across from the beautiful Russian woman could be occupied by Chase C.! Perhaps you are inspired to write the scenario, the "My Dinner With Andre" for these two. Let's find a less French and more Russian movie soundtrack. Ah! The Prokofiev soundtrack for "Alexander Nevsky"... this ought to melt the ice of inhibition.



Pour your coffee black and sneer, artists. 'Tis time!