There Are Two Kinds Of

I Thought I Was Going To Write Fiction But I Fell Backwards Into Non-fiction. It Started When I Got Locked Out Of Two Apartments In One Day And I Told The Story To Some Friends, One Of Whom Worked In The 'village Voice' And Asked Me To Turn It Into An Essay.

Because, Ten-year-olds Of The World, You Shouldn't Believe What Your Teachers Tell You About The Beauty And Specialness And Uniqueness Of You. Or, Believe It, Little Snowflake, But Know It Won't Make A Bit Of Difference Until After Puberty. It's Newton's Lost Law: Anything That Makes You Unique Later Will Get Your Chocolate Milk Stolen And Your Eye Blackened As A Kid. Won't It, Sebastian? Oh, Yes, It Will, My Little Mandarin Chinese-learning, Poe-reciting, High-top-wearing Friend. God Bless You, Wherever You Are.

For A Long Time I Wanted To Draw, But I Could Never Get The Proportions Right. My Still Life Sketches Were The Artistic Equivalent Of Someone Who Has Misjudged The Space Constraints Of A Postcard, The Handwriting Shrinking Uncomfortably At The Bottom.

I Have Nothing Against Canada. I Think That Canadians Might Know The Secret To All Existence, But To Us It Just Comes Off As Timid And Kind And Too Nice, And It Strikes Us As Lacking Edge. Unless You Are Hijacking Someone And Going On A Reality Show With Your Eight Kids And Wearing A Velour Pink Pantsuit, Then You Have No Edge To Us.

I Do Think New York Prepares You For The Crossection Of Personalities And Realities On Display When You Leave The Country, And I'd Live Somewhere Else If I Had A Reason Or Burning-the-the-point-of-discomfort Desire To Do So.