BY Paul Hughes
Dear Vinnie,
Yo, how’s it hangin’?
I’m out heah on vacation in Orange County and it’s been wicked hot. But that’s not what I’m writin’ about. You could knock me over wid a sap,it is not to be believed. They think they’re in New York out here. They’re tryin’ anyway. They’re getting it all mixed up, but out here they’re naming everything after New York, from da Bronx to Battery Park. Almost like I’m back in the old neighborhood ‘cept it’s all fake. I could use me a stronger word (know what I’m sayin’?), but I’m trying to cut down on that, least while I’m away from home.
First thing is, other day I’m talking to an Angels’ fan. Yeah, they’re doin’ great this year, gotta give ’em that, and the bums in the Bronx ain’t doin’ squat.
But I found out,as if we didn’t already know, eh?,the Angels ain’t never gonna be truly better than the Yanks because I’ll tell ya,wanna know? I’ll tell ya,it’s ’cause it’s all a joke. California is out here winnin’, but they’re still wishin’. And usually they’re whinin’. California baseball my left foot.
The Angels fan says blah, blah, blah “K-Rod”,which a’course is what they call closer Frankie Rodriguez. Dunno what’s wrong wit callin’ him Frankie,was good enough for Sinatra, may he rest in peace.
Anyways, I knew right then it doesn’t matter how much they try, they ain’t never gonna be us. I says to the fan, “Pardon me Miss, I couldn’t help noticing that ‘K-Rod’ is an obvious and uncreative derivative of ‘A-Rod’,shortstop on the best baseball team in the history of the game. You may have heard of him. And if you do truly hate us as much as you say, why do you depend for your nicknames on our stars?”
Then I’m out drivin’. It’s a rental, so I’m only about 10 or 20 above the limit, on the freeway, and heading out to the beach. Workin’ on my tan, Vinnie, know what I’m sayin’?
Then I see this billboard,Central Park West. I’m thinkin’, am I still in Kansas? First off, Central Park,the real one,don’t need no billboard, right? Like anyone’s gonna miss seein’ the park, which is friggin’ huge. OK, maybe da tourists from out here would hafta ask directions. But c’mon, Vinnie! What’s up with that?
But that ain’t all, Vinnie.
That afternoon I’m drivin’ back to my Motel 6 and I see this sign that says, “Something-or-other at Uptown.” I almost crash off the damn road, I sweah to God. What the bleep is that, know what I mean? It’s on some building, lots of units,which, honestly, does look like New York,one of the downtown four-story firetraps we built a hunnerd years ago for the immigrants fresh off the boat. But I wanna know uptown? Whattya tawkin’ about? Where’s downtown in yer “city”?
I’m shakin’ my head all the way back to my room. But Vinnie it ain’t even over yet. I ask the guy at the desk where I can get me some soap and he hands me one of them little bars the size of a breath mint. I say naw, I need another bottle of cologne, too, cause I ran out.
He says, “Try the Village.”
“What?”
“You know, the Village. It’s a mall in Orange. East Village Way.”
Friggin’ malls, you know? I wanna strangle the guy but I ain’t paid my bill yet and they got my credit card. The Village ain’t no mall,know what I mean?
So I get to the mall,they got a Dippin Dots out here, which is wicked great, right? There’s a girl at the counter. I ask her, “Where’s a good place to hang out at night?”
She says, “You should try SoCo in Fullerton.”
I says, “what the hell is SoCo?”
“You know, like SoHo,like in New York City or whatever.”
(When I get home, lemme tell youse how everyone here says “like” and “whatever” all the time. They must really like it. Whatever.)
Later that night I stop for gas,it’s friggin’ cheap out here Vinnie; too bad we can’t live in New York and drive in California,and I’m about to ask directions to SoCo. But I can’t bring myself to say the words, Vinnie.
Don’t get me started.
It’s just too depressing.
