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The Word On The Street: Presenting “Fuck You” Friday
Filed under: 10002, 10003, 11222, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Lower East Side, Lower East Side Manhattan, The Word On The Street
It’s been a pretty busy week for yours truly. Today, however, I was able to take a day off to do a few things I wanted to do (versus stuff I have to do). I have had a lot of “have to dos” lately.
Upon disembarking the L at First Avenue in the East Village I, courtesy of LinkNYC, was presented with this self-care “tip”: call a friend.
“No, no sir (or madam) this is simply not how it works here”, I thought to myself. “Telling someone to fuck off IS self-care.”
Believe you me, I want to tell quite a few folks to do just that nowadays. However, “punching up” could get me in (more) trouble. “Punching down” is not my style. “Punching laterally”, however, is fair game in my opinion.
If you need it— “it” being anything imaginable and beyond— New York City not only has it but will deliver it.
Right.
To.
Your.
Proverbial.
Fucking.
Doorstep.
We pay top dollar for this amenity. This is something outsiders do not understand. The freedom, the mental health benefits, which come with letting it all out in public. Fellow New Yorkers let you do it. We take it in turns. It’s an understood thing.
Sure enough, I was presented with such an opportunity today. Here’s how I put it on Twitter:
Then it occurred to me:
Why not roll out a compendium of “Fuck Yous” in their manifold forms as I see them?
There’s no more replenishable, locally-sourced resource as “Fuck You” in New York City.
So here we go!
And last, but hardly least, this contender from none other than Clay Street, Greenpoint, U.S.A. While “Fuck You” is not explicitly stated, the sentiment is there.
That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.*
— J.D. Salinger, “Catcher in the Rye”
*I am totally amenable to “Fuck You” being inscribed on my tombstone. The more the merrier. A person is defined by his— or her— enemies.
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