Label Me Weaksauce

Label me weaksauce if you must, but I'm not sure I could handle living in New York City. Perhaps it's too many years living in San Francisco, enjoying something that approximates a dense, urban lifestyle without the oh-so-New York need to hip-and-shoulder everyone in the path in order to make passage across a busy street. Perhaps it's because I was stuck in the tourist-infested hotel district of Midtown, swarming with overpriced delis and enough gullible tourists ready to fork over the exorbitant prices. Either way I'm not sure I'm cut out for it—at least not at this stage of my life. Being squarely on the wrong side of thirty has shoved me into a social set a few degrees removed from the ambitious twenty-somethings, scrambling desperately to leave their mark on the most important city in the world. With the burning desire to remodel the shape of the planet fast seeping out of me, I think I'll take the lazy facsimile of the urban jungle and cool my jets in San Francisco. I'm not strong. Give me a greasy burrito from the local taqueria, a couple of alcoholic transsexual bums sprawled on the sidewalk and a stiff bank of fog rolling in off the Pacific.