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From the home office in Penfield, NY
Oct. 16th, 2008 10:20 pm"The best way to keep children at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires."
- Dorothy Parker
Whenever I get off the plane here in Rochester and confidently stride down the length of Concourse A, I always feel like the coolest motherfucker in town. It is sometimes difficult not to phase into a full-fledged pimp walk.
This certainly isn't because I'm a particularly "cool" guy, though I do immediately notice the difference between my attire/appearance and that of the locals. Nor am I acknowledging that Rochester is some kind of backwater hick-burg. I believe, after all, that we are what we come from.
No, I think the origin of this impression lies a bit deeper. It was no secret that I had the time of my life in high school, so it came as little surprise when I decided to attend college locally. And in the additional four years, I developed a strong sense of pride in my hometown. I'm sure there are those who knew me ten years ago who thought I would never leave Western New York, who thought I would settle down in a suburban house with a spunky midwestern woman, staying close to my parents, the Rochester Red Wings and the rest of my peers who wouldn't or couldn't escape.
I think I surprised a lot of people when I instead decided to find my future in The Big City. To be honest, I surprised myself a little.
But I did it. I carved out a nice modest life for myself without being eaten alive by metropolis' three-headed monster of ambition, loneliness and ennui. And so when I walk down that long hallway, I feel like a conquering hero in my own private victory parade.
And then I walk by that single, solitary gift shop with all of the "I [heart] NY" and "Rochester: The Flower City" merchandise and the humble civic pride swells up again.
Which brings me to the other reason I feel so good on that long walk down the Concourse: all of the people I see seem so miserable, because they're leaving. But I'm smiling, because I'm here. I'm home.
- Dorothy Parker
Whenever I get off the plane here in Rochester and confidently stride down the length of Concourse A, I always feel like the coolest motherfucker in town. It is sometimes difficult not to phase into a full-fledged pimp walk.
This certainly isn't because I'm a particularly "cool" guy, though I do immediately notice the difference between my attire/appearance and that of the locals. Nor am I acknowledging that Rochester is some kind of backwater hick-burg. I believe, after all, that we are what we come from.
No, I think the origin of this impression lies a bit deeper. It was no secret that I had the time of my life in high school, so it came as little surprise when I decided to attend college locally. And in the additional four years, I developed a strong sense of pride in my hometown. I'm sure there are those who knew me ten years ago who thought I would never leave Western New York, who thought I would settle down in a suburban house with a spunky midwestern woman, staying close to my parents, the Rochester Red Wings and the rest of my peers who wouldn't or couldn't escape.
I think I surprised a lot of people when I instead decided to find my future in The Big City. To be honest, I surprised myself a little.
But I did it. I carved out a nice modest life for myself without being eaten alive by metropolis' three-headed monster of ambition, loneliness and ennui. And so when I walk down that long hallway, I feel like a conquering hero in my own private victory parade.
And then I walk by that single, solitary gift shop with all of the "I [heart] NY" and "Rochester: The Flower City" merchandise and the humble civic pride swells up again.
Which brings me to the other reason I feel so good on that long walk down the Concourse: all of the people I see seem so miserable, because they're leaving. But I'm smiling, because I'm here. I'm home.
