Memoirs of an NYC Burgah: Chinatown

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In order to establish my credentials as a New Yorker, I’d like to begin by discussing the black spot on Manhattan that is Chinatown. When I was only in 5th grade, I visited Manhattan with my mom. We went down to Canal street to get me a $20 fake Chanel bag, elevating me to not only the cat’s pajamas, but his three-piece suit and monocle as well, because dammit, that’s what class is. Almost 10 years later, I see Chinatown for what it really is. Or rather, smell it. Chinatown smells like a combination of death, fish, General Tso’s mystery meat, excrement, and prostitution. There is some sort of supernatural phenomena that creates a literal bubble around Chinatown, encompassing and perpetuating that horrible scent. Then there’s the entire Chinese population nudging you as you walk down the street trying to get you to buy their cheap crap. That may have worked when I was 10, dear sir, but now I actually have real places to be and a sense of pride in the legitimacy of my clothing. Chinatown just doesn’t add up. I mean, if there are so many Chinese here, who the hell is in China? I’m having a hard time understanding how China is overpopulated when everywhere I turn there’s another Chinese man trying to sell me a “Rollex”. Chinatown is close enough to everything that New York doesn’t kick it out but far enough away that its a complete pain in the ass to get anywhere there. In essence, if I find myself in Chinatown, its going to be a shitty day. It has that soul sucking, depressing, overcrowded effect that kinda reminds me of…oh yeah, China! Which coincidentally, sucks. Otherwise you’d be there. So hows about you leave China at home and start building Paristown or Barcelonatown. You know, places people actually want to go.

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