Here it is once again, the inevitable yearly trip to New York City.  The city's siren song is one I'm unable to ignore despite how hard I may try.  New York sings to me - 80s music crooning from the bar where the fratastic crew frequents, the honks that are supposed to be prohibited, and the occasional siren wailing in the distance.  Everyone's eyes down, moving fast, with white wires snaking out of their ears, tuned into their own special blend of cacophony.  The city is frozen and the lights gleam and twinkle, bright and brittle in the brisk winter air.  Oh yes, one cannot deny that winter has arrived here.

This is the city where my pants are never tight enough, my shoes not high enough and my walk never fast enough.  I need to dust off my air kisses, which I haven't practiced in quite a while.  Synchronizing the cheek swap at the right moment is critical.  Is it one cheek or two, I forgot how the rules work.

NYC is oddly enough, my home that isn't home.  The Chrysler Building will always make me smile and crossing one of the bridges at night, any of the bridges, makes my heart glow.  The city sings to me:

Do not go.  You cannot go.  You owe us your stories.  You owe us your song.