I’ve always been one of those people where everything is my “favourite”.
Each band I like is my favourite band. Any
good thing I eat is the best food I’ve ever had. A fun day is the best day
ever. Every one of my friends is my best friend. I love everyone and am
generous with saying so (something that can be a little uncomfortable at the
start of relationships, but generally guys tend to understand that if a beer on
a hot day can all but reduce me to tears of joy, then I’m probably just as
overenthusiastic as I seem. It also means that when I say it from that other,
more serious ‘love’ place, there has to be some sort of awkward cheek cupping
and intense eye contact so they understand the depth of my words. I try to avoid being the instigator for obvious
reasons).
Moving to New York just about three months
ago has really put this fervor into overdrive. Every day really is the best day
ever, and I really do love everything here. I can order a salad worth $7 to be
home delivered. I can take a train and two songs later I’m in the most famous
metropolis in the world. There are beer and shot combo deals for less than a
price of just the beer back home. Alcohol is served with breakfast on weekends,
almost as a rule. (There are so many alcohol examples: free pouring spirits,
corner stores and pharmacies that sell alcohol and buses to the beach that
serve it. I won’t dwell though. Mum, it’s not as bad as it sounds.) Transport
is cheap. I can’t remember the last time I had to walk up a hill. People think
I’m some sort of hero because I managed to escape Australia unbitten/unscathed/unkilled
by snakes or spiders. It’s great. It’s all "the best".
But, if I had to choose, one of my favourite
things about being here is the easy access to hard copies of the New York
Times. Reading this every day reminds me that I’m really here. I’d long been
eager to escape the journalistic embarrassment that is The Daily Telegraph and it’s almost like, 142 years before I was born, The Sydney Morning Herald
created the broadsheet version of itself to spite me alone – by the time it
went tabloid size, I was long lost. But The New York Times is a lovely size.
I’m not sold on the different fonts or the stray capital lettered headlines,
but I’m sure the appreciation will come in time. (That’s a lie. I hate the
stray cap phenomenon.)
It was a long time ago I stopped reading
newspapers for the news, and starting reading them solely for the obituaries. Either
way, reading the paper will make me cry, better it be from joy (mixed with sadness,
yes) than complete loss of hope in the world. Perhaps it sounds morbid that
every morning I can be found teary eyed at my local café, pouring over the
Deaths section, but unless they start a Humans of New York column in the
paper that just features snippets of people’s lives, this is sadly the only place
everyday people are celebrated. It’s a beautiful few pages, if you want to see
it that way.
I’ve met so many new people on these pages
throughout my life – ones that I’ll never forget. Sure, they’re dead, but
they’ve still had an effect on me. Not just that, but it’s these pages that
redeem the rest of the heartbreak in the publication. It’s the one place where
all the bullshit is forgotten, all is forgiven, and only the good stuff
remains.
I’ve had a longtime favourite memorandum
note from a local newspaper back home. Each year on the same day, this man
publishes a note to his late wife and it’s one of those things that makes me “lumpthroaty”
every time I see it (in spite of the “WANT TO SELL? GIVE US A YELL!” post above
it.)
But today, I found another classic in the New York Times. Their obituary
pages are by far the best I’ve ever come across. I’ve met mobsters, moguls and
shoemakers. I’ve been all around the
world and read messages both short and long. Today’s favourite was extra long,
but it made me belly laugh and cry at the same time, and I was in love with
this man – Josiah ‘Joe’ Low – even before I was done reading.
Here are a few classic snippets:
“He
blew his nose with a trumpet that turned heads.”
“He
disliked mini-golf – “a bastardization of the game” – cilantro and the snapping
of gum.”
“Ordering
at a restaurant was always time consuming because Joe needed to learn the name
and background of the waiter – some connection was always found. By the time
dessert came, he was often sitting at another table with people he had just
met.”
“He
let you ride the ATV despite what your parents said. He paid his six-year-old
granddaughter to paint his toenails.”
“His
favourite fashion statement was a woman with a ponytail poking out the back of
a baseball cap.”
“He
gave his wife old pick-up trucks for her birthday. Children he barely knew
named stuffed animals after him.”
Definitely the best obit I’ve ever read –
and I’m not just saying that, I swear. Apart from being awesome and hilarious,
it reminded me that there are still so many “best friends” to meet and “best
days ever” ahead, and then once it’s done, my Cher impersonations, potty mouth,
and tendency to smack people on the ass before I even really know them that
well will be a few of the things I leave behind. And that’s the best thing
ever.
