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hours, something as simple as a splinter could bring me to my knees. At night, we are immortal. In the daytime, we’re not so lucky. We’ll cover that in more detail later on.
    Back to the sun. I absolutely love relaxing on the beach during a perfect summer’s day, admiring the pretty girls walking around in their bikinis flashing their pierced pupiks for everyone to see, and trying to decide if there are any potential feasting victims for the upcoming evening.
    I love to rub myself with cocoa butter, to get the perfect tan, to smell the gusts of sea air, to hear the sound of seagulls screaming overhead looking for a tasty morsel. I’ll tell you this, friends: there is no greater smorgasbord on earth than Riis Park on a perfect July afternoon. I love to go to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on a sunny spring day; I love to take the tourist ride on the Circle Line around Manhattan. The sun is great except for the fact that it does actually hurt our eyes a little bit. That’s why to me, the greatest invention of the twentieth century is the BluBlocker sunglasses. Can you imagine what it was like before? I’ve told you I am sexy, but can you imagine what I looked like wearing cataract shades? Not pretty. I would rather wear a Yasser Arafat T-shirt while eating camel testicles in some Hamas hideout.
    This is one of those examples where change is a good thing. I am not big on change, but at least I am not as bad as Mrs. Berkowitz up the block. She has been wearing black ever since Henry Kissinger left Washington and says that she will continue to do it until “those shmucks in the capital declare him king.”
    This is a memoir and I told you all before that I don’t spend a lot of time with big words when they are not called for. I promise you that we will come to chapters that are a bit longer; do you know what is going to happen then? You are going to say, “Why did you write such a long chapter? I couldn’t finish it before my train made its stop!” Whining bastards.
    We’ll get back to my list of vampire myths a little later. What I would really like to do right now, while I’m thinking about it, is to explain to all of you why someone who has been alive since before the time of Noah loves to talk about what I believe to be the greatest city in the world. The greatest the world has ever known. The one that I am proud to say is where I plan to spend the rest of life, however long that may be. The capital of the earth. My adopted home. The city. My city. New York.
     
     

Chapter 5
    New York
    Eight Million Reasons to Kibitz
    About a month ago, I was on the “D” train heading toward Coney Island—yes, during the day, on my way to the Aquarium. Then I was on to look at the pretty little ladies that strut their stuff on the beach. Maybe get a pretzel with some mustard and a beer. I’m getting off track.
    Anyway, I was doing a crossword puzzle in one of the many local papers when a frail little voice next to me said, “Twenty across is ‘Monte Carlo.’” I looked over to see an adorable little wrinkle-faced woman wearing a shawl amd clutching her hand bag as if it held the secrets to the universe inside of it. I smiled and said, “Thank you,” and went back to my puzzle. She obviously took my acknowledgment of her hint as a reason to strike up a conversation.
    Who am I to deny a sweet little old lady the opportunity to have someone to talk to for awhile? Over the next few stops, though, I learned the story of this yenta’s life. She was a fortunate survivor of the Holocaust. She met her husband in England after she escaped Poland. They moved to Brooklyn in 1948. She was the mother of: an orthodontist, who lives in Scarsdale with his shiksa girlfriend and never calls; a son who is an English teacher in Edison, NJ, who never calls; and a daughter who gave her three of the most beautiful grandchildren you “ever laid your eyes on”—Milton, Jeffrey, and Sadie, who was named after her. The daughter is married