Katie.  And for those of you who know me and know my long-lasting secret crush, I do not mean Holmes.  Katie Couric.  Some love her.  Some hate her.  Regardless of your take, she is an American icon.  She's way too damn chipper at seven o'clock in the morning (I can barely use consonants in words, let alone smile before 10), but she's cute.  She's puppy-dog adorable.  She's no evening anchor, but I'd like to see Brian Williams make a leaf blower sound like the most fascinating thing on the planet for a full 5 minutes.  Katie's got skills.

Fametracker writes that "She's the face America loves to wake up to!"  She gets special fame points for "Being really f*cking rich."  Of more important note, Famtracker's pseudo-expert analysis concludes that "It's only a matter of time before she's hosting an afternoon show called Katie, sitting in an armchair with a look of concern on her face and her hand on the knee of a guest on the verge of tears."

While my mother was visiting Manhattan, Alicia and I decided to show her around Central Park.  The two Mrs. Lankford's were chatting about whether or not to sit down on a bench.  Zoning out in a manner typical of the male brain, I began to scan my surroundings for something novel.  Like a dog crapping.  That's when I spotted Katie.  Not wearing anything special.  Just trying to get home after a walk with the kids.  I tried to hint to my mom and Alicia that they should turn and look - shaking my head in Katie's general direction.  I must have looked like I was suffering a small stroke.  I wanted to be inconspicuous; my intent was not to seem star-struck, rude, or worse yet: like a tourist.  They ignored me.  So while these two women continued debated the virtues or various resting and viewing locations, I blurted out in the most non-masculine, flaming, louder-than-a-whisper huff, "Do you know who that is?!"

To protect the names of the innocent in the event that I ever get a chance to appear on The Today Show, I will only write that one Mrs. Lankford said something to the effect of, "She's really not cute at all."  And then we walked into the park.

Hello, New York.  We're here.  We've moved in.  All the boxes are unpacked and the pictures are on the wall - even the oversized red piece of Brazilian art that Alicia calls a piece of something else.  The neighbors don't show themselves much, but the doormen are nice.  I think everyone is still deciding what to make of us Texas folk. 

I feel like a real New Yorker after six weeks.  I sold my car.  I've yelled multi-syllabic obscenities at a cab driver.  And I know which trains are express trains and which trains just take a really damn long time to get downtown.  I avoid Times Square like the plague.  I run in Central Park.  I walk no further than one block for anything.  Because everything is within one block.  And if I ever come down with some strangely hyper form of germaphobia, so much so that I disallow myself to leave the confines of our 685 square-foot apartment, I will have no fear.  Everyone delivers. The pizza place delivers; the grocery store delivers; even McDonald's delivers.  Not that germaphobes eat McDonald's.  But they could.  Without leaving their homes.  Via delivery.  Frickin' Big Mac at your doorstep. 

And when you mess your pants because you can't believe that you just had a Filet-o-Fish handed to you while your still in your undies and a robe: you just send your laundry out.  And it comes back.  Folded.  Clean.  No skid marks in sight.

And why then, you ask, is New York not listed anywhere under Webster's full definition of paradise?  Because everything here is:  1) REALLY; 2) FRICKIN'; 3) EXPENSIVE.  Two dollars for a tiny box mac-and-cheese expensive.  Three dollars for chips and salsa that would be FREE if you went to any Mexican restaurant in any of other city in the entire universe expensive.  Ten dollars for a Miller Light, that you really didn't want in the first place, but the fifteen dollar import was just too damn expensive EXPENSIVE. 

So, New York: you're no paradise.  But you're home.  These Texas folk are here to stay.  We like your service, but we hate your prices.  You're big.  You're loud.  But you ain't scary.  We've lived through hurricanes, tornadoes, George Bush as Governor, and groceries that we had to drive a mile to buy.  And, damn it, we're finally unpacked.

Unlike the removal of feline fur, there's only way to move a recliner.  One way.  Pick it up.  Carry it.  Set it down. 

This logical constant, however, seemed to pose a challenge to our New York movers.  At premium price, these two gentlemen decided that our recliner could be rolled like a ball down the hallway.  Rolled.  Over and over itself.  This is after they battled with the concept of turning it on its side to slide it through a narrow doorframe.  Apparently, if you shove a large object through a small opening, the small opening will eventually get bigger. 

I always wondered what happened to the people who failed kindergarten.

I laughed on this inside, as not to offend.

But what you have to understand is that I was in New York.  In a midtown building.  Visiting an office.  Sitting next to a desk where someone had left a forest green three-ring binder.  And slid into the plastic cover of that binder (the solitary item on the desk not definably sleek, sexy, and annoyingly in-style) was a child's headshot.  Probably the son of the binder's owner.  Probably meant to catch the eye of a Hollywood director.  Because you never know: Hollywood directors could be lurking anywhere in New York.  They're kinda' like ninjas that way.  Or Mormon missionaries. 

No offense to Mormons. 

Or ninjas.

At which point I realized that everyone in New York is an actor.  And if they are not an actor, they are a failed actor.  And if they are not a failed actor, they are the parent, loved one, or pet therapist of an actor.  And if they are in no way even remotely connected to an actor: they are a tourist.  In which case, they will likely go home with an overpriced Seinfeld t-shirt, a bag of FOA toys, and a story about how they think they saw Corbin Bernsen filming a commercial on the street. "You know: from L.A. Law.  He was in Major League, too.  And he's balding!" 

No offense to Corbin.