A tour of New York's underground transportative systems.

Dearest Fitzy "The Bear" Fitzgerald,

By now, I am beginning to get used to life in New York City, Pope of the cities. Do you understand my joke? Because the Pope is the touchstone of all Catholics, and New York is the touchstone of atheists and irreligious but outspoken Judaists!

I have discovered comedy! Yes, Fitzy, it is true. Over the last several days, I have learned that this city will drive me quite insane unless I make jokes about it constantly, no matter my company at the time. This includes newspapermen, vandals, models, actors, musicians, and football players--no one can escape the wicked satirical tongue of Brighty! It is what Juvenal or Horace might call "unconstrained, irresponsible satire." This trick has been very profitable, psychologically, as I have been able to cope quite well with the fact that I am homeless and bankrupted. Let me show you how it (i.e., comedy) works by writing about the Subway, New York's underground transportative system. Here is a picture of a woman who thinks it is cold underground.


The joke, of course, is that it is warmer underground than it is above ground, because you are closer to the Earth's unstoppable magma core. What a delightful woman!

Ah, Fitzy, there is something truly wondrous about the Subway system of New York. They employ a dozen or so very slow, but robot-driven, trains to take homeless people and social undesirables to distant locales, where they will not be able to bother "real New Yorkers." Once in awhile, the robot-trains get lucky and run someone down. Here is a photograph of the unwanted in society.

As you can see, these unwanted peoples all enjoy reading the Washington Post and discussing red bags with each other. They sit in a very special pattern, which only they know and which no "real New Yorker" can understand without first reading about it in the Washington Post. Also, they are all serial killers and purse-snatchers. Especially the gentleman in the far left. I saw him purse-snatching yesterday.

The Subway is also a place you can go if you want to get out of the sun, which is twice as close to the Earth in New York as it is in Sheffield. No, I'm just making a joke! There goes my wicked satirical tongue again! Give Teddy my happiest birthday wishes, Fitzy, and let me know how much everyone misses me.

Love,
Philip Brightmore, Champion Dog Breeder

Fitzy, I am beginning to get bored.

Dearest Fitzy "The Bear" Fitzgerald,

I'm beginning to get bored in New York, king of all cities. As you know, my stay at the Marriott, that Averno of Manhattan, has been even poorer than I am. Sometimes I pass the time by wondering. "Brighty," I wonder, "What is that man doing right now, the man who has all of your money from that confounded wager you made on the Utah Jazz?" But I have no answer. He is probably, like my father, using his money for depraved and irresponsible things.

If I were him, I know I would be in Sheffield right now, where I belong, with you, Teddy, Bethany, the horses, and Grandma Teddy. But then, if I were him, then I (that is, the original me) would also still be stuck in New York, unlike "new" me, and "you" yourself would have to feed and lodge a man who appears to be a moustachioed stranger but is, in reality, myself. Befuddlement!

And so, in my many bored hours, I have found myself exploring the lesser-known haunts of this Yankee York. Why, just today, I traveled to the shores of New York River, and found--what else!--a vagrant and her youth, placing bags of trash along the banks for the trapping of crayfish. Here is a picture in which I point at them.
Yes, Fitzy, it is truly a depraved city. You might not tell from the photograph, but the child in the far background is actually one of the "standing dead." Corpses, Fitzy! A city rife with corpses! It is the eerie magnetism of the tall buildings which keeps them vertical. And the youth closest to the camera, as you also cannot see, is covered in the filthiest tattoos imaginable. Snakes, fire, scorpions, dice, women with breast implants, motorcycles. Name anything depraved, and I can assure you that it has been etched with illegal inks onto his neck and face.

I have more to tell you, my dearest Fitzy, and more photographs to show, but it will have to wait until a later time. After all, I am growing weary of using the computers at the New York Publick Library, which smell too much like hands and books for my liking.

With Love,

Philip Brightmore, Champion Dog Breeder

More wonderfully terrible news for you!

Dearest Fitzy "The Bear" Fitzgerald,

Oh my Fitzy, my dearest Fitzy. As you remember, I lost all my money betting on the Utah Jazz, and so I've been forced to find accomadations in vainglorious New York, king of the cities. I'm ever so ashamed to admit it, but I was forced to spend last night in the loneliest place on Earth--a place fit only for the underclassed and oversexed. Here is a photograph of it.



Let me teach you a thing or two about New York City, Fitzy. First of all, don't let all of the buildings fool you. At least three-quarters of the population is homeless. You'd think that there would be room enough for an upperclass (though broke) aficionado such as myself to find reasonable accomadation, but you'd be wrong. As wrong as my father.

Yes, Fitzy, I stayed in the Marriott. The shame! They were the only ones willing to accept my Discover card (what a blessing that card has been!), however, I was disgusted to find out that there were no private pools available. Instead, upon entering the public pool area, I was confronted by fake plants, non-Italian marble, and guests of average attractiveness. Instead of a pool, my dearest Fitzy, the managers of the Marriott had provided an oversized pothole filled with (uck!) Dasani water. Here is a picture of it.

I swear to God, Fitzy, I will be scoffing for the rest of my life. I will also be stuck in this city for the forseeable future, and so you should contact Teddy, Bethany, the horses, and Grandma Teddy about my predicament. They will surely scoff as well.

With Love,

Philip Brightmore, Champion Dog Breeder

I am in trouble!

Dearest Fitzy "The Bear" Fitzgerald,

This is a photograph I took of Madison Square Garden.

Oh woah is me! That's the way that famous poets say it, but it's also the way that I say it when I feel true sadness in my heart. And when I'm as bankrupt as my father! If only I hadn't made that confounded wager! I can only begin to relate to you the torment...the misery...the pathos...

As you know, it was my incredible good fortune to win one ticket to travel across the world for the holy honor of visiting the Utah Jazz at Madison Square Garden. Well, as you may not know, it was also my incredible good fortune to find a dapperly-attired and handlebar-moustachioed gentleman who would take my bet of $400,000 USD that the Utah Jazz would win.

Who knew that the Harlem Globetrotters were the scrampy court tricksters they turned out to be!? I'll tell you who. Gary knew. Gary being the middle name of the moustachioed gentleman who would take my bet of $400,000. (His first name was also Gary).

And so it was that as I took my seat in Madison Square Garden, I watched in horror as the likes of Big Easy Lofton, Moo Moo Evans and Mr. Biz Thompson made a mockery of the unusually lax defense of my precious Utah Jazz. Balls were juggled about, helicopter trick dunks made, and more than one silly face was offered in sick jest to the ingenuously inattentive referees. For shame! By the end of the game, Buckets Blakes had made it ever-so-clear that his name was no mere accident of chance. It was allegory.

Yes, Fitzy, I was stunned and shocked. The Utah Jazz, of all teams, had been defeated. And there I was. Trapped...trapped with no money...no friends...no place to stay...in a city known for its population of mindless criminals.

Oh, Fitzy. What shall I do?

Yours,
Philip Brightmore, Champion Dog Breeder

This is my first post to the blog I made.

Dearest Fitzy "The Bear" Fitzgerald,

Holy tomatoes! By now you're probably wondering what tomatoes have to do with a blog on the internet. Well, Fitzy, I'll just start by saying they don't amount to much. I have too many things to tell you about my travels, and I've heard that "blogging" is the soapbox of the 21st century. Except for it containing no soap and you not being able to box on it. So I offer you this website as a means of keeping in touch with me as my saga begins and, hopefully, ends. Read it every day and maybe I won't forget you. Oh, what a wonderful saga!

So as you know, the beginnings of my trip to New York City were less than glorious. It was disheartening to have to say goodbye to Teddy and Bethany and the horses and Grandma Teddy in Sheffield, as well as the glorious (and vainglorious) tutor who taught me to write in Americanized English (Fitzy, I'm talking about you! That makes you famous!). But I think we can all agree that a free ticket to see the esteemed Utah Jazz was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think of it! An entire state devoted to jazz! Playing basketball in Madison Square Garden! Against the Harlem Globetrotters! I'd rather die from ant bites than not attend.

And even if you don't understand basketball, Fitzy, you have to understand that when a radio station calls, you must answer that call. With the phrase "Oriental or I'd rather die! You're listening to KQRX, Sheffield's only Oriental radio station!" You know how much they require that, with no exceptions.

Anyway, I must be going. The game is going to begin soon, and I have an undisclosed amount of money (let's just say £100,000!) riding on my favorite team... guess who it is!?

With Love,
Philip Brightmore, Champion Dog Breeder