The Dullest Story Ever Told, Vol. XVIII

I first visited New York City in 1984. I was 12 and accompanied my mom on a business trip there.

Even as a child, I was fascinated with New York - my mother raised me on a steady diet of Woody Allen movies and with the Yankees legendary history, I was convinced something in the municipal water turned mortals into Hall of Famers.

We flew into LaGuardia and took a cab to the Midtown Hyatt where the conference was being held. Since my mom needed to be up early, we soon went to sleep but I still remember looking out the window as my eyes closed amazed at the sheer size of New York City - it was like nothing I'd ever seen.

The next morning, my mom went to her meetings. She said I could watch TV in the room or go to pool during the day, but absolutely - under no conditions - could I leave the hotel without her.

So I spent the next three days trapped in the hotel as New York City bustled outside. "Rhinestone," starring Sylvester Stallone and Dolly Parton, was playing on Showtime, so I watched that a few times. And when I wasn't doing that, I'd trek to the hotel pool and play with the other unattended kids.

The hotel restaurant waiters got to know me, referring to me as "Mr. Grant" and always having a glass of Ovaltine waiting when I arrived. I was just like "Eloise" but at the Midtown Hyatt, a boy and a devotee of the early theatrical work of Sly Stallone.

"Yep, I'm a real New Yorker now," I thought to myself.

At night, my mom complained of being too tired to go sightseeing, so we'd usually go for dinner at the hotel and I'd tell her about my day.

The conference ended Sunday morning and my mom promised we'd see the sights that day before flying back to O'Hare on Monday afternoon.

We set out to conquer New York.

I Velcroed my KangaROOs, donned my New York Yankees cap and wore t-shirt with an American flag iron on. I gently and proudly placed my Kodak Disc 4000 camera around my neck so I wouldn't lose it in the rough and tumble New York City streets.

My mother got a quick rundown of the subway system from the concierge. I remember the heat beating down on us as we exited the hotel that morning, the sounds of taxis whizzing by and diesel bus fumes filling the air. I loved it.

We walked to a nearby subway station and boarded a train. I'd seen "The Warriors," so I knew trouble lurked everywhere on these subway trains. But I'd taken karate at the Elmhurst Park District and troublemakers could tell I meant business just by looking at me.

After a couple stops, my mom poked me to get off the train.

"This is Times Square," she said.

Instantly, I envisioned old-timey sailors on leave kissing dames beneath enormous, neon signs. I assumed Yankee legends regularly walked the streets, greeting tourists and locals and welcoming everyone to their metropolis. And, who knows, maybe I'd bump into Woody Allen along the way.

Times Square, no doubt, would be the center of my universe, the crossroads of what I was and what I would become. Climbing the stairs as we left the station, the opening strains of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" filled my mind. This was New York, real New York, and I was right in the middle of it.

On the street, I looked around. Giant parade floats jammed the streets and disco thumped from nearby speakers. The street was covered with confetti, glitter and streamers.

I spotted a team of cops walking the parade route. Except they didn't look like normal cops - they wore leather. Lots of leather. And I think one, maybe all, wore chaps. And they didn't have shirts on beneath their leather jackets.

And instead of carrying guns in their holsters, they carried double-headed dildos.

Evidently, we walked into Times Square during the middle of the Gay Pride Parade. This was my first impression of New York City. And double-headed dildos.

The End.