“L.A.’s fine, but it ain’t home,” sang Neil Diamond; “New York’s home, but it ain’t mine no more.” Francis W. Porretto will have none of that nonsense:
I’ve been advised to move out of New York, and I’ve contemplated it more than once. Other parts of the country are warmer, drier, less hagridden by welfare-state programs and their cost, and are friendlier to firearms and conservative convictions. All well and good. But they aren’t New York. They don’t have our conveniences, our facilities, our beauties, our up-and-at-’em work ethic, or our generally good humored “we’ll pick ourselves up by our own goddamn bootstraps” response to calamity. And they don’t — and won’t — have me.
The C.S.O. and I have been over this together. Yes, we agreed that this locale is expensive and has its trying aspects. But we have a saying around here: You get what you pay for. And we’ve decided that as long as our money holds out, so will we.
Uprooting yourself is something you do when you don’t really have that much of a connection. I tried that once. I won’t do that again.