The following tale was found on the Livejournal of the late Rip Van Knickerbocker, a young gentleman of New York.

Today I awoke after a lengthy nap utterly confused. Where was I? What was this strange miniature city in which I found myself? My mind raced to recover images of the day previous: leaving my overpriced rat hole, waiting for the popular Chinatown bus, getting to second with a Suicide Girl in the parking lot outside Making Time — ah yes! It all came back to me. I was in the sixth borough, good old Philadelphia.

I immediately picked myself up off the ground, shook the broken glass from my courier bag and wandered off in search of sustenance. But where to go? On previous expeditions to this quaint little trainover village, I've enjoyed a good meal at the Standard Tap, an adorable little pub in the Little Williamsburg section of town. But surely there were other options. Might I pay a visit to Heck's Kitchen, or Chinatown Junior perhaps? After some deliberation, I set off for the old-world flavor of Littler Italy, a open-air market in the Ninth and Washington streets area where Philadelphia's swarthier residents gather to sell their wares. Slumming it!

Such a journey is murder on the ol' Sauconys, but what is one to do? The transit system here in Nigh Brooklyn has a distinct aversion to diagonal lines. Such medieval infrastructure! It takes me back to my days watching them rebuild Sri Lankan fishing villages after the tsunami on MSNBC. Finally I reached my destination. Though I did not know its name when I set out, I recognized it immediately when I saw the serpentine line winding out onto the sidewalk: 'Twas a Bronxian dinerette called Morning Glory. Such ketchup! So enamored was I with my omelet that I was moved to stand and cheer "Go Yankees" at the top of my voice. Quickly my nuts were kicked into me. I thanked my attacker for reminding me of Harlem, where I have never been.

So I wandered until I found an apothecary the actual name of which escapes me, but which I have dubbed Duane Reade Lite. Perhaps you know it; it was in SoWo, a section of the city just south of Wolf Street. I purchased some gentle salves for my nuts, a bottle of Pom to quench my thirst and the cutest little apple. On the way out, my cellular phone rang, but the number was 718 so I let my voicemail handle it. On this day the mood struck me to disregard boroughs two through five. Then I came upon Brom Vanderdonk, an old friend who'd left home some years ago, having received a grant to study Philadelphians going about their little lives. Brom was a regular Jane Goodall among the chimps: shopping with them at Chef's Market (a grocer in the Queens Village, I believe), sitting with them at Hairspray, observing their aimless lopes from atop Society Hill Towers. After catching up — I found out The New York Times is available this far south! Who knew? — we accosted an elderly ethnic man, must have been 37 at least, and regaled him with tales of 24-hour subways and smelly cabs driven by actual first-generation immigrants. How I led us in laughter!

So pleased was I with myself that I simply had to find a Starbucks — a nine-block journey to the foot of the SixBoro Bridge — and update my blog immediately. And so here I am. What to do next? Perhaps I'll peruse the fine collectibles in the ArMu or simply pull up a stool and sip a Yuengling, which is what my new brethren call beer. Imagine that! I heart New New York!

Later that evening, Mr. Van Knickerbocker wandered into a bar in the Bella Vista section of Philadelphia ("Lower Prospect Heights," as he called it). Unbeknownst to him, smoking is still legal in the sixth borough. He quickly asphyxiated.