If The Onion were a person, it would have to be my new best friend. Especially after yesterday’s hilarious story “8.4 Million New Yorkers Suddenly Realize New York City A Horrible Place To Live.” If you’ve lived in NYC, you know where this is going.

If you love it anyway, you know it’s one funny ride.

Here’s an excerpt:

At 4:32 p.m. Tuesday, every single resident of New York City decided to evacuate the famed metropolis, having realized it was nothing more than a massive, trash-ridden hellhole that slowly sucks the life out of every one of its inhabitants.

With audible murmurs of “This is no way to live,” “What the hell am I doing here—I hate it here,” and “Fuck this place. Fuck this horrible place,” all 8.4 million citizens in each of the five boroughs packed up their belongings and told reporters they would rather blow their brains out with a shotgun than spend another waking moment in this festering cesspool of filth and scum and sadness.

Read the rest here. The Woody Allen mention is the cherry on top.

NYC in the 1970s was spooky. The 1980s weren’t that much better. And today it’s the safest big city in the world.

Most people would call that progress, and I can’t argue. But some people - usually white kids who’d crap their pants if they ever got mugged - romanticize the danger of old school NYC.

Sean Kernick’s 2 4 Flinching blog recently featured photos of the NYC subway in the 1980s. It was quite a sight.

Check out the rest of the collection here.

This weekend I was going to enter the Hey, Hot Shot! 2010 photography contest, until I found out there was an $80 entry fee. I don’t really think any of my photos would have much of a chance of winning such a big contest. I’m not being negative, just realistic.

When you put money into the equation, the limit on submissions starts getting more daunting, too. You pay $80 for five chances to show that the way you’ve captured someone or something is superior to the ways thousands of other people captured someone or something. Maybe even the same someones and somethings.

I’m a bad editor. It’s hard for me to delete a photo. Sure, I know when one’s bad. But it’s hard to get rid of a flower that blew in the wind right as I snapped the picture. Beauty’s in the blur.

Or snapshots of the one you love with his eyes closed over and over. What if one day he’s gone, and you can’t remember his eyelids? Better save this photo. Seems like bad luck to erase people worth keeping, even if we’re just talking about images made of light.

So this is one of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken. Not best, per se. Just a favorite.

I’d love to see one of yours. Maybe you can email one or leave a link to it in the comments, and I’ll put a gallery on the blog in a few days. You’ll get full credit if you leave your name.

Show me your favorite. Sometimes it’s not your best.

I love Cee-Lo.

He’s quirky and fun, and this video beats watching anyone lip-sync.

A full video is being released soon. The album “Lady Killer” drops October 4.

I’ll be totally honest - I wonder if any guys I’ve dated think this about me. I can think of one who might.

Now I would never want to deter anyone from getting an English bulldog of their own. I love the breed for many reasons - gracefulness not being one of them.

So if you spook easily at a spazzy dog, do not watch this video of Annie at my parents’ house in Texas last week.

I repeat: Do not watch this video if you can’t handle your hot dog with extra spaz, hold the ability to follow directions.

Annie going cray-zee! from Amanda Green on Vimeo.

Whoa, right?

If her life were a movie, it’d be called Old Spazzer. She wouldn’t be rabid, though.

Or would she?

Jennifer wanted advice for her first days in NYC. Guess who else had something to share? J. David Goodman of The New York Times City Room blog!

And he asked more New Yorkers what a newbie to the city needs to know.

Here’s an excerpt:

The end (of summer) is near!

Soon the brutal heat will dissipate and the streets will flood with college students and other first-time residents of the city. On the Noisiest Passenger blog, Amanda Green, a Texas transplant, responds to a reader question about this annual immigration — “I Moved to NYC, Now What?” — with a few bits of wisdom for making a home among the bedbugs and media moguls, including: “1) Walk around your neighborhood until you get tired.” … “2) Treat yourself to a good local dinner that’s not delivery.” … “3) Take pictures.”

These are all good bits of advice for transforming the unfamiliar streets into something more personal.

But what about adding a few more items, more geared toward understanding the city’s culture and knowing how to navigate its contours like a local. To wit:

1) Being a hipster is “over,” so you’ll have to think up some other use for those skinny jeans and distended V-necks.

2) Photographic evidence of past subway riding by celebrities aside, you are unlikely to stumble upon A-list celebrities on the train.

Read the rest of “What New New Yorkers Need to Know” here.

Big thanks to the The New York Times for the mention!

I need to review my records, but I believe next week is my moving to NYC anniversary. Five years, baby!

That’s five years. At least four different hair colors. Three apartments. Four full-time jobs. Three bad break-ups.

Countless heart swelling, “This is where I’m supposed to be” moments. A significantly smaller number of “I’m over this” moments. (Most of those involved apartment woes, I think).

Here’s a question from Jennifer:

I am moving to NYC tomorrow from Texas. I have wanted to move there since the first time I visited and have lived here for my whole life. I am so incredibly emotional and nervous, thank God my sister is going with me for a few days. I will be going to grad school starting the 30th. Any advice for the first few days of wtf am I doing?

My response:

Aww! I was where you are almost exactly five years ago. I’m so excited for you!

It’s completely normal to be emotional and nervous and even to question your decision. That said, here’s what I did - and what I’d advise you to do - in your first days alone in NYC:

1) Walk around your neighborhood until you get tired. Figure out where everything is. Stop in shops. Buy fruit from a sidewalk vendor. Smile at the locals. Do all this without listening to your iPod.

2) Treat yourself to a good local dinner that’s not delivery. There’s no shame in eating alone at a restaurant and staring out a window.

3) Take pictures. You’ll be surprised how fast neighborhoods change, plus you’ll want to remember these days.

4) Do some research and figure out a cool spot you’d like to visit, somewhere you haven’t been before. Make it your homework to get there, enjoy it, and get back home. This can be scary if you’re not super comfortable on the subway yet, but you can do it. Hopstop.com is a huge help.

5) When you’re in for the night, relax with old favorites. Re-read a book you love. Watch a favorite movie. Make NYC feel as much like home as possible.

And to Jennifer and the rest of youse: I’m on Twitter @amandagreen for quick questions on the go.

New York readers: What did you do when you first moved to NYC?

I’m playing Bananagrams with Alexa, the five-year-old I’ve started babysitting a few times a month. The five-year-old who once threw herself on the sidewalk when I wouldn’t take her to the ice cream truck.

We’re turning over tiles to make words. As I help with her pile, I ask if she’d like to see the words I’ve made. Among them, I’ve got “use” and “glum” and “id.”

Alexa: What is “id”?

Me: It’s kind of complicated. Basically, it’s the idea that there’s a part of your psyche - that’s in your mind - that contains all your impulses to do bad things.

Alexa: [looking at me like she completely understands] Oh. I don’t have one of those.

A pigeon’s got to be pretty sick to let a person with a camera get this close.

When I was a kid, I spent many evenings on the swingset in my backyard thinking about life. What if I were born to a different family in a different place?

Or what if I were born an animal? Maybe an animal that belonged to my family? Would I enjoy living with a little girl like me?

I guess making eye contact with an NYC pigeon reminded me of that.

And no, this isn’t a comment on reincarnation.

But when a pigeon looks that wistfully at the place where he used to live - like part of him doesn’t recognize it, yet it hasn’t changed a bit…

I guess I can relate.

I have a propensity for interesting interactions with strangers. My college boyfriend thought it was the product of being a young, wide-eyed blonde who made too much of things. Another person I dated figured I was a redhead hunting for something to write about.

But no, I really do think there is something about me that makes some people - usually men, I can admit it - open up. (Also: I’ve decided to leave my hair alone for the time being).

The biggest reason has to be that I spend a great deal of time alone surrounded by other people who are alone. Tedium plays a part. We wait in line for food or the checkout. The train lumbers to our stops and cripples our usual hurried pace. When someone looks at me, I find it hard not to look back.

I’ve had strangers - yes, men and women - share their stories of unrequited love while in line at the post office. When I did the video interviewing men in NYC about fatherhood, an old man started ranting about how his granddaughter got pregnant way too young. He was so worked up about it, he knew he shouldn’t talk on-camera. Then he went on and on off-camera.

My favorite story: When I was in college, I once got a call at my dorm room for someone who’d previously lived there. I assumed the caller was actually a friend of mine disguising his voice, because he said he was looking for “Marcy,” which I thought was a funny name. Finally, I said, “People named Marcy don’t go to college!”

Silence. “I think I have the wrong number. I really am looking for Marcy.”

Oops.

Then the guy laughed, and I apologized and asked about Marcy. The phone emboldened me, so I asked how they met, if he and Marcy had dated, if he hoped to date her. We talked for hours.

And that’s how he and I met. He asked me out. And I’d never seen him before, but I said “yes.” I try to go with “yes” as much as I can. He and I went out a few times and stayed friends throughout my college days. (He was in law school in another city at the time).

But you know what? I’ve never met - I mean really met - anyone on an airplane. No tears, no secrets, no great wisdom shared. Tomorrow morning I’m flying to Texas for a few days. Maybe it’s time?

Oh yeah, and this whole post was actually intended to be a short segue to this poem called “An Airport Dream” that I found online when I was in middle school. Middle school! It was one of the first things I ever read on the Internet, and I liked it so much that I printed it out.

The website it came from is long defunct, and all I recall of the author is that she was a student at NYU and only shared her first name. Mystery poet, whoever you are, I’d love to run into you someday.

“An Airport Dream”

25B
you are cute
quirky eyebrows in a starched collar
I wonder your age
your name
your girfriend?
and wonder why you stare at me
here at 30,000 feet
where pressure squeezes my brain closed

are you headed my way?
maybe to a meeting
or maybe a funeral
but instead of thinking of your final destination
you watch me between the seat cracks
and pretend to be sleeping when I notice you

I look out the window
the sunset
and I want to jump into the clouds

I’m hearing a dream song
my dream song for a distant broken love
too hard to forget
and yet I think about you as well
and want you, even
as some elevated distraction

maybe we’d float away together
or crash into burning nothingness
I’m tempted to talk to you
wake you from your feigned sleep
and delve into your life
break away from my empty sameness

I’d love to be loved again
even if it was for one fleeting jet-propulsion moment
so wake up, my wingspan lust
we can watch the stars from my oval
we’ll sit together, high above our problems
and I’ll tell you how you might be the one who can save me