Wow, only in New York City would you see a guy playing a saxophone on the subway. Crazy!
Jesus, only in Chicago would you be about to eulogize your dead father and some knucklehead yells out an improv suggestion.
I’m telling you, man, only in Denver do you ride a horse into a Chili’s and they offer you a 10% discount.
Gee whiz, only in Portland would you run into your favorite Grammy-winning indie-pop band while they’re leading an ayahuasca-themed youth backpacking trip.
Good grief, only in Lincoln would you get run over by a William Jennings Bryan parade float on your own damn birthday.
Wow-wee, only in Los Angeles would a gorgeous Zumba instructor chase a potbellied pig through a Dominoes Pizza because she thinks the pig stole her molly.
Good heavens, only in Houston would you drive a World War II-era M3 tank to your local megachurch, just to hear a sermon on nonviolence inspired by Galatians 5:22.
For crying out loud, only in Ft. Lauderdale would you have to bribe a bigoted police commissioner just to buy a few Sri Lankan Leopards.
Seriously sister, only in Austin would you meet a sensitive guy named Sebastian who made millions in mindfulness-smartphone-apps, then gave it all up to do slam poetry.
Dang, only in Seattle would a man hang-glide into a Starbucks, then lock himself in the bathroom and refuse to come out until someone gives him excellent health insurance.
Gadzooks, only in Berkeley would you attend the Buddhist wedding of a Zumba instructor and a slam poet, and it’s officiated by Björk.
Unreal, man. Only in New Orleans would you see a mermaid that inarticulate get a standing ovation at a debutantes ball.
Well I’ll be damned, only in Hartford would a guy dressed like Ichabod Crane sell you investment advice from a milk wagon, and the advice is actually quite good.
My word, only in Ann Arbor would you see a Zumba instructor and her slam poet husband loudly quarreling about whether Björk’s best album is Homogenic or Medúlla.
Jiminy Cricket, only in Jacksonville would you get a hand job from a Civil War re-enactor while filing for unemployment.
Heigh-ho, only in Minneapolis would a divorced slam poet attend a court-ordered class on ice-rink-safety after getting plastered on craft beer and running himself over with his own Zamboni.
Unbelievable. Only in Cincinnati would they erect a statue of William Howard Taft that looks nothing like William Howard Taft but does look vaguely like Kevin Sorbo.
Un-freaking-real. Only in the Minnesota Correctional Facility at Stillwater would a divorced, ex-slam poet with anger issues fight the entire Aryan Brotherhood, because they “interrupted his Vipassanā.”
Absolutely stunning. Only in The Hamptons would an old rich lady throw a tea party for her Dachshunds after dressing them like the signatories to The Treaty of Münster.
Holy mackerel, only in Charleston would a former Zumba instructor channel her grief over her failed marriage into a one-woman live stage adaptation of The Prince of Tides — expertly playing the parts of Barbra Streisand, Nick Nolte, and Blythe Danner — then return the next morning to her day job at The Office Depot.
Just incredible. Only in Boston would you see driving that bad. I mean, wow, Boston!
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Alex Baia contributes to The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, and other publications.
