Ah, New York: The city that never sleeps because it’s so damn loud.

It got to a point when it started to get quiet, or so I thought, after years of living there. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I would throw a spoon in the garbage disposal and turn it on. That way, I could catch a few z’s.

To which my friends would say, “Your apartment has a garbage disposal?”

I first visited New York City on a field trip when I was in high school. The group of students I was with was told by our teachers and chaperones that we were to behave.

I did not.

As the drinking age was then 18 in New York state, let’s just say “when in Rome.” I’m convinced that somewhere in Rome over the ages, some young punk crashed his first toga party, too.

I mean, what’s the point of being in a great city full of temptations if you don’t yield to them?

I officially moved to New York in 1988, knowing one or two people, but I never felt alone. I had seven million acquaintances, some of whom I would literally bump into daily, whether at a bar, restaurant or in the subway station.

I didn’t like getting stuck between stations in a subway car – I got a little claustrophobic. And I could never understand why you got fined on the subway for spitting, but thowing up was free.

Living in New York is a state of mind. I never realized how clean every other place was until I moved to there. The island of Manhattan had some seedy pockets that made Boston’s Combat Zone look like a kid’s birthday party bounce house.

New York is the only city where you can get deliberately run down on the sidewalk by a pedestrian.

I began writing, working freelance at first, at Entertainment Weekly and People Magazine. I was ill-equipped for the bustle of journalism in a major market, but I never blinked. If I could convince myself that I would succeed, surely, I could convince everyone else.

I lived in the East Village when I first moved there, just a block from Tompkins Square Park. My building had an elevator, unheard of in the East Village. Having an elevator was like owning bowling shoes. Know one could believe you had either and both had an odor about them, but after a while, you got used to it.

I remember at People, we had editorial lunch meetings, and my editor would drink several martinis, as one does. She was a grand old gal. I never partook, for fear that after one, I’d be under the table and after two, I might end up under her.

You gotta love Dorothy Parker.

A young friend said to me, “Oh, I know that name. They make prescription eyeglasses that you buy online.”

“No,” I said. “That’s Warby Parker. Dorothy Parker was a writer.”

“Wasn’t she a Golden Girl?” asked another tyke.

“No, that was Dorothy Sbornak. Really.”

One of my favorite gigs was working freelance for a young women’s magazine. It was like Teen Vogue. I don’t remember. I guess in this case, we’ll call it Teen Vague.

There was a lot of writing based on what a local doctor or psychologist could tell me about the young female mind. It was like Cosmopolitan or Glamour magazines, but in a training bra.

I got hit by a car twice while living in New York City. I learned the hard way that traffic signals in NYC are just suggestions.

Times Square was another fun place to never go, until Mayor Guiliani cleaned it up and Disney-fied the whole place in the 1990s. Rudy’s high point was being mayor; the low point? Conception, I’m guessing.

I had friends who would complain about being bored living in the city. I told them they weren’t doing it right.

Being a writer, I didn’t make a lot of money at first. Then later, I made a little more. I preferred the latter.

I always thought the official flag of New York City should be someone with a newspaper over their head during a torrential downpour, trying to hail a taxi.

I think famous cities have genders. London is a man. Paris is a woman. New York City is Lou Reed in drag.

After being in New York City for a while, I decided that I moved there because I was paranoid, and living there only proved my point.

My hangout was a place near my apartment on the Upper West Side. McAleer’s Pub was where I played darts, ate dinner, watched sports, the O.J. Simpson trial, and got my phone calls (in a pre-cellphone era).

McAleer’s was located on Amsterdam Ave., between 80th and 81st Streets. It closed in 2018. I wept- partly because it was the end of an era and partly because I think I still had a tab going there.

Monk’s Diner from “Seinfeld”? It was actually called Tom’s, at 112th St. and Broadway. The show ruined it for me.

My studio apartment on West 71st cost $800 in the ’90s. The apartment on “Friends,” which is actually on Bedford St. in the West Village? Back then for a 1300-sq. foot apartment? Three grand a month.

I loved Jewish delicatessens in New York. There is no escaping that culture there. Or else, I’d should be some kind of schmuck.

I have great memories of living in the greatest city on earth. You can’t beat NYC. And it will be an even greater place, once they finish it.