Destination: Hotel Chelsea, West 23rd St.
Guide: Debbie Martin and Ed Hamilton, hotel residents, amateur historians.

Another invitation came to me over the email tubes recently, this time from two strangers who graciously offered to show me around their little corner of New York. Everyone back home said this city was full of rude, xenophobic pricks, but I knew they were wrong!

"Would you like a tour of the Hotel Chelsea?" read the email.

"Absolutely," I replied. "By the way ... what is that?"

I quickly remembered that this is the place where Sid Vicious killed his girlfriend, but it turns out that some other stuff happened there too. Hotel Chelsea is filled with stories of tortured artists who did a lot of drugs and died young, and while I'm not really into the whole bohemian punk thing, I do own a couple of albums by The Clash, so I figured what the hell.

It seems one of the Hotel's biggest draws is writers and literary fans, like current residents Ed and Debbie, who greet me at the front door when I arrive for my tour.

"We're going to show you Thomas Wolfe's bathroom," Debbie says excitedly.

"Oh, I've heard of him," I reply. "He's the guy with the white suits, right?"

They quickly explain that there's another famous author with the name Tom Wolfe (what are the odds?) and that people come from all around the world to do just what I'm doing—crawling out on to the fire escape to look into his bedroom window. Well, it's not technically his bedroom anymore. It belongs to whatever out-of-town guest happens to be staying there that night, but honestly, the young lady in there at the time couldn't have been happier to find me peeking in her windows.

From there, we go up to the top floor where you can look down the main staircase; an ornate, wrought iron masterpiece that winds it way down ten stories.

"Quite a few people have thrown themselves down this stairwell," Ed helpfully points out. I can see why. It looks like a lovely place to kill yourself.

"Now we're going to show you Dee Dee Ramone's bathroom!" What is it with these people and their bathrooms?

Ed and Debbie explain that Dee Dee was their neighbor, as they lead me to the small community bathroom where he used to his business. "You could never get in to use it though," Ed adds, "because there were always junkies in there shooting up." That must have been annoying, because I know how much I hate it when my roommate takes too long in shower.

As we wander around checking out the crazy art scattered on every wall, my tour guides rattle off the names of some of Hotel Chelsea's other famous inhabitants. Mark Twain, Dylan Thomas, Arthur C. Clarke, Alan Ginsburg, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Ethan Hawke. Ethan Hawke!? Holy crap, this place really is a landmark!

We finish the tour back in the lobby, where Debbie and Ed sit me down for awhile and ask if I can "feel the spirit." Debbie explains that "Some people go crazy if they sit down here too long. They just get overcome by the history and atmosphere. There are a lot of ghosts in this place."

I have to confess that I did not feel anything special. I also confess that I had not taken any drugs, which is too bad because I really would have liked to talk to Ethan Hawke's ghost. I have a few questions to ask about Reality Bites.

Earlier: Central Park Zoo

Destination: Central Park Zoo.
Guide: Adriana Vink, baby gentrifier.

I was not aware that New York City was in such a temperate zone. Where I come from, 60-degree days are pretty rare in mid-December — thanks, Al Gore! — so I decided to take advantage of the dog days this week and get outside while the sun was still up. I heard there was a zoo hidden somewhere in Central Park and wanted to check it out, but I also didn't want to hang out there by myself like some loser. So in an effort to seem less creepy, I borrowed a little kid from a friend.

The main attraction at this zoo is the sea lions. In a very un-New York twist, they are clearly visible from outside the fence, so you can watch them from afar without paying admission. What kind of business model is that?

I bought a ticket anyway and went inside, but the sea lions refuse to come out of the water unless they're being fed. See? Even marine mammals understand that no one gets somethin' for nothin'. Not in this city. Adriana couldn't really see them through the plexiglass anyway, so we moved on.

We headed for the polar bear enclosure and suddenly I became quite depressed. It's like staring into a cubicle at Wall Street's most boring bank, only no cube dweller anywhere in this city could possibly hate his life as much as this bear. For starters, it's 58 degrees and sunny and he probably hasn't seen snow in a year. He has rocks to climb on and a diving pool with a waterfall, but he's sleeping on a plastic floor mat and his chew toy is an empty gas can. If all that wasn't enough, a sign on the glass informs us that zookeepers hide his food, so that he has to hunt for it. He's not miserable enough, so you have to make him work for his dinner? I hope they're at least mixing Zoloft in with it.

I watch him for ten minutes and he doesn't move a muscle. I like to imagine that he was dreaming about claws ripping through human flesh. At this point, I'm pretty sure that Adriana doesn't even realize there are animals at this place.

Next is the turtle pond, which is almost as big as the polar bear cage and just as exciting. I believe the Central Park Zoo has more turtles per capita than any place outside the Galapagos Islands. That's them on the log.

Trust me, they're even more vibrant in person. Adriana, of course, didn't see a thing.

The zoo's real strong suit is birds. They have penguins, puffins, swans, parrots, exotic ducks, and some kind of flamingo looking thing, but Adriana was most impressed by the pigeon exhibit, which encompasses the entire park. These guys roam free among the visitors and you can practically reach out and touch them! It's even better than the indoor rain forest, though the birds in there nest right above your head, providing an excellent opportunity to be shit upon.

Our last stop is the children's zoo, where little kids come to stare at other little kids. Seriously, they could save a lot of money if they just did away with the animals altogether. Squirrels and pigeons are free, they can feed themselves, and toddlers are only truly interested in each other.

Finally, as we were about to leave, Adriana discovered her favorite part of the whole zoo. It was the only thing that held her attention for more than 30 seconds, and it was all I could do to tear her way.

Goat food vending machines. The one animal no child can resist.

Earlier: Harlem

I was both surprised and honored when The Assimilated Negro graciously offered to give me a personal tour of Harlem. Imagine me getting a Ghetto Pass from the man himself! I definitely need a guide too, because that's not a part of the city you want to be in by yourself at night, at least according to everyone back home.

TAN asked me to meet him at "125th and St. Nick, because that's where I get my sticky-icky" (whatever that means) and even though it's already dark by the time I arrive, the area still feels pretty safe. The sidewalks are busy and people are going about their business like any other neighborhood.

"Harlem isn't as rough as everyone says it is, is it?" I ask, after we make our introductions.

"Oh, no way," he says. "It's rougher. You gotta be hard if you want to survive up here. I'll prove it to you. But first, give me all your money."

It seems like a strange way to avoid "trouble," but I hand over all the cash in my wallet and we begin the tour. As we walk down 125th Street, TAN asks me what I'd like to do first.

"Well, I'm kinda hungry. How about some authentic soul food?"

"Sure thing," he says. "There's a Popeye's right up here."

As we eat our chicken, I try to explain that I'm not sure if this qualifies as authentic, since it's a lot like the Popeye's I always stop at on the Ohio Turnpike, but he just keeps shouting things like, "There's a white boy in the house, so bring out the good stuff! Make sure the spicy version is really crispy! Not that fake shit!" Most of the other folks in the restaurant ignore us, although the manager does come out to ask him to keep his voice down.

After our meal, we head back out to the street where TAN informs me that he's still thirsty. "Give me your credit cards," he orders and ducks into a bodega. Moments later, he emerges with a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor.

"You bought that with a credit card?" I ask, still wondering where all my cash went.

"No, man, I cracked the shopkeeper over the head and walked out with it. That's how I roll when I'm uptown and not blogging. It ain't a game."

"See," he explains. "You've got to know how to handle yourself up here, but you also need to learn how to handle other people. Like that shortie over there?" He's pointing at a lady wearing a nice business suit. "You need to know how to treat a woman like that. I do what the rap stars do in their videos." Then he begins spraying his beer all over her clothes and hair. I guess she's never seen those videos, because she isn't too pleased by that.

As we run away from the angry mob, I start to suspect that TAN might be showing off a little bit for my benefit. For example, even though he said the "drug game is crazy" up here, not one of strangers who passed us stopped when he asked if they wanted to buy some "rock." Even that homeless guy thought it was weird when he asked us for some change and TAN made me give him my watch. "It's Christmas," he told me. "Don't be a racist ... help the man out."

Finally, we reach Lexington Avenue and I figure it's time to make my way home. As I head down to the subway, I remember that I haven't taken any pictures to remember my visit. I whip out my new camera phone to snap a few shots.

"Hey, man," he warns me. "You shouldn't carry a nice phone like that out in the open, someone is liable to swipe it. You better let me have it."

[Photo by TAN, taken with my his new camera phone.]

Later that night, I could have sworn I saw TAN cruising down Park Avenue in a Lincoln Town Car, but he was wearing a suit and laughing about something with these two white guys. I think one of them was wearing my watch, too.

Earlier: Rockefeller Center

Destination: The annual Christmas tree lighting in Rockefeller Center.
Guide: Brian Van, shutterbug, commenter extraordinaire.

Is there a more iconic "New York in winter" scene than ice skating on the rink at Rockefeller Center? A lifetime of seasonal movie watching tells me no, which is why my one Survivor-like luxury item that I brought with me when I moved was my hockey skates. One way or another, I'd be on that ice before Christmas. Even before a magical first snowfall could arrive, however, I stumbled on the perfect way to celebrate the season at "30 Rock" — the official lighting of the Christmas tree. I canceled my TV plans for the night and begged my new friend Brian Van to meet me there. (He has a better camera than I do.) With the star-studded program scheduled to start at 7 p.m., I judiciously arrive 15 minutes early to secure a good spot for viewing. Sadly, it seems I've once again underestimated the New York definition of "crowded."

I walk down 49th Street and am still half an avenue away from anything resembling an ice rink when I reach the outer edge of the gathered masses, shoehorned onto the sidewalk by helpful metal barricades. Out of the 20,000 or so people crammed into this square block, maybe 2,000 can actually see the tree, and the rest, like me, have no hope of getting any closer. No one seems to mind though, as long as Taylor Hicks and the Soul Patrol are at work.

Brian shows up and like a true New Yorker, he immediately tries to buy his way to a better spot. The kindly police officers will have none of it. Even worse, when he informs the cops that we're with Gawker, they pretend they've never heard of it. Weird, huh?

I'm starting to question my decision to come down here. There's an 88-foot tall pine tree that I can't see, a giant screen with Ann Curry and Al Roker that I can't hear, and a mass of people ten rows across that's got me pinned in like ... HOLY SHIT, IT'S STING! Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Sting is singing Christmas carols right behind the corner of this building that's blocking my view! I mean, I can barely make out the mandolin, but I'm sure that's he kicking some ass on "O, Tannenbaum" or something.

"It's so crowded you can't even scratch your balls," Brian announces. Quiet. Nicole Richie's father is on next.

We're still more than an hour away from the flipping of the light switch when two older women in front us turn to leave.

"You're going now?" I ask.

"Eh," one of them shrugs. "We can say we were here."

"Yeah, if you're a liar," I think. The true tree fans will be here when the lights go on, thank you very much.

"You know," Brian chimes in, "the tree stays up until January. This is actually the only night you can't see it." Some people just don't understand holiday magic.

Finally, at two minutes before 9 p.m., someone starts counting down, and when they reach "one", the crowd goes wild. The tree is lit, or so we've been told, and those bulbs aren't only thing that's electric!

In the aftermath, the crowd disperses and we're able to move into the square. Patience pays off, as I can now see the tree in all its glory. I can also see the ice rink. And the VIPs gathered on it. Who aren't even skating! Why are they just standing there drinking beer? Is that any way to officially begin the holiday season, you ungrateful bastards?

Still, I have to agree with Stephanie Reyes of Queens, who I did not meet, but I consider a kindred spirit. "This was on my life to-do list. It should be for any New Yorker." Sweet! Score one for me!

Brian has his own final take. "It's like pro football. It's much better to just stay at home and watch it on TV."

Wait ... I could have watched this on TV? I kinda wish I'd known that.

[Photos by Brian Van, obvs. Relive more of the magic at his Flickr page.]

Earlier: Macy's Thanksgiving Parade

Destination: Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Guides: Katie Couric Meredith Vieira, Matt Lauer, and old family photo albums.

My goal yesterday was the same as everybody's. Wake up early, gather all my friends, head over to Central Park West, and snag a good spot to watch the 80th Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I realized that everyone I knew had either left town or was too hung over from Wednesday-night activities to join me. So much for tradition, huh?

I mean, everyone in New York comes out for the Macy's parade. I know this because they tell me so on TV every year. TV! That's it! If I couldn't participate in the New York City tradition on the street, then I would follow my own tradition and watch the parade the way it was meant to be seen — through the magic of the National Broadcasting Company.

Besides, if you want to watch the parade with real New Yorkers, who knows this city — and Macy's — better than Katie and Matt?

Hold on ... um, where is Katie?

I don't understand. I turn on the TV. The parade is there. Matt Lauer is there. Al Roker is there. Where the hell is Katie? This isn't right.

See, the thing about tradition is that you can count on it being the same year after year. That's what makes it a tradition. When I turn on the TV on Thanksgiving morning, I expect Katie Couric to introduce me to high school marching bands. I expect her to tell me how many people are holding down the Kermit balloon or which Disney Channel star I can see after the commercial break. I also expect her to do it in an adorably fuzzy hat. The Macy's Parade is a formula, but it's a formula that works. Observe.

Snoopy balloon? Check.

The WWI Flying Ace himself.

The cast of a current hit Broadway show? Check.

The cast of "The Wiz" eases on down.

The star of a current hit NBC television show? Check.

Gil "Buck Rogers" Gerard in the 20th Century.

A beloved New York icon? Check.

Yankee hero and Red Sox killer Bucky Dent.

A lip-syncing musical group of dubious popularity? Check.

Sha Na Na. Yes, that's right. Sha Na Na.

Spunky, yet authoritative morning talk show host? NO! It's like Katie dropped off the face of the Earth or something. Somebody better find her and bring her back before next year, or there's going to be trouble. The "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" lady seems very nice, but Katie is as much a part of this parade as Santa Claus himself. If I find out that she doesn't exist, either ... my parents are going to have a lot of explaining to do.

[Photos courtesy of the 1970s. Or yesterday. It doesn't really matter.]

Earlier: Times Square

Destination: Times Square.
Guides: Bob Castrone, internet funnyman employed by Times Square-based media conglomerate; Kate Garrick, book pimp, gal about town.

If I really want to know this city, I'm going to have to start at the heart of it all. What better place than "The Crossroads of the World"? Visiting "The Square" (that's what everyone calls it, right?) is like seeing my television come to life. There's the Good Morning America studio, the TRL studio, the other bigger televisions. It's almost like I'm the one who's on TV. I think I just blew my own mind.

But I really want to experience this place the way "real" New Yorkers do. So I asked my friends Bob and Kate for some advice. Bob works for VH1, and he gets to go to Times Square five days a week. How awesome is that?

"It's a huge pain in the ass," he raves. "Times Square is not fun."

Hey, all these people filling up the sidewalks can't be wrong. Kate is equally impressed by the crowds. "One time, it took me twenty minutes to walk from 47th Street to 42nd. Twenty minutes." I guess that's what they mean when they say "hustle and bustle," right?

"Wednesdays are the worst," Bob gushes, "because of the matinees. Busloads of middle-aged women walking at half speed, asking street vendors where the Winter Garden theater is." Now that you mention it, I do regret that I never got to see Cats on Broadway.

There are so many great places to eat, too. I love Sbarro, but I know that when it comes to Italian, some folks do prefer the Olive Garden. How about that Martian space cafeteria? This place really is like an amusement park.

"The secret is to head down to 9th Avenue and Hell's Kitchen," Bob explains. "Tourists are scared to go there because it has the word 'hell' in the title." Interesting. Is that where the Red Lobster is?

Kate says that when she entertains out-of-town visitors, "I always take them to the revolving bar on top of the Marriott Marquis. It's really cheesy in a fantastic way. Beyond that, I never go down there." How cool would it be if every bar in Manhattan revolved? Can you imagine?

Wow, there really are a lot of frickin' people down here!

Now that I've seen this place up close, I do have to admit that it all looks sort of familiar. It actually reminds me of the Meridian Mall in Okemos, Michigan, but with homeless people instead of skateboarders. It's like America came to New York, dropped all its stuff in the middle of 44th Street, and then got in line at the TKTS booth.

Seriously, where the fuck did all these people come from?

"So Bob," I finally ask, "even if you didn't work here, you'd probably still hang out in Times Square all the time, right?"

"Huge crowds, expensive food, and people who are only in the neighborhood because they saw it on TV? If I wanted that I'd go to the Meatpacking District."

Really? I heard that place rocks.

Attention, real New Yorkers: Help The New Guy find his way in this big, bad city. Send destination suggestions to newguy@gawker.com.

[Photo: Alexis Tirado]