[If my Facebook page was body copy]

My flag is the moment your hand grasps that Frisbee headed straight for your face and you know it’s yours. It is sharing a hot dog with a grinning boy at Shea Stadium with $8 beers at three in the afternoon. It is screaming David Bowie’s cover of “Waiting for the Man” at red lights and donning sunglasses and a smirk indoors like Lou Reed. It is folding up a map of the mountain and placing it swiftly into your pocket, knowing full well that you’ll never once open it as you ski past those women whose outfits match their poles which flatter their boots and subsequently compliment their gloves.

My flag is all the bracelets and necklaces I wear which once belonged to my mother and grandmother. It is Prague, London, Budapest, Amsterdam, Paris, Tel Aviv, Stockholm, and every city I’ve seen the sun set on -- but my flag is undoubtedly New York. Its fibers are made of the NY Times and it flies at the edge of the Atlantic, straight off the back of my sailboat while saltwater sprays your face and reminds you how it feels to be alive.

My flag is “el Quihote” from Despana; my favorite sandwich from the authentic Spanish deli which swims at the edge of SoHo and nods good morning to Chinatown and Little Italy. The el Quihote is not just a sandwich. Its bread alone can rip the teeth out of a man before he knows what hit his taste buds.

Hemingway and Wolfe drink together on my flag, spouting tales of epic days which seamlessly flow into chaotic nights. Rosenquist and Van Gogh paint my flag, splicing pop culture and post-impressionism together in a mix only mildly more delightful than a scoop of cookie dough ice cream.

Mrs. Robinson seduces Benjamin on my flag. All the men I’ve ever made eye contact with but never spoke to pace wearily on that flag, while all the rest saunter down it with a spring in their step as though they just placed a new pair of sneakers on their feet and they know those are some damn hot kicks.

My flag wraps my childhood. It is every afternoon spent with the boy next door building forts in the trees which lined our yards, every hour spent singing into his computer -- the first on the block -- and speeding up our recording in an effort to pass as merry chipmunks. It is every make believe Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles game played, and always labeled April, the lone chick in a trench coat with blazing red hair and an insatiable hunger for the facts.

My flag is live. Live music, live beats, dancing on sidewalks and tables in real time to vibrations felt running through your spine. It is vintage tee shirts from my father, grown soft with age and thinner than an Olsen twin. The urge to draw your face and body is on my flag. My flag is washed with adventure and feeds off thrills. It aches to learn more, to see what’s new, and to create what’s next. It grabs your hand and tells you to jump by my side.