New York often takes a lot of heat — but we are a city like no other

A little messy, but it’s home

I’m thinking about my city. We’re the best. No. 1. And we’ve been taking a lot of heat. And that’s before Mayor Zero Crapdammy.

Lincoln Center, Rock Center, World Trade Center. We got Woody, Dustin, Gayle, Donald.

Rush hour. Tourists, cameras slung across their chests like the Order of the Garter, staring up at the Freedom Tower, jostled, checking a film crew down the street, saying: “Maybe the crowds are too much for me.”

Tolerant of it all, a Madison Avenue type dressed in Armani and attitude adds: “Like East Side, West Side, all around the town, like somebody sent for you?”

Middle of a movie scene shooting on the street, this short guy, occupied with getting from Point A to Point B, walks right into it. Nobody misses a beat. Just kept delivering their lines. Muttered a passerby: “We’re the No. 1 city. We deserve more crime.” A crew member overhearing that said: “Good line. I’ll find a spot to stick that in the movie.”

Go, get outta here

Listen world, knock it off. Where else could you wait on line for a john next to Letterman, or sit next to a movie star picking up after his dog at Starbucks? Your Arizona town has St. Pat’s, MSG, the Yankees?

We got culture. In Kansas they only got that in yogurt. But we also got the best hot dogs and steaks. Thieves and the New York Post.

Everything we have is the best. More French hairdressers than in Paris. Better Italian eateries than in Rome. So many lawyers, there’s not enough scams to go around. Maybe we got a few muggers, but at least they’re professionals. I mean, this is New York.

So maybe we got only semi-good pols. Only a few have been in the can. We’re rude? Yeah, right. At least we’re good at it. You got Broadway? Central Park? All you have is a bus out! And, let nobody ever forget, we have Saks, at least temporarily. We used to have Klein’s, Ohrbach’s, places that sold bras, panties, garter belts that nobody wears anymore. Only in fashion these days are your boobs.

Don’t like us? So get on your rented bike and pedal out. Wheel back to where the moon is as high as your unemployed friend. Catch your local road company version of its misspelled “Othelo.” Buy one of their locally made T-shirts advertising Harry Truman. Or join your friends with tattoos.

Ink-lined to make a mark

TATTOOS: LL Cool J has “Respect” on his left shoulder . . . Stephen Baldwin? Chinese signs somewhere . . . Kid Rock? Detroit Tigers logo on his right arm . . . P. Diddy? A newspaper has less print than his bones. One upper arm has writing underneath which he never let me read . . . Justin Timberlake? Initials JJ on ankles and a cross on the left shoulder . . . Kelly Osbourne? Heart tattoo on lower left stomach, angel wings on her back, star at the base of the neck, pink heart on little finger, anchor under left forearm. A dictionary has less to read . . . David Duchovny? Compass design on one ankle with N, S, E, West, his daughter’s name spelled out . . . Eminem? Daughter Hailie’s portrait on one arm, others on other places too assorted for me to locate . . . Nicky Hilton: “Hilton” on her back and a heart on the right wrist.

I don’t have tattoos. If I did they would say “I love you. I love this country. I love this city. I love this newspaper. And if they let me, I love coming back tomorrow” — to New York, kids, only to New York.