My kinda town?

I’m a country mouse. You can see it in my whiskers and tail. Put a pair of blue jeans over my ass and watch me skitter through the haystack. On several occasions, this rodent of the backwater has found himself in the big city. He’s skittered into the Windy City. He’s poked his nose into Las Vegas. He crawled with the vermin in New Orleans. Even once, on a particularly unfortunate occasion, he rode the elevators of Los Angeles and turned away attempts to take off his country mouse clothes and play a new kind of reindeer game. The wild kingdom can live up to its name at times.

But in less than 24 hours, this rural rodent will find himself nibbling on the Big Apple, staying in a fancy hotel (with running water and all), and trying to figure out how the city mice live.

I should be concerned about a lot of things. Finding my way from the airport to my hotel should prove to be challenging enough. I should be worried about a presentation I have to give in front of 75 of the nation’s best local journalists. And, vain little mouse that I am, I’m only thinking about what to pack.

Lookit: Chicago is a midwestern city. No matter how you look at it, the Windy Citizens are all still just a bunch of hayseed yokels with tall buildings. Las Vegas, while one of the greatest cities on earth, is a gaudy come as you are kind burg. New York City (said with all the gusto of an incredulous salsa taster) is a different breed of mouse.

Why, oh, why should I give a damn how I dress. I dunno. Call it Country Mouse Vanity.

I’m not terribly excited about this trip. It will be a fine adventure, I’m sure. But I’m pretty sure I’m in need of a Mouse Makeover.

Where’s Mickey Maury Povich when I need him?