Playing tourist in my own town

New York City is a silly place. It’s a place where I want to stop into a store to investigate a cute side table, but I can’t, because it’s Jonathan Adler’s store and he’s there throwing a private event at that moment. Or I’d like to go see the opening of a new movie, and I can choose to go see it with the director and star doing a Q&A at BAM if I’d like to brave the crowds.

Tiny, ill-tempered dogs no one trained. Watching the little dogs fight each other every time they meet. A spectator sport with no clear winner.

Attractive, well-dressed people everywhere.

Friendly, attractive, well-dressed people.

People people people.

Pretty people.

Friendly people.

I may have even spotted Henry Cavill and Armie Hammer together and it was just silly because I thought they were a couple of gym bunnies on their way to share a latte. In New York and Los Angeles, that kind of pretty looks normal. I used to go to a gym frequented by pretty actors. Good motivator to go to the gym.

But maybe it wasn’t them because why would those two dudes be hanging out together? I don’t know either. Do pretty people travel together like a flock of birds?

Over-rated artwork like the James Turrell exhibit at the Guggenheim Museum. He was not worth $22.

A town where the woman pushing the stroller on a weekday rarely matches the color of the child in the stroller. I’d forgotten about that.

The food and clothing is so unbelievably cheap. Absurdly cheap. Where is the slave labor hiding in this production line?

More cabs than cars.

But whatever. I can still swipe my Metrocard like a motherfucking pro and that’s all that matters here.

Please stand clear of the closing doors.

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