the condiment stays in the picture
high school friend is in town briefly today for ryan adams at the beacon, and the world - or at least tonight’s ticket holders - prays he does not fall again off the stage. we go briefly to the distinguished wakamba, a bar that distinguishes itself both by its name and the lack of underpants worn by the people who work there. a skirt is a skirt, but sometimes you should really wear boxers, too. coronas under palm trees and i know i need never move to puerto rico....
while waiting for the out of towners i wait under what two weeks ago would’ve been the bridge connecting penn station to the old post office building for the convention, a pathway for press and spin and bullshit. it’s gone now and, in its place, a friendly-looking vendor of pretzels and other hot food + poland spring. a man marches up, says ‘let me get a hot pretzel’ which i realize now years in this town is the tough guy’s way of being polite and asking for something. it has its formality, but it’s as though to say please would betray you as a fag or a liberal or a white collar wimpy wasp guy. so it’s 'lemme get' instead. [i forgot to employ the contraction before].
so that’s fine, many has been let to get his pretzel, and i drift away, looking for my friends...i see mr. pretzel 10 yards from the cart he bought it at, still applying mustard. strange, i think, that you would take away the quart of mustard with its crusty top and questionable hygiene. my new vendor friend agrees -- we make eye contact and nod that his mustard bottle has been jacked, and he goes after the guy, who’s not running and stealing, but simply putting mustard on under foot power. he’s stopped, and says ‘i’m not done,’ before realizing that mustard’s supposed to stay w/ the man who sold you the vehicle for the mustard in the first place.
knowing smiles exchanged with pretzle vendor upon his triumphant return, and i know that not only does this not happen elsewhere, but also that there’s no other place for me to be right now. only in new york, i think, before calling myself an asshole the way only someone who’s lived here awhile is entitled to.
urban innovation: mustard on those chains like bank pens. quality of life goes through the roof, guaranteed.
while waiting for the out of towners i wait under what two weeks ago would’ve been the bridge connecting penn station to the old post office building for the convention, a pathway for press and spin and bullshit. it’s gone now and, in its place, a friendly-looking vendor of pretzels and other hot food + poland spring. a man marches up, says ‘let me get a hot pretzel’ which i realize now years in this town is the tough guy’s way of being polite and asking for something. it has its formality, but it’s as though to say please would betray you as a fag or a liberal or a white collar wimpy wasp guy. so it’s 'lemme get' instead. [i forgot to employ the contraction before].
so that’s fine, many has been let to get his pretzel, and i drift away, looking for my friends...i see mr. pretzel 10 yards from the cart he bought it at, still applying mustard. strange, i think, that you would take away the quart of mustard with its crusty top and questionable hygiene. my new vendor friend agrees -- we make eye contact and nod that his mustard bottle has been jacked, and he goes after the guy, who’s not running and stealing, but simply putting mustard on under foot power. he’s stopped, and says ‘i’m not done,’ before realizing that mustard’s supposed to stay w/ the man who sold you the vehicle for the mustard in the first place.
knowing smiles exchanged with pretzle vendor upon his triumphant return, and i know that not only does this not happen elsewhere, but also that there’s no other place for me to be right now. only in new york, i think, before calling myself an asshole the way only someone who’s lived here awhile is entitled to.
urban innovation: mustard on those chains like bank pens. quality of life goes through the roof, guaranteed.
posted by quickstuff at 1.10.04
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