A. and I listen to an old Italian movie soundtrack; her roommates are gone — so it feels right to crank up the hi-fi. I decide not to drink the fancy beer I impulse bought the other night when we had a little party here; for whatever reason, buying the beer was the important thing — not drinking it.
Many New Yorkers I know or observe: condemned to fatuous and compulsive self-satisfaction, trapped in glassy new condos, walled off from everything natural and intuitive and truly alive, going out only via Uber to do a quick, heavily-masked canvas of the Whole Foods snack aisle. Scared. Bored…
