A True Story
A True Story
CaRbOn
It's funny the way life just sends blaring signals to you, sometimes.
My lady & I just came from the final walkthrough through our new pad. This is the
last step before we celebrate closing on our very own abode: big deal city.
It's cool to walk through a neighborhood which is about to become yours.
I seem to look at everything, and everyone..looking at some, as if to ask, "I wonder if they'll be my neighbor."
You look at restaurants, straining to see if you can see ghosts of meals yet to be eaten. I noticed so many new things: things I have not really been around for so long. The quiet in the air is palpable: you can hear trees. I can see how Whitman wrote here, in the trees, and not across the river, or am I thinking of Mos Def? Anyway,it was cool.
When I got home, I got a glimpse into the huge duplex across from the bedroom on Orchard Street. I saw two young men: both framed roughly, between the window frames, visible from the neck to the knee. One was wearing cargo shorts, and Abercrombie & Fitch polo shirt. The other, a pair of surf appropriate jeans, with a faded T-Shirt that said John's Taxi.
What they were wearing, though nicely wretched, was hardly the offending thing, however. One COULD see that both young men were clearly between the ages of 22-25, and were clearly residents in a brand new duplex, even age was not my cause for concern.
There, adjacent to their large, 16 foot picture window it sat. Gleaming, and bucking with every push or pull. Twisting and whirling, sometimes sending one of the young men against the large glass portal. It was hard to see what so deeply grabbed the men's attention. The men seemed uncomfortable hunched over it, knee-bending, but still, somehow leaning. It's got to be something interesting. Or at least illicit. I craned my neck to see a bit better, slightly closer to the "OK- I'm looking into my neighbor's apartment" spot in the center of the window frame. I could now see from head to toe.
Sometimes, seeing the truth sucks.
Sometimes, images stay in you mind, and you can recognize, on impact, that you are scarred with a visual memory.
One cannot blink the image clean, or erase the scoreboard and pretend that the other team isn't winning.
The larger of the two young men shout over their shared mystery, and the two slapped their sunburnt hands in the air, with gusto. The sudden moved revealed the sinister truth. The two men were playing, in their 2000 square foot loft, hardcore foozball. On a professional foozball machine- under directed track lighting.
I regret to inform everyone...the Lower East Side has fallen. God help us all.
CaRbOn
It's funny the way life just sends blaring signals to you, sometimes.
My lady & I just came from the final walkthrough through our new pad. This is the
last step before we celebrate closing on our very own abode: big deal city.
It's cool to walk through a neighborhood which is about to become yours.
I seem to look at everything, and everyone..looking at some, as if to ask, "I wonder if they'll be my neighbor."
You look at restaurants, straining to see if you can see ghosts of meals yet to be eaten. I noticed so many new things: things I have not really been around for so long. The quiet in the air is palpable: you can hear trees. I can see how Whitman wrote here, in the trees, and not across the river, or am I thinking of Mos Def? Anyway,it was cool.
When I got home, I got a glimpse into the huge duplex across from the bedroom on Orchard Street. I saw two young men: both framed roughly, between the window frames, visible from the neck to the knee. One was wearing cargo shorts, and Abercrombie & Fitch polo shirt. The other, a pair of surf appropriate jeans, with a faded T-Shirt that said John's Taxi.
What they were wearing, though nicely wretched, was hardly the offending thing, however. One COULD see that both young men were clearly between the ages of 22-25, and were clearly residents in a brand new duplex, even age was not my cause for concern.
There, adjacent to their large, 16 foot picture window it sat. Gleaming, and bucking with every push or pull. Twisting and whirling, sometimes sending one of the young men against the large glass portal. It was hard to see what so deeply grabbed the men's attention. The men seemed uncomfortable hunched over it, knee-bending, but still, somehow leaning. It's got to be something interesting. Or at least illicit. I craned my neck to see a bit better, slightly closer to the "OK- I'm looking into my neighbor's apartment" spot in the center of the window frame. I could now see from head to toe.
Sometimes, seeing the truth sucks.
Sometimes, images stay in you mind, and you can recognize, on impact, that you are scarred with a visual memory.
One cannot blink the image clean, or erase the scoreboard and pretend that the other team isn't winning.
The larger of the two young men shout over their shared mystery, and the two slapped their sunburnt hands in the air, with gusto. The sudden moved revealed the sinister truth. The two men were playing, in their 2000 square foot loft, hardcore foozball. On a professional foozball machine- under directed track lighting.
I regret to inform everyone...the Lower East Side has fallen. God help us all.
posted by mrchocolatepants at 7:08 PM
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