|Photo Credit: http://dguides.com/newyorkcity/areas/east-village/|
Yestereve, on the walk back from the new Mike Birbiglia show with Tom, I make a remark about the East Village. It smelled unusually floral. Like the sidewalk had been strained through the fresh sparkle of Tinkerbell’s underpants.
Our blueberry night continued until we approached Astor Place where the traffic snarls and everybody has to wait around to cross Lafayette Street. My evening took a turn.
There on the corner, I stood and grappled for oxygen molecules. I felt like I was choking on a gigantic pink cookie while being smiled at by Sandy Duncan draped in a cloak made of rainbows and smashing rose petals into my face.
Turns out it was this woman. She had been walking about 15 feet in front of us for ten blocks. Exuding random aroma spasms. After the light changed, she turned uptown and we went west.
We breathed easy until I spied a slender gentleman in a pink satin jacket approaching us on Greenwich Avenue. He certainly had all his teeth. I noticed this as I was felled by a siege of exotic sandalwood.
You’d think more people would pass out upon the tile of their bathroom floors from dangerously excessive perfumery, but it must be safer than I imagine. Last month, I headed uptown only to get bitch-slapped by a phantasmagoric unicorn cloud somersaulting down sixth avenue.
At the time, I almost made an obnoxious comment about the enormous and fantastic odor. Luckily I’m not all that quick with the comic relief. Because small worlds being what they are and all, I happened to be acquainted with this particular lady bouquet.
I need to take some lessons from whats-his-face Vinyl star, Bobby Cannavale, and become a mouth breather.
|Photo Credit: GQ|
Alternatively, if I were of the self-aware sort, I would immediately cease any and all of this black kettle talk considering I gave up antiperspirant years ago and often find my hands in the air like I just don't care.