Mercy Me, Did Some Sort of Athletic Contest Occur Of Late?
What noise from the streets below!
You’d think that the premiere of The Rite of Spring had just let out, that racket! Listen, it’s echoing off the brownstones!
No, no. I’ve been in all night. Perfectly isolated. Listened to the Fresh Air podcast earlier.
Now? Procrastinating on the Sunday Book Review. Some dreck about Westerns, of all things. Apologist pulp-craft lip-service. Spare me, Sam Tanenhaus.
This carousing outside, though!
My skull is thrumming like early Steve Reich.
No. Philip Glass.
No no. Pardon me. Definitively Glenn Branca.
Football, most likely, isn’t it? I remember now. There was a display in the Trader Joe’s window. A nacho bowl or some such pun.
Have you had the edamame guacamole, though? Shamefully good.
Right. I guess it’s that time of year. It’d certainly explain all of the red/white/blue frippery out there.
Well, here it is: imagine a sudden bovine stampede coursing down Main Street on Independence Day. In one of the flyover states. An apple pie and popcorn in paper bag kind of town. The mayor and his smiling beauty queen wife, sitting on the back of a loaned classic Cadillac, are pulled from harm’s way as a bookish schoolteacher shouts, authoritatively for once, “Old Mr. Daniels forgot his gate again!” Herds of slow moving cattle, draped in patriotic bunting, crowd the sidewalks. That was Court Street today.
The worst has yet to come, of course. Tomorrow there will be that awful responsibility to have witnessed whatever vulgar, cobbled-together trash they’ve conjured for the half-time show. An aging icon, some irony-free corporate sponsorship, or maybe a scripted unscripted gaffe to drive up the Youtube replays. Not to mention the stunt advertisements.
Of course I will. I’ll check Gawker later. I don’t want to be construed as elitist.