I was walking down 3rd Ave today, way up in the east 60′s where I live (languish), and this little three-peice Ralph Lauren family turned the corner and headed toward me. Mom, dad, and little Jimmy. They were one of those families where the parents look too old for the kid; you know the type: a little too young to be grandparents- a little too old to be parent parents. It’s like they waited until they only had one egg left and then totally went for it. Anyways, the kid was your typical little six-year-old douche-bag from the upper east side (borderline translucent skin, mushroom shaped haircut, oversized, overly red, dribbly lips), and he was skipping along between his L.L. Bean parents, in a cape no less, chanting at the very top of his weird little lungs, “SUPER-DOOPER FUN! SUPER-DOOPER FUN! SUPER-DOOPER FUN!” And you know what? I didn’t believe him for a second. I don’t think he believed it either; he was trying way too hard. In fact, I’d say he was already deeply neurotic.
So that sucked, and then I saw three grown-ass men come out of a cafe, all wearing their baseball caps backwards. I’m not even making that up; I wish I was but I’m not. Why do all the dudes in my neighborhood think that that looks cool? And who said it was okay to pair that backwards hat with a pair of distressed G-Star douche jeans and striped button-down? Assholes. They probably all got laid last night too. There are so many assholes in the mid to upper 60′s, you wouldn’t believe it. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. Someday.
Turning onto 1st Ave I saw a homeless guy wearing a pair of brand new dunks; like, glowing-in-sharp-contrast-to-everything-in-the-world dunks. It’s not uncommon to see bums wearing really nice shoes, but this guy looked like the Nike fairy had paid him a visit, you know what I mean? Boom! I was wearing a busted pair of Vans and he had the nerve to hit me for some change. Incredible. Then this perfectly healthy woman sitting at a bus stop hit me up for some small change. She looked like Renee Zegwhatever in a pink sweat-suit. “Get a job” I said. She said she didn’t want to. I asked her if she’d like to make fifty cents the hard way then. She said no. I told her it was her loss. She said, “Whatever” I said, “You’re fat”
True story.
Still no sign of the elusive Joan Didion I’m afraid. Stay tuned though; she’s bound to turn up in line at Duane Reade soon, and I’ll be there to accidentally insult her, like I have so many others.

Here’s Jimmy Page not being your awesome dad very much.

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