Once upon a time, this is the sort of thing that would have ended up in my New York files.
I was walking to work one morning last week, having been vomitted by the MTA, hot and sweaty, onto the corner of 7th Avenue and West 57th Street, and when I turned the corner and walked over to 8th Avenue, I came across a site I've never seen. It was 8:50 a.m. and there, on the corner of 8th Avenue and 58th Street, was a gaggle of midwestern-looking teenagers in tuxedoes and gowns, behind herded around by an older gentleman – probably a teacher – all staring up at the street signs.
The best part is that I was unfazed. It was, as far as I was concerned, completely to be expected.
It's at this point that I have to say I regret having been a bit of a jaded New Yorker; I should have stopped and asked them (1) if I could help and (2) where the hell they were going. I mean, tuxes? Gowns? 9 a.m.?
Only in New York, my friends.
I was walking to work one morning last week, having been vomitted by the MTA, hot and sweaty, onto the corner of 7th Avenue and West 57th Street, and when I turned the corner and walked over to 8th Avenue, I came across a site I've never seen. It was 8:50 a.m. and there, on the corner of 8th Avenue and 58th Street, was a gaggle of midwestern-looking teenagers in tuxedoes and gowns, behind herded around by an older gentleman – probably a teacher – all staring up at the street signs.
The best part is that I was unfazed. It was, as far as I was concerned, completely to be expected.
It's at this point that I have to say I regret having been a bit of a jaded New Yorker; I should have stopped and asked them (1) if I could help and (2) where the hell they were going. I mean, tuxes? Gowns? 9 a.m.?
Only in New York, my friends.
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