It was another open bar, I don’t even remember what for. Snowboard designs, or something. B0ots. I won’t mention the month (July) or the weather (steamy) or the fact that we showed up already drunk and already soaked from the rain. We downed champagne and ate little lobster rolls, sat in flat, leather chairs swung open like legs and stared out the window at the tourists walking through the High Line. I knocked over a glass. We had more champagne and watched the women in their shoes: high, holey, chunky shoes with cut outs and straps and ties. The PR girls and marketing boys placed dirty napkins on bussers’ trays and feigned interest in light conversation. The noise was roaring. We waited in line for another round of champagne then slipped into the shiny elevator. They were out of giftbags, we were out of time.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth