It’s Labor Day Weekend.
It’s Perry Street.
And I live here … right down the street from CARRIE’s infamous apartment in Sex and the City.
I see ALL tourists swamp this iconic townhouse, morning, noon, night — with absolutely NO boundaries. Chains? They jump 'em. Signs? Ignored. I always “can’t help but wonder… ” HOW THE FUCK DO THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE HERE DEAL WITH THIS HORSESHIT?
Yesterday when three particularly boisterous and not-giving-a-shit 20-somethings were partying down, hootin' and hollerin’ right in front of THE door, my jaw dropped in mid-stroll. They are so over the top that the owner (never seen him before) finally came out and respectfully requested these girls to give him a break. He informed them that they are a) loitering b) obnoxious and c) ruining his fucking Sunday. Their response? “So why don’t you go move somewhere else?” He remained calm, but I — well — I lost my shit. I SCREECHED at them the ultimate NYC insult, “GET THE FUCK OFF HIS STOOP AND MOVE YOUR ASSES BACK TO JOISEY” — from across the street. I looked and sounded insane. I didn’t care.
And they left.
The owner and I became instant Besties. He dished gossip, history, real estate decline, and of course, stories of SJP. He said he was on his way to anger management class — and did I want to join him. Point taken, new friend. I took the contact info…
Hey, I’m working on my mediation, reading my Buddhist books. It works, and it is work.... But sometimes Glorious ones, when respect is totally absent, I can't promise I won't RAGE OUT … ‘cause that's part of New York being Glorious New York, too. Ya know?