Perhaps nowhere in the entire universe does light shine as particularly brilliantly as it does in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. (Do you see how I mentioned that it was the Upper West Side of Manhattan? That’s so you rubes in flyover country can follow along.) The light is at once diffuse and focused, in the way that light plays in the hair of the 16-year-old Uma Thurman of my mind. The light illuminates the miasma created by the combination of taxis, hobos, and pastrami peculiar to New York City, until blessed sunset brings us to night.
Then, everyone comes out to play–the Hispanic kids from somewhere other than where I am, and old people, and young professionals, and here’s where I’d insert some dazzling simile that would truly destroy the pretentions of that schmuck, Ezra Klein, but I can’t because I’m too distracted by…T-SHIRTS.
How odious the sight of these benighted things! Next to them, a baseball cap is practically a white coat with tails. It was bad enough when they would simply bear slogans–“Big Johnson’s Surf Shop,” for example, or perhaps “Hard Rock New York.” But now people will wear T-shirts that have no writing on them at all.
The blank T-shirt insinuates that perhaps not all of life is about saying things. And wearing a T-shirt in inappropriate places–like while playing tennis, or moving furniture–says that you are a person who doesn’t feel the need to wear a suit and tie.
I could go on and on, but Lee’s imaginary cat is yowling again. Oh, the difficult life of sprezzatura. T-shirts and imaginary cats, oh my.