Who wants to go for a car ride? You wanna go for a car ride?

Holy shit. A week at the lake and I don't want to be back, working like a stooge like this. Friend works around the corner, so I called him and he brought me along on his errand, which turned out to nail the triple crown of secret afternoon break-taking.

First, his errand took us into this apartment in SoHo, which belongs to an Italian greyhound-owning lesbian lawyer MY AGE (fuuuck) who is never even home to use her apartment because, I don't know, she works. By the way, her fridge contains: three condiments, and a phalanx of 325ml Poland Springs and Diet Cokes. Little phalluses, hee.

"How much rent do you think she pays a month?"
"I don't know - five thousand dollars?"
"That's it?"
"Well, only because I can't imagine rent ever being more than five thousand dollars."

Then we got back in the car and drove through SoHo and got stuck behind a moving truck trying to parallel park next to another moving truck and - yes!! - that satisfying, satisfying crunch of one vehicle abusing another. Took a nice piece off, oh wow.

And then we got stopped at a red light next to a garbage truck with New Jersey plates loading up giant, sloppy piles of pork fat. In my imagination this has everything to do with protection money and generations-old Italian family businesses and perhaps even with the disposal of snitches.