Blame Bret Easton Ellis. Reading Lunar Park is making me a manic mess. The narration of the book has attached itself to my personality - which isn't too bad a thing and is much less worrisome than how Demi Moore's character in Charlie's Angels II - Full Throttle attached itself in much the same way.
Madison Square Park becomes an obstacle course as my mind is too open and too accepting of new information from close over-observation of the dirty-haired guy picking up a discarded, half-smoked cigarette and of the ponderance of the burrowed holes in the ground throughout the park (do squirrels live in those?) and of the woman being scorned by running-late-to-work commuters as she offers full cups of hot coffee to promote the breakfast menu at Shake Shack. Exiting the park onto 25th Street, the shadowed (not sunny) side of the street is chosen as the sunglasses are still on the kitchen table at home. More information is involuntarily captured: the occupants of the passing taxis, the "peace officers" in front of the school where there were two stabbings while I was on vacation, and a delivery cart coming into the kitchen entrance of Tabla.
I devour the contents of the cart. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Potatoes. Perched atop the cartons of produce is something bright and colorful, purple bag with gold lettering "Pro Edge". Being out of place with the other contents of the cart, it demands further examination: "Lamb and Rice Formula" Eventually the question forms in my mind that will trouble me the rest of the day: "Why is Tabla receiving a shipment of dog food?"
