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Aren’t We Precious

May 6, 2011

From the Times:

IN the era of pop-up restaurants and speakeasies, flash mobs and social stunts, it was perhaps inevitable that a formal luncheon for a dozen people would be staged aboard the Brooklyn-bound L train. Inevitable, but still impressive.

Inevitable?

I suppose in a city of 8 million many things are inevitable, particularly if you’re riding the L.

In fact, there was. Within moments, a car of the waiting train was transformed into a traveling bistro, complete with tables, linens, fine silverware and a bow-tied maître d’hôtel. “Is this your first time dining on the second car of the L train?” he asked, as guests filed in.

They had been lured by the promise of a clandestine dining experience. (“Please go to the North East Corner of 8th Ave and 14th St,” read the instructions e-mailed early that morning. “There will be a tall slender woman there with jet black hair who is holding an umbrella. Please just go up and introduce yourself. Her name is Michele and she is quite lovely, but no matter how hard you press she won’t tell you about the adventure you are going on.”)

I pondered all this for a bit, trying to decide what I thought about it. I think I’m going to settle on my initial reaction.

Jackasses.

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5 Comments leave one →
  1. Fat Al permalink*
    May 6, 2011 11:23 pm

    Lord, I hate people.

  2. jco permalink
    May 7, 2011 3:15 pm

    THEG is run by a bunch of killjoys, who will not be invited to my next subway soiree.

  3. May 8, 2011 2:45 am

    “IN the era of pop-up restaurants and speakeasies, flash mobs and social stunts, it was perhaps inevitable that a formal luncheon for a dozen people would be staged aboard the Brooklyn-bound L train.”

    No it WASN’T. Who the fuck wants to eat on the L train? Get a cheeseburger above the cocksucking ground and then just shut your fucking mouth and ride the goddamned train into Billyburg, jerk off a hipster for five bucks, blow a squirrel, steal his nuts, ponder the Ponderosa while you pretend that Hop Sing is giving you a hand job when in reality you’re jerking off to the Yellow Pages in a phone booth where no one’s made a call in three months because everyone’s on the fucking iPhone. Sweet jelly, what have we become?

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