Allow me, if you please, to paint a picture for you. Â This picture will be painted in the pinkest of hues, and the mintiest of greens. Â These colors will burn brightly and they will burn shortly, and their breath-taking incandescence will be a momentary flicker of exalted heavenly light, before it passes into the drab nothingness of urban spleen.
A colleague of mine, who for the moment shall go un-named, and I were leaving the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that veritable and glorious hallowed Upper West Side institution. Â It was about 4:30, and the sun was cozying itself down into the furrowed covers and verdant hills of our great land. Â This associate and I looked across the drab and bustling traffic of 5th Avenue (one of the most unpleasant avenues out there, if you ask me: 4 lanes of screaming homicidal cab drivers and loud buses packed with gaggling tourists like a sardine can. Â Nothing like my beloved CPW on the fairer side of my park) and we saw the pink-marshmallow glow rising of the setting sun rising above the green copper cornices of a taste-less mansion which looked not unlike the frosting on a superfluously saccharine birthday cake for some spoiled-rotten Upper East Side Continue reading