Taking a walk home on a late Sunday, a man comes to learn a few things about our fine city.

First of all, a man learns that there are very few alleys in this town. This wouldn’t be of great importance did I not desperately have to pee for the entirity of my thirty minute walk home. I do not endorse publicly divesting yourself of bodily waste, considering the possible jail time, not to mention the inevitable tension that results from the worst case of urinal shyness you’ve ever experienced, but on the nights I spent walking home back in Iowa the option was laid bare on every corner. Instead, I run home at a pace even Lola has to respect.

Second. Hipsters like kickball. At eleven in the evening in the park in Greenpoint, thirty-odd youngin’s in tight jeans litter the baseball field chasing after a ball I could fit inside. It’s almost cute, but I’m confused by the gent behind the plate on his bike. Can you run the bases on your cycle? If yes, I think it will greatly affect the efficacy of the squeeze play.

Third, bars with bathrooms should stay open late so I can please, please, use their bathroom. I’ll pay for a Pabst I won’t drink if it means I can hit the head.

Forth, you shouldn’t watch hipsters play kickball when you need to pee. You’ll picture the ball as your bladder, and no good can come of that.

Fifth, you can work the lock on your front door a lot faster than you think you can.

Have a good night, all.

Related posts:

1. There’s no place like home…
2. And speaking of the Coney Island boardwalk…
3. The Semi-Long Walk Home
4. The F Train; home away from home?
5. wanna play?