1) Strokes bassist, Nikolai Fraiture, crossing the street.
See, having not appreciated the Strokes since 2003-4, encountering Nikolai on the street was like seeing an old acquaintance I immediately recognized yet really really didn't remember that well. I mean:
Knowledge about Nikolai Fraiture I have actually retained:
-He has a luminous, Little Lord Fauntleroy haircut, and he has had this same cut since ~2001. Yes, it was in full form this evening. (If it ain't broke, don't fix it--even if you're 35 and your haircut is for 12-year-olds.)
-He plays an instrument in the Strokes.
-He is Russian
Knowledge about Nikolai Fraiture I have actually retained:
-He has a luminous, Little Lord Fauntleroy haircut, and he has had this same cut since ~2001. Yes, it was in full form this evening. (If it ain't broke, don't fix it--even if you're 35 and your haircut is for 12-year-olds.)
-He plays an instrument in the Strokes.
-He is Russian
Due to my temporary confusion (internal monologue: "Wait... is this a person I went to middle-school with? They really haven't aged well." I maintain this is all somewhat true.) I literally almost waved. You know,"Привет, Николайочку. Как дела?" like we were Slavic BFFs or some shit.
Anyway, I caught myself, and turned my wave into an "Oops GOTTA ITCH MY HEAD NOW WOOPS." So smooth, and more proof I am less of a fool than my instincts want me to be.
Anyway, I caught myself, and turned my wave into an "Oops GOTTA ITCH MY HEAD NOW WOOPS." So smooth, and more proof I am less of a fool than my instincts want me to be.
(click more after the jump!)
2) A battle between a random NYC street-psycho (trust me, it's a thing) and a patron of a fancy wine shop.
The NYC street psycho was a very muscular dude in his 30s wearing a bright yellow track suit, something like this:
Meanwhile, the wine patron was a very wealthy-looking, old, bearded man, who was holding his recently-purchased bottle of wine over his head as some kind of threat of retaliation upon attack.
Actual exchange:
NYC Street Psycho (NYCSP): FUCK YOU DUDE HIT ME DAMN IT HIT ME
Wealthy Old Codger (WOC): No! Get away!! Police!!
NYCSP: BREAK THE BOTTLE HIT ME FUCKING HIT ME
WOC: No!! Just get away!! Police, Police!!!
NYCSP: WHY WON'T YOU HIT ME YOU GOT THE BOTTLE AND EVERYTHING
WOC: POLICEEE This is VERY expensive wine I am NOT going to break it over some STREET PERSON'S HEAD POLICEEEE
NYCSP: FUCKING HIT ME I WANTCHU TO HIT ME
WOC: I WANT TO DRINK THIS WINE I DON'T WANT TO HIT YOU WITH IT I WANT TO GO HOME AND DRINK IT, WHERE IS MY WIFE CALL THE POLICE I WANT TO DRINK MY WINE IN PEACE NOT DEAL WITH THIS BULLSHIT POLICE POLICE
WOC: FUCK YOU MAN
Summary: Sacrifice one measly bottle of wine for the sake of one's personal safety?
.. "LOL NO I'M DRINKIN' IT BITCH, EVEN IF I'LL BE DRINKIN' IT IN HEAVEN."
I love this cooky old rich man and his choices.
.. "LOL NO I'M DRINKIN' IT BITCH, EVEN IF I'LL BE DRINKIN' IT IN HEAVEN."
I love this cooky old rich man and his choices.
3) A lone, miraculous man walking eight corgis at the same time.
Is a person who owns eight corgis really really happy or really really unfortunate?
You know she loves it.
Clear answer: this man is a hero to millions.
So, yes, a series of completely unrelated, completely baffling events in a mind-numbingly short period of time... what does it all mean?
A lesson learned: in NYC expect the unexpected. Just keep walking.
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