Do you miss being hyper? Do you miss cotton candy? Do you miss sun? Do you miss what hot dogs meant to you before they meant ground up pig scraps? Do you miss having food smeared on your face cuz you didn’t know what a mouth was? Do you miss peeing your pants? Do you miss being so dumb that everything in the world was fun? I do too and it’s called being in 5th grade. And what was the best part of 5th grade?! ICE CREAM SOCIAL!!!! (Of course these are not exclusively held for 5th graders, I know that) but 5th grade is the general time of life that your ice-cream-social-going selves peak, beyond which you can expect a steady decline of enthusiasm, immunity to fat, and sexual vigor. But that’s why god made Smorgasburg: the closest you’ll ever come to heaven/your childhood ever again (just see “baby” below). The first time I discovered this place was on a sun-drenched Saturday stroll in Williamsburg, the pulse of spring reverberating through the streets as we approached an inviting mass of pedestrian traffic. In my subsequent stupor, I stood wide-eyed as plate after plate flashed in front of my face: ice cream sandwich pork belly buns chicken ‘n waffles milkshakes fries donuts bubble tea bbq baguettes macaroons salt water taffy (this could go on forever and I was literally just overcome by exhaustion) so to make a long story short, we ran in and stuffed as much food would fit down our throats despite having just eaten two bags of pastries…and then went back to Brooklyn Heights to do it again the following day. Here are some pictures:
New York can be an impossible city. It can feel like wheels under your feet spun out of control, unwilling to wait while you regain your footing and catch a breath, even for just a second. If you don’t put up a fight, it’ll swallow you in it’s roaring streets and thick breasted sky scrapers that you look at with your head pulled straight back and mouth gaping open, and it’ll spit you out a carcass with hardly a beating pulse. Sometimes I feel like I’m the loneliest person on earth. Well, it’s a funny thing walking down a street with herds of people to your right, your left, cutting off your stride straight ahead and on your heels directly behind, yet feeling alone. Really alone. The suffocating feeling of knowing that you could slowly melt into the mass of numb bodies and become lost under their shuffle without a second thought. You could be hit by a subway car, and somewhere a few stops down the line there’ll be hundreds of people dismayed at the delays at the hands of another undisclosed “police investigation,” sighing in, sighing out, scoffing as they stare at the hands go round and round their ticking watches. There’s no time. No one’s got time. No time to drag your feet, no time to be indecisive, no time to explain, no time to take your time. And what I still can’t figure out is what is this hustle for? Where do I need to be that I can’t wait for the next train? No, I need to have that woman’s butt smashed on my thighs cuz I don’t have time to wait for that train. So I’ll get on this train, I’ll touch that woman’s butt, I’ll smell that guy’s breath, I’ll get hit in the face with that book, as long as it’s this train and not the next.