Having finished the Blue-plate Special
And reached the coffee stage,
Stirring her cup she sat,
A somewhat shapeless figure
Of indeterminate age
In an undistinguished hat.
When she lifted her eyes it was plain
That our globular furore,
Our international rout
Of sin and apparatus
And dying men galore,
Was not being bothered about.
Which of the seven heavens
Was responsible her smile
Wouldn’t be sure but attested
That, whoever it was, a god
Worth kneeling-to for a while
Had tabernacled and rested.
July 1947
by Mickey Z.
The author encounters a trailblazing tennis luminary while working at the Vertical Club.
by Johanna Garfield
Claims cops have no ticket "quotas" to meet, just "production goals."
by zantine
Doo-Dads, Vignettes, Bake Sale... It's a party at the Whitney Museum and we would like you to come.
by Luke Krueger
The city is heating up and Luke Krueger hasn't done laundry for 6 weeks. Enjoy while the author recalls the good old days
by Mickey Z.
A look back at Gimbel's department store, where the price of being the youngest, most attractive male employee was courage.
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