A man dangles out his 10th floor apartment high above Vanderbilt Avenue, squeegeeing his windows as a crowd watches from below. “Not worth dying for if you ask me,” the dude says to his date at the outdoor table on the packed street. “I dunno. Clean windows?” Her eyebrow goes up like a Venetian blind.
It’s been a long sad spring. We’ve all lost track of time. In our desire to distance ourselves, who can remember what they were doing on March 21st? I’ve driven 3,000 miles in the past two weeks, but when all of this is but a distant memory, the 3.5 miles around Prospect Park is how