Another Manhattan summer is upon us. But I don’t dip for the Hamps.
There’s something about the concrete jungle that keeps me comfortable.
Red ribbon players give off a doubtful vibe. No worries. I know the competition is tapioca.
Been a busy summer at the High Line, thus far. I’m posted, naturally. Swagger drippin. Gettin that brie. Curb servin like American History X. Carryin the 8 like Jon and Kate. Sockless. Purple Label because Ralph’s a friend. Rubber band money clip keepin me grounded. My equity givin haters heartburn. And no, these aren’t Tums I’m bundlin. Brushing up on RICO precedent. The pre-paid cell keep the Feds panties in a bunch. Startac. I’m so retro. Shielding risk like a fideicomiso. Look it up. My LLC’s LLC’s got LLCs. They’ll send your lawyer back to undergrad. His public school undergrad.
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Ahhh…NYC summers. Humiliating wannabes who “heard Shake Shack burgers are sweet”, and “have boys who can get us into TenJune”. Meanwhile, I “have boys who know your PIN number”, and I “break bread with U.N. security personnel”. Twisting up lavender fauna on the hour. Puffin those Barney farts. I maneuver best when I’m over levered. Like Linens N’ Things. Summertime, so I keep things in the linen. Pulling fire alarms at Soho House. Bending flat brims on hipsters’ 90’s Starter caps. Bet they can’t name one Charlotte Hornet. Morimoto is a hack. Lunching down the block at Son Cubano with a third-stringer
that’ll make your Dad leave your Mom. And then tell her “keep the kids”.
Enjoy the sharehouse, Neil. I’m at the Core Club. Ask for me.
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