Park Avenue Cornpone During all

Park Avenue Cornpone

During all our meetings yesterday, my co-workers and I nociced an odd flashing light coming from the north side of the building. Was it sunlight reflecting from windshields twelve floors below? A broken fire strobe? The white-dwarf implosion of the NASDAQ market, converting ruined value positions into bursts of photon emissions?


When we finally got around to looking out the window, it turned out that the penthouse of the “Hotel Giraffe” across 26th street had been taken over by a photo crew, and they were shooting a pastoral scene on a small scrap of concrete apron. A patch of astroturf was stretched out across the corner of the eleventh-floor balcony, with various potted plants arranged in a semi-circle around it. On the green plastic carpet, an elderly man in a plaid shirt and suspenders mussed the hair of a six-year old in pajamas, over and over. Muss-(flash!) Muss-(flash!) Muss-(flash!)

Park Avenue Cornpone During all

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