MonsterTrucks, Beer, Football, 'n Bitches

Talk to enough New Yorkers about real estate and living conditions, and it seems that everybody already has a dream-building, street, or apartment all picked out and ready-to-share.

My personal residential fantasy is this sweet, triangular-ish building in the East Village, right where Stuyvesant Place meets 10th Street. I like how it strays from the oppressive Manhattan grid, and has these huge bay windows that overlook a small triangular garden and St. Marks Church on the Bowery just down the block.

But here’s my favorite part: right next to the main stairway, there’s this huge vine-of-a-plant that creeps up the entire southern side of the building. My biologist-friend Erika says it’s wisteria, and every May it blooms with these bright bunches of hanging, purple flowers that look like this:



Which brings me to the point of this post.

Yesterday I was walking through the West Village, making my way up to EL rehearsal. I had just gotten a hotdog at Papaya King where they were blasting that stupid Wham! song, Careless Whispers (You know it: And I’m never gonna dance again...guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm…) and I was all frustrated and confused over why good songs never get stuck in my head, when all of a sudden I look up to see the biggest, most beautiful patch of wisteria I’d ever encountered. Seriously, the wisteria over on my dream-building had lost all its flowers a week ago, but even at full bloom it couldn’t touch this. I even took some pictures:



This vine was so big, it actually leapt out from the building wall and took over an entire tree.



But it doesn't stop there. You see all those people down at the bottom of the picture looking into that window? Can you guess what they were looking at?

PUPPIES.

They were looking at motherfucking puppies, because right under that amazing wisteria was a motherfucking puppy shop.

So there I am, standing in the West Village, bunches and bunches of beautiful wisteria flowers dangling around me, and I’m about to take a hundred pictures of all those stupid adorable puppies, all the time humming this goddamn George Michael song that won’t get out of my head when I glance up at the street sign on the corner to see exactly where the hell on Earth I was, and that’s precisely when I realized that God definitely does exist and has a strange, strange sense of humor.

Had John Mayer been there too, I can't say that I wouldn't have kissed him.