When we walked into Rao's New York,
the record did not scratch to a stop as it does in popular metaphor. We
would have welcomed such subtly. It was more akin to the entire record
player crashing onto the floor in slow motion. We were out of place, and
it was blatantly obvious. Here we were, dressed as though we had a
small town prom to get to later in the evening. The rest of the room?
Bombastic Italians, casually dressed. I saw a tracksuit or two, t-shirts
everywhere, and nary a tie in sight.
"The web," I nodded discouragingly to myself, "what a freaking liar."
"The web," I nodded discouragingly to myself, "what a freaking liar."