Shortly before Parker Posey walked by our office and left her almost full iced coffee on our stoop, this guy pulled up in his Porsche Carrera convertible. Since he was revving the engine for five minutes straight, we went outside to tell him to shut up and that some people don't have summer Fridays and are still trying to work. But then we saw that he had the latest issue of On Montauk in the back seat and then we noticed his girlfriend's ankle tattoo.
The tattoo on the Lady's ankle looked to be around 20 years old, which means, in our estimation, it had graced her body for about half
its her life. Near her foot a pink fuzzy (through age not design) Playboy bunny was well on its way to looking like a koosh ball. Above it, a line of Japanese characters spelled something or other. We can almost guarantee Lady had no idea what it said. By this point anyway, the point was moot. Not even Haruki Murakami (or some other hyperliterate nihonjin) would be able to decode the mess of black marks above the bunny.
Lady, meanwhile, spent most of her time screaming at her boyfriend about how he should be careful with her Louis Vuitton bag in the back seat. Funny, because I think I saw her yesterday emerging from that fake bag cave underneath our office with the same tote, so, it's neither real nor of great sentimental value. On these points, however, we thought it best to remain silent. Dude thought it best to totally disregard her Banshee-like tirades and hung his dry-cleaning onto one of the handles. His weekend clothing, by the way, consisted of one blue blazer, one pair of black slacks and a pink-and-blue striped shirt.
Were they heading up for the Clinton breakfast on Sunday or the Giuliani bash at the Southampton Hospital on Saturday? Either way, their presence bodes ill for our country and for our humble Crosby Street.