Some Call It Spring…Other’s Call It WAITING ON FRIGGIN’ LINE

There is this sliver of days, between winter and summer, when New Yorkers forget all their cares and act like they’re Angelinos. They have a bounce to their step and come out of the woodworks like roaches after dark. Some call this brief respite, between the frigid winter and hell hole of a summer, a taste of “Spring”.

This sign is actually at the Gristedes I shop in and what the hell that scary motha fucka mannequin is next to the sign or why people still shop here, is a mystery to me.

Others call this: Waiting on FRIGGIN LINE. And everybody waits because no one knows when the next time the weather will be nice enough to spend a few hours outside at night after being couped up all day and all winter in the hermetically sealed buildings where everyone gets sick over and over because there is no sign of fresh air (which would be hard to find in Manhattan anyway) and we are all breathing each others germs as though we’re sitting on a 6 month long journey in MD-80’s (oh wait, those planes are grounded, right?)

The girls wait.

The guys wait. Even… the dogs wait.

But this line? This line I don’t get.

This line is about an hour long. And it’s not for the flowers or the beautiful view.

It’s for a HAMBURGER at the Shake Shack.

Am I the only one that remembers the rat poop in the hamburgers? Ok, it was two years ago, but STILL would you wait an hour for a hamburger? With potential additions that we won’t mention again? Some call it SPRING. I call it short term memory loss.