quelle surprise

So I took a day off to recuperate from a particularly stressful few weeks at work. I spent that day walking the streets of the city with an old friend. It was one of those epic New York days that start at the General Sherman statue, span entire boroughs, obscure quests, omelets, costume emporiums, Psychic Jessica and—inevitably—stretch into the evening hours and the dramatic consumption of beer. We logged almost nine miles on foot and knit together a conversation that stretched from Thomas Paine and armchair Catholicism to Roman vacation planning. I had six pints of Guinness for dinner.

We ran into the flaming automobile on our way up Park, right in the middle of Union Square. I mean, really. How many times do you get to witness the spontaneous combustion of the family car?

We ended the evening having stumbled upon the outdoor screening of The Sting in Bryant Park, watching for a little while in the drizzle before calling it in—a whopping eleven hours later.

It was one of those days that reaffirm your personal cosmology, but make you rethink most of your life choices to date. Limitless and perfect and hard to forget. There wasn't even a game on.

Now I ask: If a minivan can just go up in flames in front of Babies R Us on a rainy Monday night in New York City, what right have we to expect rhyme or reason from the universe?