Thanks to some glorious weather, the three of us spent most of the weekend enjoying the sights and sounds of NYC parks. The first was the very private Gramercy Park, which opened its imperious gates to the rabble for its annual Look At Our Really Old Trees festival. Somehow, I was distracted by these pants, which belonged to a gum-smackin’ hoochie-mama who had snookered someone into hiring her as a nanny. Despite the two young kids in her care, her hands never left her waistband. She just kept striking that pose, waiting to be discovered. With classy drawers like those, can stardom be far behind?
Speaking of behinds, Robert found real joy this week by thrusting his own into the air and grinding his forehead into the sandpit at Prospect Park. Sadly, his arse had no adjectives on it. But if there were, it would be "divine." Would it not?
The shirt on the right lacked the boldness and raw sexuality of Little Miss Soggy Bottom, but I was so enamored of its simple eloquence that I took a photo. If I knew where to get them, I’d buy a dozen.
