Finally, Wild Rumpus is out of the Bahamas and working its way up the east coast of the U.S. on its way to New York City. In honor of Wild Rumpus heading to the city that spawned me, taught me how to parallel park, fight, and evade the police on foot all in one incident, that smells of a mix of aging pee and sumptuous hot dogs cooked in water older than its purveyor, where America’s pizza craze kicked off, and the last bastion of big fat eggrolls that smell of burnt oil and taste like the best parts of my childhood, the title picture for this post is the kids’ table at my Bar Mitzvah from 1981. You’re welcome — you deserve it if you made it through the last sentence!
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