Momo Fook Who?

I watched the Giants beat the Cowboys last night at a friend’s place in Spanish Harlem. It took me 14 minutes on the bus to travel from 122nd St to 103rd St. I left his place at halftime and jogged home in 7 minutes. From his door to mine is almost exactly one mile. If I were to use the subway, it would take me about 10 minutes. I had access to a car the night before—a real-life, working automobile—I drove my friend the same distance in 3 minutes.

Some friends from DC were here this weekend, hence the automobile. I believe this convertible is a 2008 Chrysler Crossfire Roadster. Petite is great in New York, especially for parking, but it isn’t so great when three people travel in a two-seater. I spent the day riding the console between two wonderful ladies with my head high above the windshield. Wind blew through my freshly cut, military style hair. I felt like Karen Carpenter, only with a double-chin, on top of the world. Nearly every passerby looked twice at the oddity.

While driving in Manhattan toward Brooklyn on 2nd Ave, we thought it wise to leave the top down. My head and neck bent to the side, I received a phone call from number unknown. I squirmed into my pocket, inadvertently adjusting the car into neutral, and answered. The connection was bad, “I’ll call you back,” I said. My friend called back instead.

“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Chase Young,” she said. Turns out, one of the Craigslist movie extra gigs I had applied for while bored at work wanted me to come in for an interview/photo-shoot of some kind. My agent scheduled an appointment. Although, we missed it due to traffic and scam concerns.

Trapped inside this tiny car, squeezed between two girls on a plastic console, stuck in traffic on Brooklyn Bridge on our way into a petrified island—I felt freedom come back to me. It was a perfect time for a freedom cry.

Minus the $12 Ramen Noodles at Momofuku, it was a perfect end to a great summer.