Being the
pagan scum that I am, I chose to skip the
Easter sunday mass and wandered down 71st Street torwards Central Park. Skirting around the
Lennon memorial at the top of
Strawberry Fields, I joined the trickle of people moving down the trail torwards the water.
uh oh-the 6 coffees I drank at
Cafe Luxembourg were being rather insistant on leaving my bladder.
No problem, I'm inna park, I'll find a thirsty tree.
No such luck. There were people
everywhere..playing with overpriced little
dogs (purchased for the sole purpose of proving to strangers that no, they are
not rapists or
murderers, because we all know rapists and murderers are not allowed to own a $750 imported
puppy from
Rhodesia, or playing with overpriced children (purchased for the same reason)- you get the idea.
need to pee need to pee need to pee
So I hop-shuffle torwards the fountain area to the right of the pond..hundreds of fellow squishy
humans milling about. Curious lack of signs..I follow the sound of a echoey saxophone down the stairs torwards the fountain..and what to I see?
MENS ROOM
I joyfully
prance inside, my zipper magically sliding down, sweet release.
Hey, this is a pretty nice restroom for a park.
And it was. Spacious. Well lit. No lurking
perverts. Even smelled nice.
Satisfied, I ambled out, complete with the knowledge that the next time I was near
Central Park, I knew I had a place to
pee.
Knowing is half the battle.