While many were prepping for "the Big Game" (insert pungent, damp fart sound here) yesterday, the wife and I spent most of our Super Bowl Sunday attending to various errands of varying significance. Since our age-old oven range started literally belching smoke and flame last week, we had to bite the bullet and repair to the antiseptic confines of Home Depot on 23rd Street to begrudgingly procure a new one. Following that strenuously expensive undertaking, Peg headed east to take our 12-year-old to an arguably long-overdue haircut (Oliver's forelock was starting to look a bit Danziggian), while I was dispatched to the Apple Store in the Meatpacking District to replace an Apple TV remote rendered inoperable by my own zealous impatience.
Along the way, I passed by the Chelsea Hotel (very recently invoked here), and appearances look unforgivably tragic.
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