Y'know it’s a rotten day when you gather yer stank and amble to the communal laundry only to discover That Woman who stockpiles nine generations of wash for seven months, saves her quarters ’til she can finance a Prius then monopolizes all the machines until your bleary-eyed landlord unlocks the room’s door and tells her to recommence in the morning because everyone plus God is trying to sleep, forcing you to tame your greasy coif, freckle your essence in Right Guard, guzzle shampoo, don your least offensive socks and a pair of pants that doesn’t give off heat and hit Target to buy a new outfit for a single day of work, only to realize once you arrive that the corporation’s head fashion consultant is currently obsessed with college-aged Mumford & Sons aspirants, because all you can find are rakishly casual V-neck sweaters, wrinkled mauve button-downs for trust-fund frat house fundraisers to buy mandolins for the homeless, Superman onesies, argyle slacks and faux porkpie hats with Wifi, but luckily, using an app, you locate the department’s sole pair of Wranglers, de-dazzle the butt with a damp cloth purchased specifically for such purposes, find a clerk old enough to remember where the socks are and grab a rare tee that isn’t vinta-stressed with another generation’s moist-eyed nostalgia (Harold and Kumar as pixilated emoji; SpongeBob telling Patrick, “#BeAStar”; Marcus Mumford rubbing his body with a zither). Then you think, “Yo, I’m HAWNGRY,” so BLAST OFF to Subway where you stand in full view of a cashier otherwise preoccupied with scrolling down an Amazon page devoted to products used in the maintenance of Macklemore’s hair, and when you clear your throat, he lifts a finger, which he then employs in rapid-fire tapping, “SORY BAE GOTA GO #OSM* @ COUNTER LMAO >:D.” Finally he pivots you-ward and sniffs because you interrupted his real-time biopic to order something as trivial as a sandwich instead of staying home to write a novel you’ll never finish, although you’ll use CreateSpace to fill a limited-edition paperback with inspirational nuggets stolen from Nick Young’s Twitter account, and intellectuals will hail it as a lacerating condemnation of celebrity using a celebrity’s own celebrity, and you’ll be able to flee this dump of a godless shantytown for New York where your sophistication will be celebrated. Arrogant twit, you think as he reluctantly prepares your sandwich and hands you your sandwich, and you take that sandwich and you eat that sandwich with a small tub of Wild Cherry Pepsi and Original Sun Chips while Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan yammer soundlessly on an overhead television, Kelly’s batty gestures amusing athlete-cool Strahan to no end, and it’s nice to see he can still laugh after the 2001 Super Bowl, where his New York Giants cost you $75. Then, lo, there’s Marcus Mumford in professorial tweed, legs crossed, engaging avuncular with the hosts as unseen captioners attempt to keep pace with his patter: “YES KELLY WE ARE CURRENTLY WORKING ON A NEW ALBUM THAT WILL SERVE AS A MARKED CREATIVE DEPARTURE FROM WHAT PEOPLE HAVE COME TO EXPECT FROM THE MUMFORD BRAND WE HAVE INCORPORATED PROTO-VANGELIS AND QUASI-ARENA ELEMENTS INTO OUR EXISTING PALETTE FOR A FULLER, ROCKIER SONICISM” and you realize hey, this sandwich is delicious, your new threads are slammin' and it’s a great day, after all.
*OSM = Old Stanky Man