Big Apple AssetsSubtly sensing space, human bodies slide intuitively seat to seat in subways in Manhattan to ensure they don't collide—touch of sexy Michael Jackson moonwalk glide: as if each ass were shifting side to side to unheard sweet soft beats of jazz, each riff of which suspends the riding flesh before it lets it pass—panache, with semi-quaver rests— sufficient pauses to divest Big Apple rears of any proximate impediment, distress—to do what they do best: gracefully maneuver into adequately spacious nests. Every urban culture has its rush hour tests—ought's and must's regarding navigation of the butt. But somehow New York City rumps can sit—and, while they're sitting, strut.  |
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