Times Square—That’s where revelers will descend tonight to ring in the New Year. If previous experiences are an indicator, this year, too, there will be clusters of a certain sort of out-of-towner, jostling and elbowing to reach, one never knows where.
A clutch of half a dozen men, both skinny and potbellied, in acrylic pants, their clothes emitting the strong, repulsive scent of curry powder, will roam like they own the city’s sidewalks.
Ensconced in their midst will invariably be a twiggy girl, with a pinched face—the queen of all their hearts, perhaps—radiating (unjustifiable) pride at being enveloped by a ring of malodorous, lusty boys.
It’s an amusing scene, no doubt, but one reason, for me, to stay clear of Times Square on New Year’s Eve.