Chicago XI, New York 0
We were sitting in the Bells of Hell, sucking on our beers, having a nice, quiet summer dodging Son of Sam and the FALN (the Puerto Rican Liberation Army), when all of a sudden Mick Jagger makes this inane snorting sound and the Fabulous Fall Season is off and running.
Chicago XI, New York 0
ELEGANZA
Robert Duncan
We were sitting in the Bells of Hell, sucking on our beers, having a nice, quiet summer dodging Son of Sam and the FALN (the Puerto Rican Liberation Army), when all of a sudden Mick Jagger makes this inane snorting sound and the Fabulous Fall Season is off and running.
Out in the Hamptons, time stops. The Fuji racers are packed atop the BMWs and everybody troops back into the city in perfect pavlovian quickstep. Next time we turn around we can't find a seat at the bar for all the tans—the wickedly all-over tans—and gym shorts. As far as we can tell, Sam and the FALN didn't exist1, there was no blackout, and whoever heard of Elvis Presley.