This evening a man claiming the rather dubious moniker of “Neon Sandwich” stopped me on the street in soho in order to take a photograph of my shoes. Now, my shoes are pretty amazing, but such an event is nonetheless, fairly rare. In fact I think I might go far as to call it entirely unique.
He claimed to be doing a photographic study of topography, though exactly what relevance this had to my shoes is as yet unclear. He did however offer a chinese palm reading for my trouble, which I declined on the grounds that it sounded like utter wank.
I am generally a tad skeptical about things I believe to be the art world’s equivalent of chronic masturbation, but I always enjoy a bizarre diversion in an otherwise statistically unremarkable evening.
You gotta love New York, if only for the weird-ass shit.