The sun is coming up and Brooklyn is a burst sack of broken glass. No, wait: I am.
Forgoing the needle, the orthopedist has prescribed bed rest—and after some wheedling, Vicodin—for what he’s calling bursitis in the hip, and I have retired to the sofa with all the dignity of a deposed pasha in sweatpants.
What follows is a survey of some of cables scruffier offerings across the less-enchanting dayparts. And while I can’t expect to be entertained throughout the journey, Hell won’t contain my fury if I’m denied the simple pleasures of Road House.