Note from GofG: Whether along the backwoods trail or along a busy sidewalk, the Sappy Wanderer is there. He exists like a modern-day Kilroy, either wending through the background of a nameless crowd, or sitting in the forgotten corners of a dimly lit theater. He may even be staring at you right now.
If you are reading this, then I am afraid it is too late: his urban camouflage may have only revealed itself at this last minute so that he could strike these words into your head right now with an endless diatribe akin to the last drunk you saw at the bar come closing time. Full of more nostalgia than the curved grace of a Coke bottle from the ‘60s, you will probably find these words crammed with pundits and misadventures laden with a liberal touch of tongue-in-cheek.
Beware, however: although he is no longer technically a “New Yorker,” The Sappy Wanderer has lived here from his childhood up in some borough or another (sorry Brooklyn, his childhood neglected you). He now attempts to learn the wilderness of America’s armpit to engage in the outdoors and the terror of suburbia. He still works, walks, photographs, and writes of the streets of this fair city and the many things that he (sometimes wishes he didn’t) see. He is an every man in that way: a roughneck of the local color, a traveler of urban and rural realms, and an abuser of the third-person in his synopses.