image: E. Nagase“Shirtless Boris Yeltsin’s skin reddens as he reads a book.”
On a late summer Sunday afternoon we sat near the fountain in Washington Square Park[1]. And as the lenses of her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses and my nameless sunglasses reflected the sun, we nearly dozed and surely dreamt.
Lying on the cement steps across from us, shirtless Boris Yeltsin’s skin reddens as he reads a book. His lips move as he peruses the pages. We sneak toward him to see what he’s reading. It’s a book about how to flip real estate for profit. Really. Seems odd. But then we realize that Boris Yeltsin is dead. This man is a body double, intentional or otherwise.
We return to our sunning spot, disappointed that Boris Yeltsin is dead[2], and worried for his body double’s future employment prospects. Bruce Willis stops right near us, kneels, ties his shoe and then jogs off, splashing through the shallow water where the really little children (one is Suri Cruise) swim under the supervision of the Courtney Love.
Wow, that Alec Baldwin sure eats a lot of hot dogs. He should be careful because he’s not as young as he used to be (back when he was young). Boris Yeltsin’s body double could be Alec Baldwin’s body double. Seriously. If shot in shadow.
Uma Thurman is too tall to wear a Hello Kitty backpack. She’s laughing at Stephen Colbert while he eats a vanilla soft-serve ice cream cone that melts onto his hand. His t-shirt says “These colors don’t run”—and you know what colors those are.
Everybody sees Janeane Garofalo.
Everybody our age sees a David—Byrne or Bowie—never both.
The stars fade with the sunset. We walk south and then west toward Macdougal Street.
We enjoyed the show near the fountain that day and how well the actors, without knowing they’d been cast (or consenting to the work) played their celebrity roles. Average folk are so much easier to work with. No assistants, no trailers no scripts. No lights but the sun, no curtain but our departure.
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