My favorite Augusty thing to do is park my ass at an outdoor café — especially in the East or West Village — and soak in the warmth and the ambience.
(But not when it’s raining. Don’t worry, I won’t be outdoor-dining during the hurricane, unless I want an extra-moist bacon burger.)
I love that whole shtick mainly because I’ve waited all year for some heat and want to bask in it, not retreat into a place where there’s full-force air conditioning.
Why would I wait for warmth and then run somewhere where it’s freezing?
But the main reason I love outdoor cafés is the invariably entertaining people watching.
The parade of weirdos and fabulosities marching by is so priceless you can barely concentrate on your food (but I manage).
I often play a game of “Spot the Celebrity,” picking out passersby who look like someone famous.
“Ooh, there’s Doris Roberts! And she’s dating Will Smith! And now they’re asking the Olsen twins for change!”
Even better is when people passing by look at me.
I feel like a museum piece and sometimes think maybe I should charge.
But I won’t. Sitting at an outdoor café is its own reward.
Besides, they’re probably thinking, “Ooh! Al Franken!”