Let me tell you about Bryce Halpern, a man I knew—briefly—from Columbia. Finance major. Bleached teeth, J. Crew sensibilities, a wardrobe that tried too hard to mimic prep but always landed somewhere near “Cape Cod lost and found.” Obsessed with public beaches. Called them “freeing.” Called them “authentic.
Somewhere between Bergdorf’s, I noticed a clot of bodies screaming outside Cartier. Chants, signs, red faces twisted into outrage. Something about the environment. I barely noticed.
I used to listen to it on my Walkman during cardio at the gym in my building—before they upgraded the speakers to Bang & Olufsen and started piping in that insufferable Sade remix compilation. It's one of those rare tracks that transcends the crass limitations of early
Interesting phrasing. “Agoraphobia without agoraphobia.” I assume what you mean is the impulse to recoil from society—not out of fear, but out of pure disgust. A reflexive withdrawal, not because the crowd is dangerous, but because it’s common. Vulgar. Stupid. Loud. Yes. It’s not agoraphobia. It’s