Welcome to Bud Smith's New York, where you run out of gas on your way to work; where a set of keys goes missing at a New Year's Eve party; where your neighbors are either nosy, naked, or screaming; where putting an inflatable hot tub in your apartment seems like the best/worst idea ever; where little kids break-dance on the subway; where the corner bodega becomes your only salvation in a city overtaken by nail salons; where friends text you selfies of themselves dying in hospital beds; where sometimes the only thing a person can really do to stop from unraveling is to keep a calm face. // "[Smith's] writing effortlessly weaves together anecdotes from his life or work into great art."--THE RUMPUS