SORDID, DOMESTIC WALKING

S.J. Perelman was walking home one night in New York, and when he got to Washington Square Park he ran into poet E.E. Cummings, whom he knew a little.  

They walked along together and came to an apartment building on the edge of the square.  Cummings suddenly stopped and stared up at the building and said, ‘What scenes of sordid domesticity do you think are being played out behind those lighted windows?”

 Perelman protested, ‘Why, that’s my apartment.”

And Cummings said, “I know.’

WALKING SHAMEFULLY, PLACIDLY, AT OTHERS' SUGGESTION

Well here’s a thing.  Amazon, in all its algorithmic wisdom, sends me a reading suggesting:

Yes, I suppose that if I were looking for something in their Travel and Holiday Books store, then I just possibly might be interested in buying a copy of my own book, The Lost Art of Walking.  Then again, I could perhaps just walk across the yard to the shed of shame (per Michael Moorcock) and pick out a copy so I could re-read it “placidly, a quiet smile playing about my lips”  (per S.J. Perelman) .

Or not.