Nothing I need ... Duane Reade

Manhattan’s ubiquitous Duane Reade drugstores defy geography. They are everywhere. They’ve run out of street corners to house their paper towels and canned goods so they’ve started stacking them on top of each other, the watchful eye of God on the city.

Their sheer volume dominates in lieu of every other possible service including, but not limited to: employees who will stop talking to each other when you approach with a question , reasonably priced goods and a jingle that rhymes. (“Everywhere you go … Duane Reade!” which leads me to believe that the jingle writers are locals familiar with the chain. Logic would dictate that the song should go “Everything you need ... Duane Reade!” but I suppose they’re bound by some sort of legal obligation to not lie to the people.)

My closest Duane Reade is literally feet from my home, which is was very psyched about when I first moved in. However, it soon became famous (to me, which is the only kind of fame that matters) as the drugstore that carries olive tapenade on a regular basis, but toilet paper only half the time.

I think they’ve outdone themselves with their current back-to-school aisle though. I was walking around yesterday, looking for some shampoo when my eyes gazed fondly at the day-glo notebooks, crisply pinstriped index cards and bright No. 2s just a-beggin’ for a sharpening. And there, next to the High School Musical 2 folders: Condoms. No doubt for the havoc Zac Efron’s baby blues are wreaking (meh!) on the young women of tomorrow. Homeboy creeps me out with those undead eyes.