00:30:00

i've realized that there are certain random people in this city that i will randomly and repeatedly encounter. owl. dollar bill guy. euro fancypants - about whom i've yet to have written. and now . . . roddy.

saturday, i sat on a bench in washington square park. taking in the early fall day. no one sitting on the benches to my right or left. i was absorbed in thought. and in the hula hoop contest taking place a few feet away.

and suddenly. i heard, "white girl. hey. white girl!" as i turned my head - because i am, after all, a white girl - a relatively attractive black man approached me. hollering, "don't worry. gay guy here." i kind of laughed. and then it occurred to me. hey. i know this guy.

he put his hand out and excitedly introduced himself to me, "hi. i'm roland." i shook his hand, looked inquisitively, and stated, "yeah. i know. roddy." he sat next to me with his mouth gaping open. and asked with an edge of irritation, "how do you know my nickname?" i explained that we had in fact met before. in the fountain not too far from where we were sitting at the moment.

he suddenly seemed outright frustrated. and pissed off. and . . . emotional. he had tears in his eyes.

i could tell from his manic movement and rapid speech that he was the same coked-up roddy i'd met about a year ago.

he proceeded to talk with me. repeatedly demanding, "chat me up." betting me that i wouldn't sit with him for thirty minutes. i assured him that he would likely win that bet.

he grew more and more irritable. and i said as much. with agitation, he confessed that he was coked up. i stated that i had figured that out and that he had also been doing coke when i met him last.

he began biting his lip. pools welling in his eyes.

finally i asked. "what's wrong? you seem upset." he thought for a little bit and stated that he was going to tell me. but to give him a minute. it was going to make him cry. i waited. and waited. and suddenly he switched gears. and started talking about something else. i reminded him that he was about to tell me what was wrong. he didn't respond.

i asked, "roddy. do you just want someone to talk to you?"

he looked at me with watery eyes and said, "yes."

he reached out to hug me. but he'd been so offensive and irritable throughout our conversation - going so far as to grab my sunglasses off of my face - that i told him that i didn't want to hug. he seemed wounded. and pissed. i apologized. and stated that i wasn't trying to hurt his feelings. but explained that he had already invaded my space once and that had upset me. i wasn't interested in hugging, and he needed to respect that.

he went off at this point. adamently stating that he could easily go over to the two men sitting nearby and hug each of them. i welcomed him to do so. this angered him even more.

he demanded to know why i still sat there. next to him. if i was so unwilling to talk with him or hug him. i pointed out that i had simply been sitting on the bench. enjoying the day. and he had approached me. not the other way around.

i swear. passersby could have easily thought we were having a lovers' quarrel. if it hadn't have been for his being gay.

i sat there for a few minutes as he huffed. and puffed. and hmphed. and scoffed. rolling his eyes at me. making attempts to provoke me.

until i finally turned to him. and calmly said, "roddy. i don't know if it's the coke or something else. but you seem very upset. and irritable. and even paranoid. whatever it is. you seem very troubled . . ."

roddy interrupted with a defiant, "i am."

i continued, ". . . and i hope you find someone you can talk to."

roddy bitterly responded, "me too."

i stood up. and walked away.

it was just under thirty minutes.

subway stance

stepping into the subway. there's no room to sit. no room to hang onto a strap. no room to steady yourself against a door.

you can only hope that the other riders can help cushion you. buffer you. keep you from becoming a pinball amongst them.

so get prepared.

feet shoulder width apart.
knees slightly bent.

shift your weight against the force of the train.
if it attempts to throw you forward. use all of your might. to push your weight back.

hands should be free.
free to push yourself off of the person next to you. free to help you get your balance.

throw out that hot cup of coffee.
or don't wear white. and hope no one else is either.

and certainly. . .

don't get cocky.

name that tune

it took me 6 months to determine . . .

standing next to yankees stadium in the bronx . . . waiting for the 13 bus . . . the uptown and downtown 4 trains running above my head . . .

it never fails.

each time the downtown 4 pulls out from the 161st street/yankees stadium platform . . .

it hums the first three notes . . .

there's. a. place.

for us.

the moral to the story goes

ever have one of those epiphanies that hits you so hard . . . you shoot out of bed in the middle of the night?

shaking you to the core.

invigorating. inspiring. exciting. gasping.

scary.

it's only the beginning.

sunday sun

yesterday, i missed a beautiful last-chance-for-summer day. all thanks to the cable company and their inability to nail down an actual time for their service calls.

so today. i was determined to not miss a drop of sunshine. i had loose destinations. as always, i allowed the city to pull my direction at will.

turning onto orchard, i fell upon the green market. filled with plants and fresh vegetables. and moseyed down to the blocks celebrating international pickle day. i wandered the street. peering under tents. children making crafts in the likeness of, none other than, the pickle. demonstrations of canning vegetables. t-shirts with various cartoons of pickles, advertisements for pickles, pictures of pickles. tables filled with samples of everything pickled. different flavors. different textures. nibbling along the way. all the while thinking this was a bad day to forget that bottle of water that all new yorkers tend to have handy. and just as suddenly as the pickle fest started. it stopped. only a couple of blocks long, this was a rather brief encounter. short on quantity. but man was it packed with quality.

as i made an impromptu turn off of orchard, i walked west to mulberry. it was about time that i took in the feast of san gennaro in little italy. a festival that closes down blocks and blocks of mulberry street for about 2 weeks. i have heard of this festival for years. mostly from friends living on mulberry bemoaning the disruption caused by the festival and the crowds of people that populate it. i don't know what i was expecting. but essentially i saw this festival as a possible step up from the standard nyc street fair. and - without the rickety rides and pig races - only a step away from a state fair. i didn't have to go far to figure out it was time for me to move on.

and i got to thinking . . . on a day like today, i usually tend to make washington square park my ultimate destination. but i had thus far inadvertently spent this day exploring the part of the city that is now considered my new hood. so i decided.

it was time.

i made my way up to houston. and headed east. instead of west. and introduced myself to . . . tompkins square. my new park. washington square will always be home. my true north. and west. so many contemplative hours. days even. meditating to visions of dogs playing. so many memories. so comforting. it's been a warm blanket for many cold days. but as i made deliberate moves through tompkins. . . it felt good. this could certainly be my south. and east.

like most things in new york, it was not better or worse. it's just as outstanding. in its own unique way.

fat bottomed girls

walking today from the overcrowded high end streets of soho . . . happily escaping . . . making my way back to the modest overtly-hipster sidewalks of my lower east side home.

i stood waiting for the crosswalk's signal to change from red hand to walking man.

or at least for the traffic to pause long enough to jaywalk.

as i watched for my chance. something pulled my attention away from the traffic.

actually, it captured the attention of every person walking by.

we were riveted.

not by the spirited soccer match taking place in the field across the street.

but by the scene on the basketball court next to all of those striped jerseys.

there. in the absolute middle of the day. were about thirty women. sitting on bicycles. wearing nothing.

their round backsides facing our faces. as they sat. perched on their bikes.

the light changed. and we all eagerly crossed to get a closer look. this was unusual and intriguing enough to encourage some uncommon and unpracticed rubbernecking.

a man stood atop a tall ladder. with one of the largest cameras i've seen. focusing on the bevy of big bottomed beauties.

we all stopped. blatantly staring. and only with these unblinking stares, did we discover these women were in fact not nude. but wearing nude colored full-body leotards. with nude colored thongs. and nude colored bras.

this caused us to pause even longer. dumbstruck. simply out of further confusion. those leotards were a total mind fuck.

i think the teenage boy standing in front of me was particularly disappointed.

in the key of nyc

how many cities serenade you at the end of your day?

each day. there's something. someone. some instrument. playing into the willful and unwillful ears of thousands of new yorkers.

almost as a pat on the back.

a hey-you-made-it-through-another-day-in-this-completely-gritty-and-awful-and-marvelous-place song of victory.

whether it's a mariachi band. a string quartet. a flute. a man with his guitar. steel drums. b boys.

it envelopes us. even if for just a moment . . . as the doors of the subway car open . . . then shut.

the people in. and the sound out.

the city sings to us.