2004-07-08 - 1:52 p.m.
A few perfectly good reasons walking around in New York is much more entertainment than your average summer blockbuster:
As a man approaches you on the street, he has all the appearance of Friar Tuck, the brown robes, rope belt, hands folded inside the folds of his sleeves, and a beatific, 'I-have-seen-the-light-and-it-is-the-lord' expression on his face. As he passes by, you see his backpack swaying wildly, and hanging off it, a baby-faced doll that’s bleeding from the eyes and crotch.
Someone exiting a gym, dragging a backpack on wheels.
A baby stroller with On-star.
Two men handing out flyers on the same corner: one on Jews for Jesus, the other on Strippers for Men.
The New York Dog Grooming COLLEGE
A street covered in stickers that read: “Save the Children from Gay Sodomy.” Nice how we don’t need to save the children from heterosexual sodomy, and comforting to know that there are apparently roving gangs of gays, presumably resembling the Jets from West Side Story, in embroidered leather jackets, snapping their fingers. “Boy, Boy, Crazy Boy…can’t fool the Gays, BOY!!!!”
A young man in his twenties selling his novel, door to door.
A punk kid smiling out the front window of a Tattoo parlor, as he gets Dubya’s face emblazoned just above his recently shaved crotch. As much as I admire him, in thirty years, that will be extremely difficult to explain before the prostate exam.
A street vendor having an incensed and in-depth conversation with a few honey-roasted peanuts he just dropped.
A former pimp acting in loco parentis for a group of twelve year old girls that lost their way headed to Toys R’ Us. (They got there okay.)
A Police horse emptying its bladder in the middle of Times Square, inviting a sound not unlike a bucket of vomit being emptied into the bathtub the morning after a particularly vicious bender
…And someone taking a picture of that.
Women wearing sunglasses so large they could double as a shade for a car windshield. For the last time, “You’re not in LA!” This is New York, if we wear sunglasses they more resemble John Lennon than Slash, and most times we won’t even go for the eyewear. We have ball-caps here in New York, because the teams on this coast occasionally win something. (Yanks have the best record in baseball. Mets only one game out in their division.) And when I say ball caps, I mean ball-caps. There should be a team on that cap somewhere. I don’t care if it’s the Angels or the Tigers, just make it a ball team. Hell, I’ll forgive a hockey team if you swing that way. Von Dutch detailed motorcycles, he shouldn’t be detailing your forehead, especially not from the grave, and I swear, I see one more John Deer cap on a neo-hipster whose jeans came pre-broken-in, (How Un-American!) I will start flicking people on the street. I spent four years in the Midwest, and as far as I’m concerned you don’t get to wear a John Deer hat unless you’ve driven one at high speed while intoxicated.
A man operating an impromptu conference call using two hands-free cell phones simultaneously, while, at the same time, giving someone the finger. Isn’t technology wonderful?
A young kid on the subway yelling, “I’m selling candy, and I ain’t gonna lie. This isn’t for my basketball team. I want a Playstation. We got peanut M&M, and Starburst.”
A man with a Dirk Dastardly curled mustache, twirling the ends in a storefront window.
The sun setting on forty sixth street, painting all the mirrored windows gold.
And I didn’t even have to pay ten dollars.
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