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In New York City one sees most of the same things people see elsewhere: parents dropping their kids off at school, grocery shoppers, joggers, coffee drinkers, Starbucks loungers, people blathering on their cell phones and headsets ("I'm walking on the sidewalk! I just passed the corner of ass and hole! How are you!"), commuters in line at doughnut shops, prostitutes climbing in commercial pickup trucks with Jersey plates, etc., but occasionally I'll happen across a scene I'd like to share, remark on, document. Here's a few to catch us up to date:
On Second Avenue, the other morning, I saw a heavily tattooed, studded black leather-jacket wearing, ripped jeans, punk-rock kid (he could have been twenty or sixty) passed out in a pool of his own bodily excretions, (although he'd had the wherewithal to unzip his pants and expose himself). I thought to myself, I will never assume punked-out East Villagers are wealthy, upper-middle-class, nostalgia-driven posers ever again. The scene kind of soured my mood, which I tried to counter by humming The Replacements to myself, until I got uptown and was passed by a tanned, middle-aged man, wearing a tailored suit and his grinning maw clamped down on a huge cigar, zipping down Park Avenue on a sky-blue Vespa. It kind of evened my little mental-image universe out.
Thursday night I had a double minor-celebrity siting. Through a bar window in the boutique hotel district near the Flatiron and Gramercy Park, I spotted the actor (surrounded by four women) who plays Terrence, Paris's hilarious Life Coach on the Gilmore Girls, (Shut up! It's a good show), then standing outside the bar, was survivalist neo-con Ted Nugent yammering on his phaser/taser/razor cell phone. (Maybe it was a satellite phone carved from Elk bone?) My impression was if Mr. Nugent and I were both dropped in the wilds of Alaska outfitted with only a crossbow, I could probably kill and eat him.
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