Be Brave Project, Day 26: Word On The Street

There are plenty of lonely and unbalanced people in New York, and many of the arguments I overhear seem to be about dogs: I just heard a man shout to a woman outside, "Why aren't you admiring my fuckin' dog?" Why not indeed. Her response was a shower of shrieked abuse which came so fast and so high pitched that, I suspect, only the poor dog could hear it. This couple lives on my block, and while they seem to live much of their lives publicly in what downtowners might interpret as exhaustive performance pieces, I suspect that their home life consists of few moments of artistic reflection. They are tiring, and certainly could be viewed as a bit depressing, but I'm used to them and they're as much of a background in my life as BBC's Radio 4 is when I'm cooking. I like to know what's going on, big picture and small.

There is also a man in my building who involves himself in a lot of arguments--with his dog. He's a man who speaks in sharp, forceful tones that ring with despair over this uncontrollable beast. "Pee Wee!" The voice cries out with the harsh anguish of a man in love, "Pee Wee, COME HERE!" I've learned to recognize the jingling of Pee Wee's collar as he trots down the hallway, blithely ignoring his owner. My cat will always move swiftly to the door in a low crouching run, to exchange sniffs with the dog. She's double his size, and I suspect has nine times his native intelligence, but lacks Pee Wee's capacity for drama. At four in the morning I hear the man outside, shouting pleas in attempts to control this wild wild creature who holds his heart, but is dancing dementedly in the street. Frankly, I admire Pee Wee's blithe insouciance.

NYC is famous for its street crazies. Of course, the current take on them is riddled with nostalgia: The crazies nowadays (we are told) are not as full of character and richness as they were in the 'good old days' when the subways were covered in graffiti, Times Square riddled with those poor women in the unrestricted sex clubs, and you got an 8 ball of cocaine free with every box of fig cookies bought in a bodego. This sentiment is even more ludicrous than nostalgia usually is: Grime infested, crime infested New York City seems to have been lively, but also gruesomely depressing in its teeming and trapped underclass--something that Dickens and Gogol could have created after a hard night spent together, smoking crystal meth with neighborhood prostitutes. A quick view at how the city was (thanks to Rich at FourFour), quickly dissipates nostalgia.

Nowadays, you can walk up Broadway for miles without hearing from a single crazy on the street. It's quite relaxing in its way, though yesterday I was relieved to see a small dirty red-headed man darting up the street with his fists clenched, yowling the age old question, "Who Put My Buick up their Big Fat Ass?!"

Today I will finish and submit that damn Self essay, which I've finally trimmed to under 2000 words. Shall also call a doctor on West 58th Street to see if she'd agree to become my primary care physician, so I can send this health insurance stuff back & get the doctor's visits started. . .haven't had a thorough check-up in so long that this is seriously scary stuff. As I head to the doctor's office I will welcome/pay for any distraction the streets of this city have to offer.