First Few City Fragments

My first few weeks in NYC consisted of all the things one could hope for in a first encounter with a diverse, globally-connected city:

I saw two girls mugging another girl (wrists held against a cast-iron fence with hip thrusting and uppercuts—stabbing?—to the lower abdomen—curses barked—conspicuous under a lamp post—a man calling from the window, aloofly, “Call the police.” “Shut the fuck up.”)

On the way to meeting a friend at his work, my route was obstructed by an Indian Parade (an event that seemed to consist mainly of floats advertising phone rates to and from India. Sampled: good veggie samosas and pakora)

Viewed a performance by a Washington Square regular—a caped man who cuts oranges, mid-air, with a wooden sword, and who films himself doing so (he is also a poet, dabbling in miracles: “The cure for AIDS is equal parts AIDS to vinegar.”).

Was shat on by a pigeon and had to clean myself up in a public restroom before continuing to the David Byrne "Playing the House" at the Battery Maritime Building.

Played an organ that was connected to pipes, radiators, and devices that clanged on pillars and windows in a nearly vacated warehouse (this was accompanied by extemporized dance routines, walking into people’s pictures, and listening to a bunch of racket as many first-time composers tried to master an unmasterable instrument). See this NPR article.

Eating lots of cupcakes. Babycakes is where I contemplate the feasibility of my participation in the “freegan” movement. Certainly I would go dumpster diving for clothing and furniture if I wasn’t so damn paranoid about bed bugs.

Started going to Bikram Yoga (“hot” yoga)—I keep returning because I want to know if pleasure can eventually be found in drowning in the puddle I make on my purple yoga mat.

Lost my phone in a Rite Aid and had to ask some strangers (who were discussing Obama's campaign) if I could borrow their phone to call my own and find in which aisle I inadvertently placed it.

Met Donald Green--"New York Times Published Author"--who composed a poem for a friend named Donald--not a NYTimes published author--and who mentioned, in the poem he composed--this is Donald Green we are talking about, published author--God--although he is not religious--and he, Donald Green mentioned--again, the NYTimes published poet--his friend who directed Sister Act and Sister Act II--"and he used to be from the East-East Village"--and he, Donald Green, who will soon, he claims, be working in television, and who once appeared on Columbia University's radio program, talked to us for three hours as I shifted my weight, scratched my nose, and thought about cutting him off if such an action wouldn't have absolutely broken my heart.

Went to a friend’s birthday party with a celebrity guest (someone from TV. Someone in fashion. That is all I will say).

In Brooklyn, I went to a poetry reading—the spotlight was on Philip Levine (scatological: comparing prose poems to turds and lines about cat shit. It all spoke to my inner crotchety old man. Humor is a good tool for engaging audiences, readers—and it eases the tension in a cynical personality. Such a thing certainly deserves the showcasing it received. Before Levine: lulling voices, striking commands of language, and a lacking—a lacking of the ability to “take off the top of my head”—to speak to my inner curmudgeon).

Finished this blog in a coffee shop on a miserable rainy day; the city's bowels grumbling at my feet.