city of endless entertainment

In the last couple days, I've encountered a couple things that made me think, first, "Wow, that's crazy," then "Wow, that's fucking hilarious." The combination leads to "Wow, New York is great."

rat-a-tat-tat

On Sunday I sought a quiet study retreat at Cosi, a little delicious sandwich/coffee shop that populates many Manhattan neighborhoods. I ordered a hot cocoa (brr--it was chilly on Sunday!), nestled into a table by a window, and busted out book after book after book.

The nice thing about studying at Cosi is that it offers juuuust the right amount of distraction and background noise. Music is not so loud people must shout over it. The sporadic Sunday customers are lazily reading newspapers or books. And when I get hungry, fresh mozzarella awaits me. It's the perfect study ambiance...usually.

As I was reading, my brow wrinkled in deep thought, out of the corner of my eye I barely noticed someone walk by. I more noticed his cologne, which sent me immediately back to family reunions attended in my childhood. I decided one of the Uncles must have worn the scent while playing Bocce. It was familiar, and comforting. It made me smile.

The man walked by again a short time later. He was short, mid-60s, with gray hair, far-too-big khaki pants, and a swishy Yankees jacket. He turned, and walked by again, into the back seating area, then turned and went the other way. He appeared to have some sort of obsessive-compulsive tick that caused him to walk back and forth across the room in small, repetitive bursts. With each pass, I sniffed his cologne and thought "Uncle Ange?...Uncle Rocky?"

Eventually his bustling ceased. I refocused on my studies for a few minutes until I heard fast footsteps behind me. I slowly turned my head, only as far as needed to realize that the man was now tap dancing in the middle of the restaurant. Not wanting to make eye contact that resulted in direct interaction (ahem, BARB!), I merely gazed at my books until his routine brought him in front of, then beyond, my table. When the dance was over, he hiked up his pants, changed direction six times, and walked out the door.

kick yo ass, bitch

Tonight, after fighting with the school library (don't get me started), I was walking around the Village killing time so I wouldn't have to get smushed in a rush-hour subway car. (Note: Jessica thinks it's funny--and I agree--that I now measure rush hour in people, not automobiles.)

The Village, known for oh so many things, is home to many walks of life that cause the average person to lift an eyebrow, but cause regular city dwellers to just pass by. All colors, all races, all genders, as well as various combinations, inhabit this cultural-yet-anti-cultural mecca.

So today I was strolling, and I saw a gang of about 8 or 9 late teenage boys standing in a circle. They were all dressed like bad-ass punks: big baggy jeans halfway off their asses, white wife-beaters, sweatbands, bling bling, cell phones, cigarettes, you name it. As I approached the gang, one of them shouted, "I'll kick yo ass, bitch." I feared things were about to get ugly.

Then, one boy--who stood out from the others because of his tight pink t-shirt and matching pink socks--said "No bitch, I'll kick YO ass, and he can watch."

After hearing that, all the boys giggled, and one wife-beater boy who was holding hands with another wife-beater boy leaned over and kissed the pink t-shirt boy on the cheek.

The mental equivalent of driving into a brick wall at 110 mph occurred in my brain. I was incapable of relating the macho street thug with happy flamboyance. It was just so unexpected.

But now I can say with sheer honesty that I have just today encountered my first gay street punks. Ah, the Village.