Chapter 3: Who Are The People In The Neighborhood?

One of my favorite things about New York is the people. There are people of all colors, shapes, sizes, pedigree, and mental fitness. When you put your headphones on, power up the iPod and take a stroll, you get to be in the greatest music video ever made. Yesterday afternoon was a great example. I walked from the Upper East Side to the Upper West Side. Soundtrack: Off the Wall. Musty old grandmas with their well-worn furs, adorned with every piece of finery they own, shuffling down the sidewalk with their matching pint-sized canine companions. Self-conscious twenty-something girls perfecting their sultry walk in brand new heels. Dapper young aristocrats dripping hair pomade, sharply tailored jackets and freshly manicured hands. Lady GaGa inspired youth wearing fuchsia vinyl hot pants having a solo dance-off. Yellow cabs constantly braking and narrowly missing other cars and pedestrians. Weathered homeless man carrying a sign that reads, "Kiss me, I'm homeless".

In many ways, NYC is more like a garbage dump than a melting pot. Depending on where you are, the people in your neighborhood could be a collective made up of societal cast-offs or recently released mental patients. Remember that teacher who wore really tight jeans and had the unfortunate "giant testicle" affliction? You know, he'd sit up at the front of the class, cross his legs (which would only accentuate the problem), and you you would try not to look? He lives here now as a performance artist. How about the weird hoarder neighbor with bathubs, lawn furniture, boxes, and clothing piles in her yard? Yep, she lives here too, wedged into her tiny apartment among interior skyscrapers composed of who knows what, with her 8 cats. Who can forget the friend of your grand parents who had the mechanical larnyx? Yes, the handheld device used to mimic speech after cancer of the larnyx. The ghetto version of Stephen Hawking's computer voice. He sells fruit on my corner. Helpful tip: do not talk back to him in a robot voice. He does not find it amusing. And of course, the foul-mouthed, rotund and sweaty old landlord who only wears stained wife beaters and dirty sweats...He lives here, but who knows his real name. Everyone calls him Popi. At least, that's what they yell at him every morning when he throws his garbage out his window and into the street.

Frankly, some major cities take a toll on my patience. Too many good looking, vapid people making more money and having generally more fabulous lives than they probably deserve, is annoying. But when you combine those people with a healthy population of interesting, ridiculously outlandish, make-your-skin-crawl disturbing, extra-galactic, literally freakish, or even garden variety eccentric, you get something really special.

NYC, I don't really know you, but I think I love you.