Seeing Darkness
1. Today at lunch I passed through Union Square, hoping the weather was still sunny and the girls would be out in abundance. Unfortunately, it's now overcast, bordering on rain, and instead of attractive women in sun-dresses there were a bunch of indie kids in trucker hats and megaphones, preaching to the Asian and European tourists about the alleged 911 Inside Job. (Google just insured that I'll be added to over 100 enemy lists by morning.) Now, I could care less how these guys spend their time or what they choose to obsess about. I just don't understand why every hipster has to look like Bonnie Prince Billy. The guy has spent his whole career cultivating this authentic folk slash punk Americana, I mean he's an icon of everything beautiful and haunting about indie music, and here are all these douches imitating his look. It's a sad commentary, crafting one's look to fit in (especially grown men), sadder than the need to cling to certain conspiracy stories that will never see the light of day.
2. There's a guy who I see in my neighborhood, this little elderly Chinese fella, and I've never been able to figure out what his deal is. He walks down my block picking up cans and plastic bottles, the whole time making these crazy smacking sounds with his mouth, to the point where if you're crossing paths with him you know to give him some space, worried that he might turn Cujo on you. The thing is, he's hunch-backed, I mean profoundly hunch-backed, and he's tiny, about 4' 7", and he's always wearing the same blue-grey ski jacket, even when it's scorching hot, and the same NY Giants baseball cap, only instead of covering his whole head it rests casually at the very top, like the slightest gush of wind would send it into the abyss forever. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think anything of it, I mean there are thousands of trippers in the city, but each night, if I take the long way home and walk down Polk to Jackson, I see him standing in the same doorway of this deserted building, his shoulders crooked, his head down, surrounded by a nest of old newspapers and graffiti. At first I assumed he was waiting there, like he had just rung the bell. Then I realized he was in the same position every night, and suddenly it donned on me that he was sleeping, that this dude lives on that fuckin' porch and doesn't move all night. Him being homeless and perhaps retarded, that's tragic. But the fact that he sleeps standing up, the fact that nobody ever comes out of that building, the fact that my house-mates didn't know what I was talking about a few minutes ago when I brought it up - although they've lived in the same place for thirteen years, this all seems odd to me, like I'm suddenly in the middle of a scene from Donnie Darko, only there's no bunny rabbit, and no "Killing Moon" on the soundtrack.
Then again, what do I know?
2. There's a guy who I see in my neighborhood, this little elderly Chinese fella, and I've never been able to figure out what his deal is. He walks down my block picking up cans and plastic bottles, the whole time making these crazy smacking sounds with his mouth, to the point where if you're crossing paths with him you know to give him some space, worried that he might turn Cujo on you. The thing is, he's hunch-backed, I mean profoundly hunch-backed, and he's tiny, about 4' 7", and he's always wearing the same blue-grey ski jacket, even when it's scorching hot, and the same NY Giants baseball cap, only instead of covering his whole head it rests casually at the very top, like the slightest gush of wind would send it into the abyss forever. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think anything of it, I mean there are thousands of trippers in the city, but each night, if I take the long way home and walk down Polk to Jackson, I see him standing in the same doorway of this deserted building, his shoulders crooked, his head down, surrounded by a nest of old newspapers and graffiti. At first I assumed he was waiting there, like he had just rung the bell. Then I realized he was in the same position every night, and suddenly it donned on me that he was sleeping, that this dude lives on that fuckin' porch and doesn't move all night. Him being homeless and perhaps retarded, that's tragic. But the fact that he sleeps standing up, the fact that nobody ever comes out of that building, the fact that my house-mates didn't know what I was talking about a few minutes ago when I brought it up - although they've lived in the same place for thirteen years, this all seems odd to me, like I'm suddenly in the middle of a scene from Donnie Darko, only there's no bunny rabbit, and no "Killing Moon" on the soundtrack.
Then again, what do I know?
posted by Rob Simons at 2:44 PM
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