The Hobos Think I’m Hot
The last few weeks got me thinking about courtship and romance in this city. Most New Yorker ladies will admit to being harassed on the street by the colorful sidewalk dwellers, sleazy old men, and aggressive passerbys. At first, I was completely shocked. Do the men really berate nearly every woman they see walk down the street in hopes of finding a connection? And do the women really tolerate this constant sexual harassment? Surprisingly, this is just the way New York’s men start their courting approach.
See, they pant like dogs from their perches and continue to do so as they stroll down the street–not because of the unbearable heat, but because they want to lick their chops at the mere sight of all the women on the street. They gawk at women of all ages–irregardless of their attire, their complexion, their marital status, or the present hour of the day, and would continue to do so even if sexual harassment laws were enforceable on the streets, simply because this tradition of courtship is so ingrained in the culture.
Now, if you are dumb enough to react or respond to these characters with a little grin, momentary blush, cutesy giggle, or even a directed gaze that lasts too long, you have now adopted his affections. Let the games begin.He will now follow you and pursue you like an excited puppy does its owner when he/she first gets home.
If this image is not clear enough to you, image a homeless man professing his love to you at a bus stop. All you want to do is put him down easy and send him on his way. However, this is not an option. This strange relationship is what you asked for when you replied.
Needless to say, it’s a train wreck. The courtship ends with you running to your destination, out of breath and leaking sweat, and him, yelling at you from the edge of his territory trying to salvage his dignity among his “creeper” peers. If you are lucky, it will only be lovely, patronizing things; if not he will be broadcasting all of your flaws at the top of his lungs for all the world to hear. Don’t be fooled though. In spite of his tone and defensive body language, this is his last ditch attempt to get you to acknowledge him.
Do not turn around. Do not respond. And sure as hell, do not give him more eye contact, because your eyes are what got you in this mess in the first place.
Just keep your head up, elongate your stride, and shake off this encounter. You can’t help it that the street men think you’re gorgeous 
Hip Hopping in Harlem
My officed closed at 2 pm but I did not recover from my crazy work week until about 7 pm when I shot upright in my bed, revived but disorientented. I scrambled to my laptop at the foot of my bed. Friday night in NYC is too precious to waste. I had to do something.
So I start googling at hyperspeed until I find the perfrect event. Wait. The concert starts at 7 pm and its already 6:27. Thank heavens for Harlem Standard Time.
I dash uptown on a 103, the slowest bus known to mankind, and for once, did not get lost in search of the venue. It had to be a God thing.
The place is silent as I approach. A couple of hip-hop hippies adorn the entrance. Slipping by, I head in, and in an instant, I am surrounded by strange modern art and cinder block walls. I must be lost. I prepared to leave, certain NYC had once more defeated me–until one of the idling hippies starts giving me the schpiel.
“Blah blah blah…who are you here to see?”
Good question. “Everyone?”
Another hippie now joins him and makes standing in the entrance of this once empty space all the more awkward. ”Are you here for the art?”
I wanted to say, you couldn’t drag me to an artsy gallery down the street from a junkyard if it was made of bananas. Instead, though, I say, “I came for the music…”
We share an awkward pause then he starts talking at the speed of light like an overjoyed puppy. “Oh yeah! We’re having a show soon!” etc. He wraps up his speech, takes 5 bucks from me for the artists, and sends me on my merry way. Great. Now I’m stuck in a strange gallery. Surrounded by hip-hop hippies. Waiting on a suspect show to start.
Now understand I am not an art snub, nor a venue snob, but when it looks like a building in need of some serious love (See the first 2 picks of the gallery), even the best adventurer starts to have some doubts. As soon as the show starts, though, those Hip-Hop hippies and I are jamming with the Emcees–and the cinder blocks fade away–and the ugly knit work in the back of the crowd could matter less because the music engulfs your senses.
Here are the stars of the show:
The Performers are listed in no particular order:
HASAN SALAAM
KAMIKAZE PICNIC AND BS
PROPAGANDA ANONYMOUS
TRUTH NOW
SUPERKING ARMOR
TECHNICOLOR LENSES ft. THE APOSOUL
THE FLOWDOWN
EBONIE SMITH
WARREN BRITT
THE MC FACEMAN
STEVE FOX
MEGACIPH
CHI’AKAI
Thanks for making my night y’all!
Filed under Musical Adventures, Shopping Adventures, Street Musicians, To ___ or Bust!, Uncategorized | Comment (0)Jazz in the Subway
I head downtown for the evening and what do I happen to find? Two young guys with a little drum set, a big sax, and a suitcase filling with money jamming on the subway platform. They might have only known one song, but it was one pretty good song. These jokers had the whole station tuned in as they played the night away. And the insomniac city stood still for a moment until our trains roared into the station and whisked us into the darkness with that jazzy little diddy still stuck in our heads.
They might have only known 1 song, but it was a really good song
“I will attempt to enlighten you with the 6% of my brain I am using”
Last night I headed to Union Square on a mission–find dinner or bust.
In NYC, though, this task is never simple. I emerged from the subway station, surveyed the prospects, then checked the time. 8:41 pm. This narrowed down my options to a Halal street cart, a Fro-yo truck, a strange woman selling sliced mangoes next to her little daughter, and the Whole Foods store. Hands down, Whole Foods looked like the safest option. As I head in the door, though, I am bombarded with a wave of chiming and thumping and automated sing-songing that make me think otherwise.
By the time I make it through the express line (with a 15 minute wait), I emerge from the store victorious holding my vegan chicken burrito with no place to eat. So I start walking down the street in search of an adventure. I pass a woman doing intricate henna tattoos and a man selling paintings, but neither interest me much. I pass a couple young men doing some kind of “business” by the water fountain and nearly run into with a group of exhausted tourists, before I stumble upon a crowd gathered on the steps of the square at the feet of a mad man with a mega phone.
“I will attempt to enlighten you with the 6% of my brain I am using,” is exactly what this loony said as he rambled on about the endless possibilities the human mind holds and how debt makes us all slaves to the system, limiting our thoughts and creative insights. And the crowd responds with questions for their great orator, a middle class man dressed as if he were an ex-hippie turned professor, waiting on him to fill their heads with knowledge and new conspiracy theory. And I watch with my burrito trying not to giggle as the man in the front rambles on and on about the same nonsense and the crowd cheers him on. And I stay–for a moment, enjoying the engaging philosophical debate occurring in front of me between these frustrated individuals with no where to go and no audience elsewhere who will give them a chance.
Welcome to NYC.
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