Talk To Me

On a cold winter’s day a couple of weeks ago, The Leopard and his two cubs were strolling on the streets of Harlem when, stopping at traffic light, I spotted an elderly homeless woman, dressed in mounds of rags shouting directly into one of those 9 1/2 foot futuristic kiosks you see on many street corners in NYC these days. They were made to replace payphones and provide wi fi service, and are charging stations for cell phones. 

These metal totems bring to mind the obelisks seen in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey,  - only equipped with large, brightly lit touch screens featuring colorful graphics – maps and neighborhood info. Also there’s a red panic button installed with an intercom so that pedestrians can call in emergencies via 911 from the street.

As we waited for the long stoplight, I couldn’t help but listen to this lady loudly exclaiming into the kiosk all manner of grievances: first, New York and how filthy it is; how she hated all manner of people who live here and such; and how much in particular she hates her son-in law, her ex-husband, and how much her family in general never appreciated her; also, how she was in the FBI and the CIA and she will soon be revealing to the world secret missions she was sent on by George Bush in the early 2000’s.

As far as I could tell, the person on the other end of the conversation (if there was one) did not respond to her complaints.

I glanced back at a traffic cop who was about to wave us across the street. She smiled. “She does that every day.  Just shouts into that thing for hours about all kinds of stuff.”
“I kind of look forward to it a little, now. Helps break up the monotony.”

  
  

Starbucks How I love ye

 

The Leopard has always had a love/hate relationship with Starbucks. At first, I hated the place for its obvious pretensions: The goofy “French” cup sizes, the snarky “hip” graphics, the total blanketing of all New York neighborhoods (in Manhattan, it seems there’s two per block).

But lately, the place is becoming more and more useful. They’re offering wi fi for free. So one can walk into any Starbucks and get online no purchase necessary. And I enjoy the subtle social atmosphere. Everyone comes into Starbucks now - from the homeless to the well-to-do. We're all lined up in front of laptops or staring blankly into iphones. The hipsters, the hip-hoppers, the yuppies, the buppies, the skateboard kids, and the Wall Street crowd - we're all rubbing elbows and sharing dirty bathrooms.

You see the culture. Yesterday, there were a group of people sitting near me who were discussing what sounded like their marijuana drug operation. A week or so ago, I saw a young man viewing what looked like to me bestiality porn on his laptop for hours. I've seen people argue, fight, gossip, cry and make out so openly that I felt compelled to give them directions to the nearest hotel.

There's something stimulating in the place. I find myself working here more and more. I’m writing this blog entry now in one. It’s better than the warm, cozy, safe isolation of my apartment. It feels like I’m part of the real world, for better or worse.   

She's Not Depressed, She's Drunk

The Leopard decided to go for cocktails the other night at the creatively grungy Art Bar, a notorious spot in the West Village known for its dank innards, worn furniture, and 1000-year-old beer smell.

Still, the place has its earthy pleasures. As we settled in at the bar for a bit of light conversation, in came a blond middle-aged woman who sat one stool away. I could see her heavily made up face clearly over my friend’s shoulder. She began to make jittery movements like a junkie and looked increasingly anxious. She greeted the bartender broadly, and seemed to want to engage her in conversation, but the server stoically declined to socialize and dutifully poured her a drink.

After gulping down her straight vodka, she grinned at me a few times in a creepy way. I didn’t want to encourage her so I looked away. A few minutes later, she began to quietly sob. Pretty soon, the sobs became moans, and then the moans became full-out bawling, complete with running tears and streaking mascara.

My partner and I tried at first to ignore this noisy, pathetic spectacle but she went on and on, obviously vying for attention. Soon the bartender intervened in a sympathetic yet stern tone, “You’re disturbing our customers. Please leave. Look, Your drink is on me." The woman was so overcome with emotion she couldn’t speak, so she simply scooped up her things and left.

Whenever I walk past that place, I always wonder. What was she crying about? A lost lover? A tragedy in her family? Her own alcoholism? Most likely, I’ll never know.

Natural Ass

Living in a wonderful honeycomb of a city like Manhattan, The Leopard can't help but occasionally witness some strange things.

I was standing outside my office chatting with coworkers one warm summer afternoon last week when we all witnessed what is a fairly familiar sight in these parts: a young woman, possibly homeless, possibly schizophrenic, walking past us at a brisk pace down the sidewalk of our building raving aloud and screaming slurred obscenities. This alone wouldn't have necessarily interrupted our socializing, until, out of the corner of our eyes, this young girl of perhaps 25 to 35 began to strip.

Off went her blouse, which revealed a crisp white bra beneath (not what you'd expect a homeless person to own) and then moments later, while still on a determined path, off went her maroon skirt, under which there was no crisp anything.

The effect of this woman's dark brown bottom in full view,
in the unusually bright sun in the middle of the afternoon, was profoundly disconcerting, even dream-like, in contrast to the fully clothed surrounding hordes of business people, taxis, and tourists. People stopped whatever conversations they were having on their cellphones to gawk or report, and the door man in front of a ritzy hotel where she finally paused to continue her rant almost swallowed his taxi whistle. Parents covered the eyes of children, and traffic almost came to a violent halt.

And all over a natural ass.