CityStories

Yo Tumblr friends-

Remember how I mentioned a second gathering (after that delightful dinner party last winter)?

Well sorry for the late notice but it’s happening today in Prospect Park, 3 pm ish, main lawn. Come out and play!

I’ll have a grill and some food/drinks; bring more to add to the mix. Look for a teal blanket to the right of the main grand army plaza entrance, or message/call/email if you need directions. (if you message and say you’re coming I’ll give you my #)

Feel free to bring friends so you don’t feel like that awkward tumblr person who doesn’t know anyone. You won’t feel like that once you get there, but feel free to bring friends just in case. :)

See you there!

The couple was oblivious to the fact the music had ended. Minutes earlier they had been shaking their hips and rapping along to the famous closing song with everyone else, but when the music ended, they remained in their embrace. They began to kiss, and continued to kiss, with increasing vigor, as the other concert-goers streamed past, occasionally bumping an elbow or kicking the tote bag protected at their feet. They didn’t notice.

A large man, massive rather than heavyset, bald, brown-skinned, pierced, tattooed, approached them, raising both hands in a fist-pump of celebration and screaming in exultation and approval, “Gangsta kissing!!!!”

The pair continued to (gansta) kiss as the woman raised one arm and gave the man a thumb’s up.

“Give me a hug!” he continued.

The kissing couple paused, opening up slightly to allow the man to dive into the center, throwing his beefy arms around the two of them and yelling a satisfied, “Alllll riiiiiight!”

My bike got stolen, which makes me sad. But, as travelers everywhere tell themselves to get through incidents of food poisoning and missed flights, as single girls console themselves during bad dates: the bad isn’t so bad when you can make a story from it.

I haven’t got much of one in this case, but I’m sure some of you do. Post/email/message me with your sob stories of city thievery and I’ll repost so the world can weep with you in your time of loss. And also laugh at your good story. ;)

I only saw the hand that tossed the bottle; the face and body were obscured by a traffic light, or moving pedestrians at the crowded Chinatown intersection. The plastic bottle bounced off the rim of the garbage barrel and plunked down to the street, inches from where I held my bike still, waiting for the light to change. The body attached to the hand moved on, oblivious.

I began to lean over to reach for it when a small, geeky boy in oversized glasses and oversized T-shirt leaped from the sidewalk to the front of the garbage bin and swooped up the bottle.

He noticed me watching up and gawked up at me self-consciously. “Well done,” I said. “I was about to pick it up and throw it away.”

“I’m going to recycle it,” he said, then hopped back onto the sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd.

It’s twilight in my neighborhood, balmy, breeze, fading streaks of sunset. A block party from First Saturday at the Brooklyn Museum spills out over Eastern Parkway and down onto Washington.

I wear a girly dress, complementary jewelry, makeup, sunglasses, headphones. My hair is curled. I carry two large bags. I’m returning from a wedding; my day is done. I want nothing but wine, takeout, Netflix.

I walk down Washington with all the purpose of my typical New York stride, but a bit slower, cooler, taking in the night, the music, the breeze, the smoke from the jerk chicken grilling on the drum outside the Jamaican restaurant.

Groups of men hang out on the sidewalk, going nowhere, doing nothing. They stand on corners all evening long, observing, and occasionally calling out, if the girl is pretty.

One man calls out to me, “Hey mami, you need some help?” It doesn’t seem like an offer to carry my bags. I begin to shake my head to decline as I walk, without breaking stride, without altering my forward stare.

But he answers his own question. “Nah, you don’t need any help.” I switch from shaking my head to nodding, still without breaking stride or altering my gaze. “You have a good evening,” he calls to my back as I pass.

Gold ribbons and names for the American dead.

Blue ribbons for the countless unknown Iraqi and Afghani dead.

Prayers of peace for all.