Back in March I wrote about my debacle with Lee’s Art Shop - and I promised an update after trying out the guy in Brooklyn Heights I’d found on Google.

Well, I’ve had three pictures framed by the guy that runs Daphne Art & Custom Framing, and I plan to use him for every framing project in the future. He’s been extremely helpful and professional, and even waived the extra fee for expediting my most recent order as I came back to him a second time - very generous.

As it turned out, he fitted exactly the same frame, backing, and glass as Lee’s - for half the cost.

154 Montague St
Brooklyn, NY 11201-3535
Phone: (718) 643-0229

There’s little out of “Hollywood” that will stop me in my tracks, but when I heard that Heath fucking Ledger was dead, I must admit, I paused.

The police said Mr. Ledger, 28, was discovered facedown in bed in an apartment at 421 Broome Street in SoHo. Police officials said that a bottle of prescription sleeping pills were found on a nearby night table, but that they did not know whether they played a role in Mr. Ledger’s death.Mr. Ledger, the star of “Brokeback Mountain” and other films, was discovered by a housekeeper and a masseuse, the police said. The housekeeper had been in the apartment for some time before Mr. Ledger’s body was discovered, and she let the masseuse in when she at the apartment for a 3:31 p.m. appointment with Mr. Ledger, the police said. They said they did not know when Mr. Ledger scheduled the appointment.When Mr. Ledger did not respond to a knock on the bedroom door, the housekeeper and the masseuse opened the bedroom and found Mr. Ledger unconscious. They shook him, but he did not respond. They immediately called the authorities and moved Mr. Ledger to the floor, the police said.“There was no indication of a disturbance,” Deputy Police Commissioner Paul J. Browne said. He said officers who checked the apartment found other prescription medications it in the bathroom. He said that there was no sign that Mr. Ledger had been drinking and that no illegal drugs were found in the apartment.

I actually spotted Heath at on Clinton Street a little over a year ago, just after he reportedly moved into his new Brooklyn (Boerum Hill) abode with then girlfriend Michelle Willams.This is one of those times I am left scratching my head. Sad loss, for everyone.

Mr. Ledger told The Times last November that his favorite thing to do was hang out at home with his daughter. Leaving her for work, he said, was “kind of like your body has a lump in his throat.”

Heath leaves behind also his daughter Matilda.

[great night at my favorite Brazilian restaurant with my favorite human being]

…before tonight I never really understood what “fuck you” actually felt like.

Taking the 5 express downtown from Grand Central to Fulton Street is always an easy task - no real chore, it’s quite direct, eventless. I take this route quite often during the week, journeying home from a night with my beau - piece of cake.

I walk down the two flights of steps which take me to the Broadway/Nassau platform which is home to the A/C train - busy, to say the least. A larger commuter hub. This is the place where the Brooklyn crowd split off like a broken vein into the pounding heart that is Manhattan - and it’s no different in terms of going back into the southern borough at the end of the day either.

I normally walk the entire length - the length of the platform/train - at least I can get a standing place/seat closer to the front-most part of the train. Tonight I followed habit, walking the entire length of the platform, and coming to a stop at one of the support struts that dot the length of the station. I lean up against one, and decide that listening to some Michael Jackson may be a decent enough way to live through the next 15-20 minutes of waiting/subway riding.

I pull out my iPod and I’m scrolling through and….

[BAM!]

…my hand is knocked with a force that I’m glad that my iPod is attached to my ears by way of earphones - otherwise the fucking thing was flying out of my hands. After the initial mental “what the fuck”, I eye the [yellow] blur that followed the blatant shoulder barge, and noticed with remarkable raising of eyebrow that the cunt never looked back… not even to apologize.

Welcome to being “fuck you’d”.

My brother will attest to what I’m about to say… knock me, nudge me, no problem - just say you’re sorry… if you don’t, I’m fucking killing you. And I don’t care if it’s in public.

[sigh]

So after my blood boiling level fell to below normal, I analyzed what happened and came up with numerous fucking ways why I shouldn’t follow this prick and cave in his skull for just barging by me with such lack a of human dignity to warrant a “sorry”… I couldn’t come up with anything. I wanted to wind the earphones around my iPod, sling the thing in my bag, follow this wanker, to a public (as public as he pushed me) place and pound the shit out of this motherfucker until I felt better, entitled, suckling on the teat of victory.

Out of nowhere I gained a sense of serenity. I must have left my music running… I didn’t wind the earphones around my iPod… I didn’t follow him into violent oblivion… no suckling.

I realized how beautiful this city is, how original - the people, splendid. The sporadic events that intertwine our lives with the slightest of touches, and the heaviest of pushes. Without the slightest thought, this guy had become part of of my life whether he liked it or not.

It’s with the most fragile of changes in the innermost sanctity of breaths of experience, do we truly experience the truest sense of what is New York City.

The following song was playing when I was pushed.

Apt.

Picture this: your bus stops at the corner of 164th Street and Hillside Avenue in Queens and an elderly lady carrying a walking cane slowly crawls aboard. Right next to the doors is a kid sitting in one of those priority seats, supposedly meant to assist the lesser-abled riders the chance to sit closer to the exit. The kid doesn’t stand up, leaving the elderly woman to stand there, god knows how painful it is for her to stand… what do you do? Lay into them with the closest thing at hand, of course.

That’s what Larry Woods the bus driver did, and now he’s facing jail time for assault.

A Queens bus driver smashed a passenger over the head with a phone when he refused to give up his handicap seat to an elderly woman, police said yesterday.

The bus driver, Larry Woods, 44, and the allegedly inconsiderate rider, Christian Custis, 22, were both arrested and charged with assault after a brawl erupted over the seat on the Q43 bus in Jamaica.

Police said the fight began when Woods asked Custis to give up his seat to the frail woman with a cane who boarded at Hillside Avenue and 164th Street at 11:16 a.m. Friday.

Things turned ugly when Custis, who is not disabled, refused to relinquish his spot, cops said.

Woods then clobbered Custis in the head with the bus’ onboard phone as stunned passengers looked on, police said.

The pair was taken to Mary Immaculate Hospital, where they were treated for minor injuries, before being hauled into the 103rd Precinct station house.

Custis and Woods were both arraigned in Queens Criminal Court yesterday on assault and harassment charges and released. Woods was also charged with one count of criminal possession of a weapon: the phone.

Custis’ older brother, Anthony, said his sibling was not normally hotheaded. “I don’t think he started the fight. It’s not in his nature to do so,” he said.

“Possession of a weapon!” - good grief. Look, I don’t condone acts of violence, but seriously, I think I would have done something myself… I see this happen on the C train all the time, and nobody says anything, except for me. I know, I’m probably going to get myself shot or stabbed one day for mouthing off to some respectless little prick with a blade.

These young twats nowadays have no class, and little respect for our elderly.

With 66 HDBs (hot dogs and buns) eaten in 12 minutes, Joey Chestnut was crowned the new World Hot Dog Easting Champion on July 4th, in front of a screaming Coney Island crowd. He inhaled his way through 1 hot dog every 10.9 seconds on average, stealing the crown from Takeru Kobayashi, the once 6-time champ.

I think I can scoff through about 4, then I’m done.

This morning’s commute was without doubt the fucking funniest I’ve had to date, period. Firstly, I get a seat on the C train - talk about winning the lottery.I sat at the left-hand end of a train car, across from the conductor compartment - one of those 2-seater ass buckets, you get my drift. Across from me sat the epitome of OCD… allow my retort… homeless (evidently presented due to the scruffy attire, 3 bags full of torn-off-posters and other oddities) and fucking nuts - the guy goes into this entire “god loves his children” shit reading off the back off some MTA (no C train this weekend) flyers that he’d written his speeches on - so loud I could hear him through my own blaring music, and my Er6i’s. Mesmerized by this, I couldn’t help but watch him delve deep into his multiple bags and pull out 2 different pairs of sunglasses and 4 different hats. All of them were worn, and in an array of presentation, as if one were in Sunglasses & Hat Hut checking out the latest fashions. Jesus, I live in a fucking nut house.

I think I was about as far as Jay Street, and out of my periphery I sense a “shape” moving toward me.

[tangent]

If you’ve ridden the New York City subway, you’ll know that a 2-seater doesn’t actually sit 2 people - especially when one of the parties is, how should I put it, fat.

[back on topic]

Here she comes - has to be about 250lbs - ass - that’s all I saw - her ass, eye-level with me, moving my way. She SQUEEZES in next to me, squashing my winter coat, smushing it against my body, creating folds against both me and the seat I was sat on. First thought was, of course, “for fuck’s sake, what the fuck are you doing!”, yet I remained mute. She “sits”, and tries to hook her left leg over her right, to allow her more room to occupy the seat she took, and it just doesn’t work - her leg sliding off, twice. Here’s the funny part… she stands up - well, pulls herself out of the seat, stands up, turns around and looks at me and gives me the dirtiest look ever! Like it’s my fault her arse is bigger than a fucking television. Awesome, ironic, idiocy.

So the office was nuts as usual - the coworker with the farting problem is back on top form - big time, which brings forth hilarity, not a bad thing - I swear though, if I ever smell one of those pant cabbages, I will have to lose my shit entirely.

I’m surfing the net as I usually do, and I come across the coolest thing I’ve seen in a LOOOOONG time - a wedding, a video, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” playing… you know what comes next… yes, YES, the bloody entire wedding group do the Thriller dance, and it just brings my day back to some level of normality, and all is good in the world.

God I love this City, I do - I really do.

If you’re ever in the vicinity of Vanderbilt and Park Place in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, be sure to check out Muddy Waters - it’s right on the corner, look for the blue awning.

Due to the free (and fast) wi-fi available at this joint, I can write about this right away. The coffee is freshly ground on the premises, the bagel choices are aplenty, and they have a kick ass ham bagel that comes with cucumber, mayo and other delicious accoutrements (pic above). All this tastefully inspired fayre comes with some pretty sweet tunes playing - 80’s remixes, deep house (I actually got to hear Plastic Dreams by Jaydee), to mellow R&B, not too loud, but enough to hear over the occasional grinding of the coffee bean.

If you’re ever in the area, Muddy Waters is well worth checking out.

Saturday morning - dog walk through the streets of Prospect Heights, and a visit to my regular weekend breakfast place (when I’m dog sitting of course), Little Miss Muffin. Same as usual. A large cup of Hazelnut coffee with sugar and half and half. The chocolate muffin was screaming out at me again, and sitting right alongside was its apple counterpart - it would have been rude to not have gotten the apple one too. Check out all that chocolate filling oozing out - how could you NOT go and get one of these?

Scrummy.

So I’m coming out of the Chinese takeaway on Flatbush and Park Place, and about to cross the Flatbush race track, when I notice to my right, David Rasche. If you’re an 80’s kid like myself, you’ll remember him in Sledgehammer - the ultimate retro crime show - I lived on that program. And here he was, donning a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, looking, may I say, great. I turned to him and said “David?” (not remembering his last name right away), and he grinned - he obviously thought I knew him… I introduced myself, told him I was sorry for bothering him (as we all know the “stars” hear it all the time) and reached out to shake his hand. The man reciprocated. Awesome.

Anyway, that’s my wee story in this mellow ‘hood of Brooklyn - David Rasche’s a neighbor.

Random - I fucking love it.

Not many things make it into the blog, but these past 48 hours take the fucking biscuit - so here’s my story.

Wednesday, I’m on my way home in a cab from Manhattan, get dropped off at the corner of Washington and Fulton, grab some fried chicken from Crown Chicken and head home. I hit the sack and wake the next morning, excited that I can add yet another converted movie to my new iPod video - which I acquired 2 weeks prior. I couldn’t find it. Not in my bag. Not under my bed, where perhaps a book has slipped out of my hands before as I pay a visit to the land of nod. Nowhere. I turn my room upside down, hunting through the entire flat in search of my 2-week old iPod. Nothing. Pissed off would be like saying the Great Wall of China’s quite old. I go to work fuming, not knowing what the fuck happened to my new toy. Through the morning I try and think what I did the night before. Did I leave it in the cab? No, I didn’t remove it from my bag. Was I pickpocketed? Possibly. I remember someone brushing behind me while I was paying for my chicken. Mother fucker.

So, yesterday lunchtime I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ve been robbed, and my $249 piece of heaven is in some skeevy fucker’s mitts, and in walks a coworker with a blood soaked compress on her head. As it transpired, she’d fallen in the bathroom at home, cracked her noggin on the bath tub, waited til the bleeding had stopped, then traipsed all the way into the office. And here she was, in need of obvious medical attention, due to the grand canyon sized gash in her turnip. I insisted we call for an ambulance, and they promptly responded within 10 minutes. So I’m sat in the back of a Lennox Hill ambulance at around 1pm, on my way to Cornell Medical Center on 68th and York, iPod-less and babysitting my blood encrusted office mate. You couldn’t make this shit up.

Five hours later, and 4 episodes of some forensic/cop show, we leave - she with 3 stitches in the back of her mellon, and a sore arse cheek from the mandatory tetanus shot. I see her to the nearest bus stop, and make my way to the Apple Store to buy another iPod. All’s well - I pick it up, take the N to the Q, get out at 7th Avenue in Prospect Heights, and take Vanderbilt to Fort Green - stopping at the Golden Arches for a Big Mac and Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Excited to transfer all my songs and movies to my new ‘Pod, I connect the little bugger, and start dragging and dropping. About half way through, iTunes decides to throw a spaz and tell me that it doesn’t recognize my iPod. For fuck’s sake, FUCK ME! I try restoring (which of course means I lose all the songs I just uploaded, but what the hell) and again, it freezes. My little black shit shuts down, and tries to reboot… and tries to reboot… and tries to reboot… you get the idea. My 2nd iPod was now about as useful to me as Christmas is to a Jew. At this point I’m all angered out, so I put everything back in the original packaging, planning on returning it to the Apple Store this morning…

…which is exactly what I did. Today seems to be dealing me a better hand, as I didn’t even have to ask for a replacement - they just took one look at the frozen iPod screen and gave me a spanking new 30GB video.

Anyway, happy Friday. May the next 48 hours have my blood pressure somewhere below 180.

I’ve just had the best chocolate croissant I have ever tasted. Accompanied by a sweet cup of hazelnut coffee, it was just what the doctor orderd on this shit covered clouded sky of a morning.

If you’re a fan of the chocolate, and of the croissant, head over to Little Miss Muffin on Park Place and Carlton, Prospect Heights.

They bake their goods fresh on the premises in an oven so small it belongs in a child’s play house. Their Jamaican patties are kick ass too.

So I decided to stop off at the McDonald’s drive thru on Atlantic Avenue on my way to work this morning, and order a #2 meal with coffee (that’s a Sausage and Egg McMuffin)… around I go to the pick up window, take my bag of greasy nosh and park up in their lot. To my dismay, they’d given me a cup of hot water and a tea bag, so I decide to take it to the counter inside the restaurant and ask them to change it for the coffee I’d asked for. They apologised for the mix up, and advised that they’d also given me the wrong food, and handed me another bag of breakfast fayre with my true order inside… they didn’t ask for the 1st bag back - bonus.

So I walk back to the car, sit down and proceed to tuck into my breakfast sandwich and sip on my (surprisingly great) coffee, when I notice a homeless guy pacing between the stationary cars at the traffic lights on Atlantic and Vanderbilt with a cup begging for spare change…

[tangent]

[I don't like giving change to the homeless, don't ask me why, I just don't - I'd rather give them a hot cup of tea, or some food]

…so here I am with an extra bag of free food - I honked the horn to get the guy’s attention, and waved him over to my car. I wound down the window and handed him the bag, explaining that McDonald’s had made an error with my order (I don’t know why I said that, it didn’t make any difference to him how I got the food)… I have to tell you, the smile that beamed on his face pounded on my heart - to see a guy that had probably been walking up and down that small stretch of busy rush-hour blacktop all morning, was more than likely starving. He proceeded to thank me while walking away, clutching the bag of breakfast food like Indiana Jones would hold an ancient artifact, and turned back at least half a dozen times to wave and smile at me…

McDonald’s, thank you for hiring the fucking retarded - you made a homeless guy’s day that more tolerable.

I’m not sure if I mentioned the zoo animals we had living upstairs, so I’ll fill you in… quickly… 3 kids, all under 12, and I’m sure they were convinced that their apartment was a fucking playground - myself and my roommate complained numerous times to both the landlord, and the shits living above us. They’d yell “fuck you!” through their door whenever we’d politely ask them to keeep the noise down - that’ll give you an idea of their neighborly acumen. After months of enduring what was the most obnoxious noise levels, they’re out!

They moved out today, left their apartment in shambles, and as I came home this morning with coffee in hand, I noticed a removal truck parked outside. Walking up to my apartment, the stairs were littered with papers, scraps of wood framing and general trash. They left their place in a royal mess, and left the landlord and his nephews to clean up. Fucking animals, I can’t tell you how happy I am now that they’ve gone - I can sit here, and actually hear my fingers clicking on the keys as I type, for once.

Also in the news today, we got CABLE BABY! Yes, Britblogger has been without any form of cable television programming since June 2005, until now. Kiss goodbye to the snowy picture quality of channels 2 through 11 - say hello to crystal clear shows spanning almost 1,000!

Moreover, the weather today here in New York is gorgeous - I may get a chance to ride my bike, which sadly, has gathered a rather noticable layer of dust - how embarrassing.

Of course, I was out last night celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, yet I fear today could see some encore action in the ‘cohol department!

Can I get an amen, biatch! Today’s a great day for the Britblogger.

I have absolutely no idea why this popped into my head just now, but I got thinking about this guy that used to walk (let me repeat that… WALK) up and down West 9th Street in Red Hook, the other side of the BQE, with a wheelchair… pushing it, not sat it in… but pushing it, like a stroller. Brooklyn’s weird enough, so I thought nothing of it… that was until I was home one weekend, it was the middle of Summer so the windows were open - and lo and behold, the local drunk was sat on our doorstep as usual and this guy came walking up West 9th with his wheelchair. He proceeded to try and “woo” this drunk bitch on my step by offering money for sex…

[clincher]

…he then went into his scam, in full detail, obviously in an attempt to impress his stale smelling female friend… he explained to her that he could earn $5 in 30 minutes by begging for spare change whilst sat in this wheelchair, panhandling on the corner of West 9th Street and Hamilton (the stretch of road that runs alongside, and underneath, the BQE). I actually saw him a couple of times reaching his hand out to unsuspecting drivers stopped at the red light on that corner.

So, if you see this fucking con artist on the streets of Red Hook, and he asks you for change, remember, he’s pulling off a very good impression of Eddie Murphy in Trading Places… he DOES have legs, and yes, they do fucking work.

I was dying for a late night snack after hanging out with a friend on Saturday night, and as I was walking down Vanderbilt on my way home anyway, I fancied partaking in some McDonald’s fayre (corner of Vanderbilt and Atlantic Avenue).

To my glee I saw the lights on, the brightly lit ‘golden arches’, and here I was, 20 feet away…

[pulls on door]

They were closed to walk in customers? Forsooth, this cannot be! As it turns out, it was to be - these sheisters have opted to keep their drive-thru window open 24 hours, but closed off to any foot traffic. So, deftly done, I scarper around the back to order my food from the drive-thru window… nobody there… I walk to the menu with the built-in speaker, nothing for me to press to gain their attention… I walk back to the window again, and this time I spot some headset-toting fella talking to someone in the restaurant. I decided to knock on the window…

[note to those compelled to knock on that glass window at the drive-thru]

Don’t. It’s about 3 inches thick, probably bulletproof - which would make sense them not wanting to have the front doors open through the night - much safer having a 3 inch thick bulletproof barrier between you and the hungry masses of Clinton Hill. So there I was knocking and knocking… the occupants not hearing a thing, completely devoid of my presence, and the rumblings of my empty tum.

[bollocks!]

Summary: if it’s after 11pm and you don’t have a car, forget McDonald’s - you’ll be shit out of luck. Try the King Chicken place on Fulton between Washington and St. James Place - open all night, and no sign of drive-thru-ism.

Many of you know that I moved to Fort Green a little over a month ago, and I’ve had an enjoyable time experiencing new bars, restaurants and the many new amenities on offer in my new neck of the Brooklyn woods.

Last night I was walking back from Prospect Heights and decided to stop on my way home at this very cute wine store, Olivino. Olivino is located on Fulton Street between Vanderbilt & Clinton Avenues and has an almost “wine cellar” feel to it, with the left and right-hand walls laden with a huge selection of wines from all over the world - a center aisle dons a similar style, again host to bottle upon bottles of loosely stacked wine.

Prices… very reasonable indeed - I ended up paying $16.99 for a great bottle of Pinot Noir.

The staff is minimal, one very friendly lady who’s always smiling, and indeed attentive - she also didn’t mind me taking a picture of her dog above…

[great segue]

Olivino is named after one of its residents, Olive, the Pug [pictured above]. I remember the first time I visited Olivino about 2 weeks ago, and glimpsed sight of Olive, not realizing she was a permanent fixture of the store. I overheard another patron talking to the owner about the pooch and swiftly determined that Olive was the reason behind the store’s name. Last night she came running at me from her starting point, which is a circular bed behind the counter at the back… like a raging bull, tail wagging, nose snorting, right at me! Olive’s a SUPER friendly dog, and makes a perfect talking point for the store.

If you’re ever in the vicinity, pay them a visit and pick up some grape juice… and give Olive a pet.

I woke up this morning to a gloriously sunny day. Up until about a month ago it was still in the 80’s and quite humid - not any more, out come the big woolen sweaters, gloves and long coats ‘cos it’s nippy out. It’s 1:00pm and the clocks went back an hour this morning at 2am - nice to have another hour in bed.

The sun’s shining and I’m sat indoors adding to my ramblings when clearly I should be out doing something productive. Cycling, for example - perfect weather for getting a few miles in over at Prospect Park. I did most of my laundry on Thursday night, but I could always throw my bed linens in for a round of suds… wouldn’t hurt.

[what to do, what to do]

Fuck it, I’m going to get some miles in on the old Cannondale - then I’ll call ‘C’ and see what time she’d like to hang out… she moved into a new apartment on Carlton on Friday, not sure of the cross street, but it’s about 12 blocks from me, closer to Flatbush Avenue - the irony.

today is the day of the Tunnel to Towers run, held here in New York to commerorate the life and indeed bravery of Stephen Siller - one of our beloved firefighters that perished on September 11th 2001. Runners start at the Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and make their way into Manhattan, tracing the steps of Stephen on the morning of 9/11 - an excerpt from www.fortheloveoftheirbrother.com - the official site dedicated to Stephen, and the television documentary hosted by John Tuturro:

For the Love Of Their Brother is a heart-warming documentary on the struggles and triumphs of the Siller family after the death of their brother, Stephen Siller, a New York Firefighter whose life was cut short on September 11th. Stephen Siller was on his way home to Staten Island from work when he heard the call on his scanner that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers. Stephen turned his truck and drove toward the mouth of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel which was blocked by abandoned vehicles .Unable to drive anymore, Stephen donned 75 pounds of fire gear and ran the mile and a half through the Tunnel. He reached the second Tower just minutes before it collapsed. Stephen, who was orphaned at the age of ten and raised by his brothers and sisters, left behind a wife and five children. His story has become legend in the newsrooms and firehouses of New York.A remarkable day of reflection on what can only be described as a commemoration of one of New York City’s bravest - heroes like Stephen Siller opitomize the term ‘bravest’.

since moving into my new abode, here in the heart of brooklyn, I have come to the very recent conclusion that I live in a district of religious warmth, a community rife with compassion, forgiveness, and a profound love for humanity. I sit here as I type away, sporadically adding to the megabytes already stored by the thousands of servers at blogger.com HQs, and listen to the harmonious singing of people praising to a lord that protected those that lived through the terrible events of the gulf coast this week. indeed, they’re singing praise to god. I can’t quite make out all the words, but the commercial quality of the harmony, and the distinct sincerity in my neighbors’ voices, brings me to a place I seldom have the opportunity to visit.

I can’t quite pull myself away from the affecting emotion that these words tonight, hold special meaning to those lost, those that perished, and those that are without doubt, going through one of this world’s worst nightmares.

morose verbose

for those of you that have visited this site [between visits to the lavatory], you will have indeed gleaned, to an extent, that I tend to have the sporadicity of a grade-A, ADHD patient… on speed, and appropriate medication.

which leads me to the following tale…

so I’m sat in my back garden this evening with a close friend (it’s Red Hook, any outdoor space that isn’t pavement, is garden) and my new found acquaintance Ray shows up, after parking his car outside my humble abode - as he usually does after work. I stand and walk over to our “spike-tipped” fence (which I hate, feels like I’m in protective custody) and shove my hand through one of the many holes in the gauze-like “keep the cat from escaping” fabric, to shake his hand. we exchange our usual pleasantries and he proceeds to introduce me to his business partner, Jamal.

I had the pleasure of first meeting Ray about 4 weeks ago, where he proceeded to afford me the gift of knowing what he does for a living - he was a brand spankingly new real estate broker. buying and selling. Ray is a big guy, shaved head, friendly face, owns such an eloquence that is apparently sparse around these parts, and a heart as big as his being. he typifies the elements of what I love about living in this neighborhood.

so there I am, meeting Ray’s partner for the first time, Jamal. very nice guy - good looking guy - and as it happens, a brand new father to a gorgeous new daughter. I congratulate him on his new addition to the family, to which we continue to discuss their crazy Sunday, reveling at what the real estate world has to offer these two decent, hard working men. we stand there, like old war soldiers talking about life, how sweet it is, and how the future has so much to offer those that make the right decisions. or at least those that have an idea, and have the sack to follow through.

I told Ray that I was due to move out of my current habitat next weekend, to which he responds with something I was not expecting. “if you’d like to, you’re very welcome to come and spend time with my family and me and barbeque, any time”. let me start by saying that I accepted without even getting to my next heartbeat. completely flattered that this guy, whom I’d known for about a month, is inviting me to spend quality time with him and his. to say that I thanked him for his kind generosity and kindness is an understatement, and I am very much looking forward to coming back to Red Hook and flipping those sizzling burgers and dogs with Ray; kind Ray, who has an unfailing familiarity with humanity and what it means to be normal.

onto my point in writing this.

if you’ve read my other entry here about the “invalid coach”, you will understand that I sometimes have the compulsion to word play. again, I’m at it.

when I moved here almost 4 years ago, it become very apparent early on in my new york tenure, there is a definitive level of segregatation throughout the city (and let’s not forget, the country) - black, hispanic, asian, white… you get the picture. throughout my time here, I have been a loose member of the white collar social circle, befriending people that are only interested in three things when they meet me:

• where do you live?
• what do you do?
• what do drive?

… to which I have one answer… what the fuck does that have to do with you?!

since I moved, to say, a lesser affluent ‘hood, not once, I repeat, not ONCE, have been asked those pointless, class-defining questions. this, my friends, leads to my summation of this post… I used to hear a lot of discussion about “their kind”… from right-wing fascists with no clue about life but their daddy’s silver spoon to my own father-in-law who probably hasn’t seen an african american in his own streets of Arizona.

my take?

“they’re kind”.

so say hello to your fellow neighbor, regardless of diction voracity, regardless of music preference… regardless of color… say hello - you pretend-upper-class vermin.

I love anyone that extends a hand to me - and so should you, remember that.