Stamps of Approval

Mayor Bloomberg was responsible for a home-cooked meal last night, or maybe it was Barack. A group of young Mormons have applied and qualified for New York state food stamps. The stamps are not a necessity but instead provide weekly dinner parties. Next week is filet mignon.

Government funded private parties.

A Queens native, Catholic police officer attended the first installment of the food stamp parties. He sensed a curious audience and began story time, one after another. His Mormon crowd laughed, gasped, and beckoned him for more. Many wanted to know which neighborhood was the most dangerous, to which he said, “Where you live, Bro, [East Harlem] that’s rough. I chased down a man the other day. I had to full on football tackle the guy.” His thick accent, large eyes, and curse words captivated the audience.

An alien cop in a Mormon zoo.

He was different. The onlookers stared at the alien creature. He must have sensed the eyes trying to convert him. He leaned over in one man’s direction and quietly said, “Nobody likes cops, you know. But I’m no different than you guys. When I’m off duty and out of uniform, you know, I break laws just like you. I illegally park, litter, and whatever just like anybody, you know.” Post confession, he politely excused himself from the party.

Romans 8:21

My Comic Book

He enjoys simple things. He spots some sneakers at an underground shoe store in NYC. His size is missing. He searches all night and the next day for the shoes. Even Chinatown disappoints. Instead, he finds a pair he’s wanted for months. He once lost a heated eBay auction for this very shoe. He barters with the salesman and comes home all smiles. He enjoys simple things.

She loves red potatoes. An Idaho girl at heart, she found them at Crepes on Columbus, a restaurant discovered by the shoe hunter. She was ill afterward. The potatoes found a way to escape. She wants to return. She loves red potatoes.

This morning I woke up at 7:34 to Ole by Bouncing Souls. It’s an annoying, sentimental song. On an average day, I come home alone, retrieve the mail, check in with the red potato girl, and observe Jerry and friends in a make-believe Manhattan. I retire to bed and sleep in my island. Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7:34 to Ole by Bouncing Souls.

Souls bounce in and out of our lives. The ones that are there every morning, the ones that don’t do anything really magnificent, the ones like Shoe Hunter and Red Potato Girl … these souls are the superheroes of life.

The Apollo Creed

New York is a quaint place. Terms and phrases are coined and used here like no place else. For example, no employees exist in New York, only “professionals.” Lawyers, grocery clerks, executives, marketers, street vendors, and mobile phone salesmen all fall under this “professional” umbrella.

I work in the corporate world. Truth be told, I don’t actually work much, but I put in my time. I mix and mingle with “professionals” in and out of work everyday. To get away from the professional world, I take a 15 minute walk from my apartment to see amateurs perform in the world famous Apollo Theater.

I’ve lived in Manhattan for nearly a year now. The Apollo is the only place I insist people visit. It has soul, character, and heart. It is where people from all walks of life gather to cheer (or boo) aspiring stars. Last night my friend and I booed five acts right off the stage.

We walked home through Marcus Garvey Park in the warm, light rain. We made deliberate steps to avoid smudging our sneakers. It was an unusually quiet night. I noticed only one homely man in the park. Neither he nor we were under an umbrella. Though, underneath my sticky t-shirt, it was just quiet enough to feel the respect of Harlem beating in my chest.

Yankee Doodle

The Yankees played the Rangers last night. I was there. I sat in the bleachers in left field. There were two old men sitting in front of my friend and me. Each time a ball was hit well into the air, one old man screamed, "Popcorn." The popcorn man wore braces on each wrist. One brace wore a golden watch. We left our seats to purchase a memento, and, of course, we missed a homerun hit in our direction.

After we watched 7 innings, the Rangers led 10-5. We decided to leave the game early to avoid the crowd. After we emerged from an elevator to the elevated subway platform (most people use the stairs), we waited impatiently in the heat and humidity of The Bronx. The green line in New York (4,5,6 trains) had been running slow for the past week or so. This night was no exception.

Two feminine men sitting below me on the train spoke freely about their tennis match prior that day. One was reminiscing about winning most of his service games. The other tennis player looked at his watch as he wondered out loud how long their three sets took to complete.

Another man stood behind me and stuck his hind into my lower back several times as we approached our stop, 125th Street. He and his party were estimating their approximate time of arrival to a hotel in midtown. He lifted his arm to check the time. His sweaty hind once again caressed my lower back.

We arrived to my apartment in East Harlem. I undressed, readied myself for bed, and ate some ice cream. My friend did the same. The ice cream was cold. I enjoyed the game and wondered about the final score. The TV turned on and the Rangers led 10-7. It was the bottom of the 9th, the bases were loaded, and there were no outs. The Yankees still managed to lose.

More important to me, I reaffirmed a theory I've longtime held: Time does not stand still. In fact, it pops up and screams popcorn, it hits homeruns when no one is watching, and it serves the past. Sometimes, if you're very lucky, it will caress your back.