this is what concerns me:

There was a This American Life marathon on television today, I guess to get everyone in the sappy patriotic mood. Now I don’t believe everything Ira touches is gold, but this is… well, just watch it.

I’d finally emerged from my apartment at the crack of 3:30 this afternoon and was making my way up the hill to get lunch when the man in front of me prattling on his cell phone dropped a small wad of dollar bills on the ground. I yelled for him to wait and returned the money. He seemed grateful as he continued his phone call but the man with the sunglasses who’d been walking behind me snorted you’re nice, and it sounded like the most sarcastic thing I’ve heard in weeks. After I’d gotten my food and was returning home, I stopped at a light on Jones and a little Vietnamese girl in a baby pink jacket with white trim pointed at me from across the street and started yelling in a high-pitched voice that I couldn’t understand. A plaid-shirt hipster walked by and sneezed. I said bless you and then I was hit by a car. Well not hit so much as tapped I guess. The little girl thought it was funny. Or at least I think she did.

Last summer I lived in the Lost Boys (and Girls) camp of 206 Classon Avenue, across the street from the well-appointed complex for retired Catholic nuns, and down the block from the Hasidic housing “bldg” and the Pratt art school. I wrote on the history of 206 for the Syncopated 3 anthology, from dairy pasteurization compound to illegal loft (to luxury condos?). While I still think that piece did the place justice, I don’t think it captured some of the subtleties of the 206 petri dish. Subtleties like Rick.

Rick was an ex-ad photographer and current dolly grip for film and television, and a former resident of a small Midwestern town, Venice Beach, Canada, various rehabilitation facilities and the L train. He had an impressive collection of stories that involved a colorful cast of characters including, but not limited to, Ron Jeremy, David Bowie, Katey Sagal of Married with Children; and though nearly 50, he showed no sign of slowing down. I haven’t spoken with Rick in nearly eight months, but here I recount Rick’s Greatest Hits: some of my favorite things he ever said to me and various other roommates. Rated M for Mature.

On Jocelyn’s family complaints: Why don’t you just kill everybody in your family and live like me?

On John acting douchey: I’ll jump on you like a fuckin’ lizard. I’ll never get off your face. [Pause] It’ll be like you stepped on a landmine.

On Stephanie joking that 206 uses resources like a community center: We are a fucking community center.

On me, to Chris: Don’t you wanna just bash her in the head?

On himself, wearing my sunglasses: I remind myself of Jackie O. Don’t I look like Jackie O?

On himself, forever young: The Picture of Rick Morrison. How about me? 48 and I have a zit! Do you have a zit?!

On himself, waiting to get old: I can’t wait to get Alzheimer’s. I can say crazy shit and people will just feel sorry for me.

bedford-stuyvesant, chinese mafia, gentrification?

Man #1: Man, all these stabbings and killings, man.
Man #2: Yeah.
Man #1: But you know, that’s every summer.

–Myrtle & Marcy, Bed-Stuy

i.e. a few blocks down.

This reminded me of the two hits that went down in the ground floor of my building in February. Two Chinese women owned/operated a wholesale grocer for large restaurants and hotels. (I’ve been told the extra rotting food smelled awful, so I’m glad I missed this era, from beginning to bitter end.) They apparently owed money to the Chinese mafia, and were stabbed to death in the late afternoon one day.

So I guess it’s every winter and summer. Go figure.