Puking In The Streets

On the way to work this morning, I saw a handful of guys clustered across from St. Claire’s looking up to no good. There tend to be methadone clinic types in my ‘hood (yes, despite the gentrification!). Well, this particular gaggle of fellas were leering over their shoulders towards one of their friends who was teetering precariously on a standpipe.

Just as I was passing him, just as it registered that, yes, indeed, that whitish puddle at his feet is saliva and snot, he threw up again. Still, once I ascertained that none of it was on my shoes, I had to smile. It’s excruciatingly hot, the air smells like garbage, and guys are puking. It’s officially summer in the city.

The MTV was one meeting after another piling more and more assignments onto my plate. I haven’t even found a minute to call my dentist, or even my super to repair my clogged bathroom sink — I’ve been brushing my teeth in the kitchen! And then it hit: complete meltdown. The entire building suffered an Internet outage. None of us could work, but none of us couldn’t work. Until 6 o’clock, when everything snapped back on. So, instead of meeting with Kevin to hash out the details of my new CD, I was on the 29th floor of the Mighty Viacom Headquarters, pushing pixels until 8 o’clock.

I escaped into the 95 degree evening, hustled to the subway, and hopped the express uptown to see my nephew, Ethan. And, oh yeah, my brother and his wife. I raced the sunset from 72d to 80th, raced up six flights to the rooftop where we watched the sun drop a bright orange ball into New Jersey.

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