Nezu in New York: Walking at Their Pace

New York is remarkably friendly. If it were as unfriendly or even as aloof as its reputation implies, I would in fact be doomed. Just because you guys at home don't see me everyday doesn't mean that I've been any less myself than usual. I have lived here one week, and I have left my phone in a cafe once and my purse hanging wide open twice. Each time, a total stranger will call after me to amend my absent-mindedness. An NYPD K-9 unit called dispatch over his shoulder-walkie to give me the most direct directions to the Resistor, no one minds telling me which Q-train goes to Manhattan and which to Queens, and just generally I haven't felt alone in this city at all.

On the other hand this city is very full of people. If you see a rude/crazy one, ignore them and move on. The Resistors were discussing why southerners perceive them as rude, and we came to this concencus: they do not small talk with strangers. In Texas, when in a line at the grocery or sharing an elevator with you, the opposite is true. One smiles, tips their head, discusses weather or a game. Here, where everyone lives piled up on top of one another, privacy is a commodity. One might be on a subway with thousands of people, but each person already has friends and a place to be. They use those times for quiet, disappearing into the camouflage of the crowd, enjoying a brief moment when they aren't forced to interact. To them, interrupting that is very rude.

Much of my job at Larry's Band is a courier role. I deliver hard drives to other studios or pick up marketing materials from a print shop. Being out on Manhattan's streets through the day is interesting for two reasons. One is that I'm surprised how athletic I'm becoming. Finding the current and pace of this city then matching it is a survival imperative. Stopping or even slowing will result in collision. The other interesting aspect is this city's capacity for the bizarre. The other day I saw a hipster playing bongos in the subway, which barely caught my eye until I realized he had no arms. A woman on the street ran into the middle of a crosswalks, screaming, "Tell me more about the armada! I see by your big, white sails that you must have TINY dicks!" Later, I saw a little person in a wheelchair, dressed in Vietnam Veteran fatigues with a huge, billowing American flag blowing behind him. He had no legs, and ever since I saw him, I can't stop thinking about it. Little people can't serve in the military, can they? Google seems to think they can't.

Time for pictures of my office!