Sunday, September 25, 2005

I'm at a street fair in little italy. It stretches to the horizon in either direction on skinny mulberry street, under festive arcs of colored light. There are fried oreos here, and drunk people bearing large stuffed animals. The sounds of the carnies flitter and play
underneath the incessant reggaeton that blares from every speaker.

I stumbled upon this dream wandering away from CBGB, the most famous punk club in nyc that is about to close its doors forever. My ears
are stinging from the atonal yells of girls dressed like boys who wish they were tough enough to hurt other boys as much as the girls
have hurt them. A fat man, clearly an extra from the Sopranos, yells "paisan!" at a skinny Italian boy with spiky hair who is gagging on some dessert that rhymes with cannoli while his waifish girlfriend looks on, holding a videocamera, all sparkling midriff and lip gloss.

I feel pleasantly invisible, buoyed on a sea of Friday night alcohol by the smells of Manhattan.

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