WAITING ON AN "N" TRAIN

Morning commute at the 36th Avenue Station Stop in Queens. 7:00 am. Humid as all hell. Waiting on an N Train. The N Train. Sinus headache and the smell of Windex and nicotine on my fingers. Can’t seem to get rid of it. Another day of cleaning some rich bastard’s apartment. Again. Is this it? Is this as far as I’m going to go in life? Beggars can’t be choosers though. It’s not such a bad gig after all. A few hours work and I’m out the door with cash enough to make it through the next day or two. Today’s job on the Upper West Side. Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” on my Walkman. “Hallelujah”. How in the hell’d he do it? I press my way into the mass of flesh that becomes one with the greasy metal interior of the train. A tantalizingly tender scent rising up from the nape of the neck of the girl standing next to me. Lovely Latina Lady. If only she were with me I’d have it made. “Dream Brother”. Queensboro Plaza. Train stalled out for what seems like an eternity. Sure hope she doesn’t get off the train. She’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane at the moment. I think I need to quit drinking. I know I need to quit drinking. Why can’t I quit drinking? Damn. She’s getting off. Salvation passes me by yet again. Free spot by the door. Quick. Take it before somebody else does. The subway shuffle is a pain in the ass I tell ya’. Why can’t I just stay in the same spot until I reach my stop? Why do I have to move all over the train as we reach each new station? Train’s moving. Good. There she is standing on the opposite side of the platform. Waiting for the 7 Train. Probably going to work in Woodside, or Sunnyside maybe. Who knows. It doesn’t matter I’ll never see her again. Even if we lived next door to one another. That’s how messed up this city is. And yet I’ll see other people visiting from across the other side of the country. I don’t get it. Descending under the East River. How many times I’ve done this over the course of the past couple of years is anyone’s guess. Not that anyone would guess, let alone care to. I wonder if it’s possible to age ten years in two years time? God, I sure hope I don’t end up living here for ten years. Cream-colored coffee running along the silver floorboards of the train. Dunkin’ Donuts & The Daily News. I’ll take Dunkin’ Donuts. Fuck The Daily News, you can have it. Nothing “Daily” about “The Daily News”. Same shit every day, they just rearrange the words and pictures. Don’t know how in the hell I got here. I think it had something to do with her but seeing as she’s gone I can’t verify it one way or the other. Whatever the case, it appears there’s no way out and save an act of Providence I may well remain here for the duration. Born in San Diego died in Queens. Speaking of death I think I’m dying of some sort of wasting disease. Tingling sensations all over my backside like a hundred thousand ants crawling all over me. Extreme fatigue. Diarrhea. Muscle cramps. Yep. Wasting disease. I’m sure of it. They’re closing down all the strip clubs in Times Square. Big deal. Strip clubs are a joke. Use your imagination for cryin’ out loud. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper and you don’t fear nearly as lousy about it when it’s over. Who the hell are all these people? All I ever wanted was to be somebody. I don’t care now, though. It’s hard enough being nobody in particular without all the pressure that goes along with being somebody. Just give me a regular stipend, send me off to some remote wilderness area with plenty of food and I’ll be fine. Oh and if you don’t mind send that Lovely Latina LadyLady out every now and then so I don’t go entirely insane. Wow, I didn’t even realize the train just stopped. It always stops under the East River. Guess I’ve gotten used to it. Maybe I already have. Maybe she and I are laying next to one another at this very moment, out in that remote wilderness they sent me to. She’s wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt with short sleeves and frills and a drawstring neckline. It goes down to her thighs when she’s standing upright, but at this moment it’s riding up over her waist. We’re tight up against one another our legs entwined, she fast asleep and me there running my fingers through her dark brown tresses, tucking it gently behind her ear. Ah. New York was nothing but a nightmare after all. Suddenly I hear the heavy creak of steel wheels as though somebody were pulling the bed away from the wall. Ah, hell. Could you just give us five more minutes? That’s all I ask. Five more minutes? I bolt upright eyes wide open to find that New York wasn’t a nightmare after all. I’m still there, but she’s not. Something seems to have broken loose in my head and my temples begin to throb. An aneurysm perhaps? Excess mucus, maybe? Who knows. Nobody. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. Feels like I’ve been on the wrong side of life, trying in vain and dying to make my way across to the other side. Here we are at Lex. Lexington Avenue. Junction of the 4, 5, 6 and the R Train. Take the tunnel up to 59^th for the Q. Train’s moving along now. No rhyme or reason to any of it. Don’t understand how the subway system works. How in the hell they coordinate it all. Thank God I’m not in charge, I’d really make a mess of things. Something large and yellow taking up the bulk of the periphery on my right. I take a glance. Holy shit. It’s Tom Brokaw. What the hell’s he doing here? For a moment I feel as though I may well have happened upon the man who has “The Answers”. “So Tom, what’s the inside scoop? Have you got any hot news tips? Is this all just one horrible joke? Is The Director going to say ‘Cut’ and relieve us of any further burden so that we can all just be ourselves for a change? Huh, Tom? What’dya' say? Tom? Tom?” Tome hasn’t got a clue the line of inquiry I’ve just posed him with. That’s the great and terrible thing about thought, you can be standing right next to somebody and they won’t have the foggiest idea just what in the world it is that’s going through your head. It’s a strange thing, thought. I haven’t much use for it, but I use it nonetheless, or it uses me rather. 5^th Avenue. Tom gets off. Important interview with Arafat probably. Or the pope. Or the rich bastard whose apartment I’ll be cleaning in short order. Up next West 57^th. An empty seat right next to me. To hell with it I’ll stand. Just close my eyes and ride it out. No sense in sitting down for sixty or so seconds only to stand again. I wonder if Tom Brokaw feels the same on the way to work as I feel on the way to work? I don’t think so. I wonder if he’d feel the same on his way to clean an apartment as I feel on my way to clean an apartment? Probably not. I wonder if I’d feel the same as way in preparing to deliver the evening news as Tom feels preparing to delivery the evening news? It’s highly unlikely. “Times Square, 42^nd Street Stop, let ‘em off, let ‘em off!!!” Holy shit, how’d I miss 57^th Street? Did the train even stop at 57^th Street? Alright, alright, get off the train. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. Why in the world folks waiting for the train have to stand in front of the doors as it comes to a stop is beyond me. It’s as though we’re all unconscious, just brain dead stumbling from one place to the next reaching out blindly into the darkness with the hope that a few filthy buckskins might land in our grubby little hands. Yeah that’s nice, there you go, get on the train as people are trying to get off, brilliant. Nice guys finish last. Fuck the Dalai Lama. You’re not nice you’re just lazy. No, you’re not lazy, you’re just chicken shit. Just be an animal for Chris’ sake, do like all the rest. Care and concern for other human beings, you’ve gotta’ be kidding me? Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I don’t know, that’s the problem. What proof have I of my supposed brilliance? A box of journals? A few old recordings of off key guitar and vocals? We’re moving like cattle now up the ramp. Off to the slaughter. I trip a hoof on the third stair and stumble, all the cattle behind me moan. Shaking that brain clot loose I can feel the aneurysm coming closer, it’ll be here any second now. That’d be something. My last memory being the smell of bleach from the scoured out subway tunnel and nothing but an endless succession of hooves crushing me to death as my brain convulses in a pulsating explosion of purple plasma. I make it to the top of the stairs. Mexican woman selling churros, a massive mountain of them under a big blanket of plastic wrap. Two for a dollar. Wish I could just buy the whole damned tray and head back to Queens. Sit around in the apartment and eat churros all day. That’d be something. The thought of eating anything these days makes me sick to my stomach though. It seems whatever I eat makes me feel horrible. If there’s a hell it’s the subways in New York. I have to believe that. No more oppressive place I’ve ever been in the middle of summer or any other time of the year for that matter. Grab the rail. Hoist yourself up the stairs. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. As many times as I’ve done this I’ll bet it’s never been with the same people any of them. And there’s thousands. Grab the rail. Step down. Down. Down. To the 1,2,3 & 9 platform. Nothing coming on the 1,9 side. Nothing coming on the 2,3 side either. Just find a sliver of tile and wait against the wall. I wonder what Chris Whitley’s up to. “Vacant above the din…” Two rats, big ones scurrying along the tracks. Oblivious. I wonder what would be better, qualitatively speaking, this life I’m living now, or the life of one of those two rats scurrying along the tracks? There’s got to be something wrong upstairs to make one wonder such things. Do you think any of these people here are wondering or have ever wondered such things? No. Why would they? Why would anyone wonder such things? Mental illness. A likely cause. New York is filthy. Unless you’re rich. Then you’re filthy rich. Ha-ha. I made a joke. Did you hear that everybody? Apparently not. Then you take a cab everywhere and hire somebody to clean your apartment instead of doing it yourself. What is it I’m seeking? Love? Maybe. No not maybe. That is it. That’s all. Transcendence. The most potent form of transcendence I’ve ever felt. Suddenly a 1 train comes screeching to a halt in front of me. Where the hell’d that come from? “Stand clear of the closing doors!!!” Holy shit! Something wrong with me. Either time is moving faster, or I’m moving slower. Squeeze in between the closing doors of the train. Must be some combination of both. Empty car. Just a few folks scattered about the train. Sit down. Feels as though I’m still leaning against that wall. Old woman in an orange dress sitting in front of me. Bright red lipstick and heavy mascara. Staring at me. No, through me. Past me. At death. Probably doesn’t even see me. Still bugs me nonetheless. Close your eyes. How does anyone manage to live that long? The prospect of living to 30 makes me tired as all hell. Looks like the train is going to blow right past 51^st Street. Guess they got the order to take the 2 track. Backed up trains maybe. There goes 59^th Street. And 66^th. Wow, we’re really flying. “So I wait for you…and I burn. Will I ever see your sweet return? Oh will I ever learn, lover, you should’ve come over. It’s not too late.” Hmn. Seems we’re stuck waiting for that serendipitous something or other that sneaks up on us and takes us entirely by surprise. No way to make it happen. It has a life of it’s own. She’ll either come over or she won’t. Don’t think there’s anything you can do to convince her otherwise. You know the deal. West 72^nd Street. Time to get off. God I don’t feel like cleaning another fucking apartment. You can sit and moan about her as long as you like and it ain’t gonna’ make a bit of difference. Up the stairs and into the blaring light of day. It’s hotter than ever. As though the heat and humidity were on some sort of solar powered mission to put me out of my misery once and for all. It’s over on Riverside, today’s job. Alright. Stop into the deli on the corner. Pick up a pack of American Spirits and a Diet Dr. Pepper. Rip that cellophane off the top. Flip the lid. Tear away the silver wrapper. Pinch a filter and pull one out. To the tip of the lips, a flick of the lighter and it’s lit. Crack open The Doctor and take a swig. A long, slow drag of smoke and there she is on the other side of 72^nd Street, my Lovely Latina Lady from way back in Queens. Holy shit. How in the hell’d she end up out here? You think it’s a sign, maybe? A divine dispensation from The Celestial Director, an intimation of sorts that I might have her hand in marriage, or at the very least a magical week or two together under the stars? No. Its just New York. Things like this happen all the time here. Nothing unusual about it in the least bit. That’s just The City’s way of fucking with you. Make you think it’s something special, when it’s just another random incident thumbing it’s nose at you in schizoid glee. Enough with the seeming significance of things. Just get on with the day. Get real for cryin’ out loud. We are headed the same way though. Maybe if I walk fast enough I’ll catch up to her. Nope. There he is waiting for her on the steps halfway down the block. They’re waving at one another. Shit. Shit. Shit. Of course. And he’s some rich bastard. I screw the cap back on my soda and hit play. Make my way toward Riverside. “Don’t fool yourself, she was heartache from the moment that you met her.” You can say that again, Jeff. “My heart is frozen still, as I try to find the will to forget her somehow, I think I’ve forgotten her now”. I hear ya’ loud and clear, brother. Loud and clear, I hear you. I’m trying to find the will myself this very minute.

SHOOT THE FREAK

A couple of years ago while strolling the boardwalk at Coney Island I stumbled upon a strange display of American ingenuity that was both fascinating and disturbing at one and the same moment. A large crowd was gathered at the threshold of what appeared to be a vacant lot. My curiosity piqued, I wandered over to the edge of the crowd to find out just what in the hell all the excitement was about. A carnival barker, I shall henceforth refer to simply as Barker, stood shuffling off to the side, bullhorn in hand, belting in rhyme a sadistic appeal to all who dared draw near.

"Shoot the Freak, Ladies and Gentlemen, shoot the freak, shoot him in the eye make him cry, shoot him in the head, watch him drop dead!!!"

Peering through a small opening in the crowd I finally saw what all the fuss was about. Armed with a paintball gun and a half full party cup of Budweiser, an overweight middle aged gentleman wearing a ball cap with an American Flag emblazoned upon the front, stood braced behind a beat down barricade, firing off a rapid succession of shots at a heavily padded carnie shuffling dispassionately at the opposite end of the pit below; the Freak as it were, buried beneath a complete outfit of haphazardly assembled protective gear, entirely inhuman in appearance and easily superimposed with whatever object of Freak inspired hatred one wished to project upon him, her or whomever.

In the case of Mr. America the Freak quite likely represented Osama Bin Laden, Ralph Nader, or Tinky Winky, the purportedly gay Teletubby, or some other such Freak of the Week within his preferred paradigm. What else had I to go by? I could have been wrong. I frequently am and wouldn't be surprised to prove so yet again. There's always the chance he might have entirely misrepresented himself, in staunch betrayal of the liberally minded, down to earth dude, philosophical dude he truly was. There's always the chance he might have been a huge Bill Mahr fan. Chances were however, he wasn't nearly as clever as I'd imagined him to be and so far as he was concerned what you see is what you get. At any rate I turned my attention back to the man of the moment, Mr. America, hell bent on victory in the fight for freedom.

After several missed shots, an orange ball of paint splattered across The Freak's Shield. The Freak, however remained unphased. There's only so much melodrama a disillusioned young carnie can conjure before crapping out entirely and merely go through the motions. Either that or there was more going on there than was immediately apparent.

"Ooooo!" the audience exclaimed in utter amazement, doing their best to celebrate Mr. America's hit, despite the marked lack of response on behalf of the Freak.

"The Freak's been hit, but he ain't gonna' quit, do better than that if you wanna' make him fall flat!!!" taunted Barker with all the bluster of a bully on a grade school playground.

Down in the pit, the Freak taunted Mr. America half heartedly as he fired off another missed shot.

"Aww!" the crowd lamented.

"C'mon, guy that ain't gonna fly, just one shot, is that all you got?! Hit him with two, show him what you can do!!!"

His pride on the line, Mr. America tossed back a thirsty gulp of Budweiser, swiped his mouth with a flustered forearm, steadied his aim as best he could and launched a rapid volley of shots at the Freak. Not one of them hit.

"C'mon, guy, your wife's standing by, you keep firing blanks, she'll start sayin' no thanks!!!"

Having depleted his initial supply of paintballs, Mr. America tossed a shameful glance back at his wife who nodded in reluctant approval. He plunged a grubby mitt into the pocket of his shorts and withdrew his wallet, slapping a five dollar bill firmly on the counter. Barker's assistant, likely an alternate Freak himself, swiped the five and reloaded Mr. America's weapon with a fresh round of ammo, as Mr. America finished off the last of his beer.

"Alright, buddy...you got you some balls, now give it your all!!! Make your wife proud, no sissies allowed!!!"

Mr. America fired one, two, three, four, five shots in a row, none of which successfully restored his shaken manhood. His face flushed, he tossed his left leg behind him and leaned nervously into the barricade taking careful aim at the Freak who stood in staunch defiance in the pit below.

"C'mon, dad you can do it!" his teenaged son rallied in support.

"Don't be a clown and make your son frown, lay down the law, shoot The Freak in the jaw!!!"

Mr. America turned and shot an angry glance at Barker. He paused a moment, took a deep breath and focused intently on his target. He fired a single shot. It missed, disappearing into a pile of garbage. He fired another, even further off the mark, flying high over the back wall. He shook his head in disgust and launched his remaining eight shots recklessly at The Freak who staggered from side to side narrowly dodging each one.

He adjusted the bill of his ball cap, stood stone still for a moment, staring scornfully down at The Freak and turned to Mrs. America for yet another nod of approval. She shook her head side to side in an overt display of disgust. His account overdrawn, Mr. America shook his head sheepishly, plunked his paintball gun down on the counter, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled shamefully back toward his embarrassed wife and son.

"Well ladies and gent's, it look like he's spent, every dog has its day, what else can ya' say?!!" Barker barked from behind his bullhorn. "How 'bout your son, maybe he can shoot a gun, give it a try, shoot The Freak in the thigh!!!"

"Yeah, dad can I try?" pleaded the son.

Fearful of being shamed yet further, Mr. America shook his head disdainfully as he ushered his young son through the crowd.

"Mom?!"

"No, Junior, that's it, it's over, we're done!!!" declared Mrs. America as they pushed their way through the crowd and disappeared amongst the masses.

"Shoot the Freak, shoot the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Shoot him in the hand, say it was planned, shoot him in the chest and prove you're the best!!!"

Suddenly, the crowd scrambled in all directions, save for a small group of college kids, stoned out of their minds and entirely incapacitated with hysterical laughter. Barker suddenly shot a glance my way. I froze.

"C'mon buddy, you got the guts?! Throw down some cash, shoot the Freak in the nuts!!!"

Apparently I'd hesitated a few seconds longer than I should have. I thought for a moment.

Loathe as I am to admit it the temptation to "shoot the Freak in the nuts" was there, if not for the novelty of shooting the Freak, then surely for giving Barker a run for his money. However, having nuts myself and a full fledged acquaintance with the pain of having them so much as lightly tapped, let alone shot at, I found hypocrisy of doing so to one of my testicular contemporaries entirely unsavory. Further to that, having witnessed the cruel demise of Mr. America at the hands of Barker, the fear of failure in the face of such a challenge was eclipsed by the fear that the nuts of my male psyche would most certainly suffer an assured shot or three, a prospect perhaps more painful than its physical counterpart.

I turned and took a few steps in the opposite direction.

"Alright buddy, it's all up to you, if you ain't got the balls I'll find a guy who has two!!!"

I paused for a moment. Despite all rational reassurance I couldn't shake the sudden sense of rage that rose up within me. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself tossing Barker a twenty, stepping up to the plate and launching a relentless round of paintballs that'd knock the Freak flat on his ass with a precision that'd make an Army sharpshooter blink twice; thus striking Barker speechless and in need of a good several years worth of speech therapy that'd render the Freak show terminal without it's essential antagonist to play upon the fears of all passersby.

Clearly there was no escape. Having long since entered the realm of the "Shoot the Freak" show, I'd surrendered the bulk of my dignity to begin with, what had I left to lose at that point? Five bucks? Enough to pick up an order of chili cheese fries and a Coke at Nathan's? Given the choice between restoring my dignity, an improbable prospect at best, and losing it entirely, I chose Nathan's; wondering all the while if there was in actuality any difference between the two. At that point however, I could care less. I was hungry as hell. Thus hunger, as opposed to hubris, won the day. A wise move on my part, prompted more by necessity than anything else.

Just as I reached Nathan's and took my place at the end of the line I caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. America seated at one of the picnic tables, shouting back and forth at one another, engaged in their own verbal version of "Shoot the Freak". Young Junior sat silently devouring a plate of nachos.

"For cryin' out loud Otis, would ya' let it go already?!" she implored him.

"Aw, hell Arlene, all I'm askin's for five more dollars, that's it, that's all I'm askin's just five more dollars, five more dollars and I'm done, I'm through, I promise!"

"How many time's' have I heard that the past hour'n'a' half, Otis!!!" Arlene challenged.

Otis was dumbstruck.

"Five is ten is twenty is forty is...for Christ' sake Otis, you damned near spent a hundred dollars messin' with that stupid thing!" she fumed.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for Otis. The ridiculous nature of the situation was all too familiar. I'd felt Otis' pain on more than a few occasions. I'd been there myself, in similar such instances, having suffered the pains of public humiliation in the presence of those I knew and loved, my manhood mangled beyond all recognition over some trivial matter equally as absurd; like riding the damned Cyclone with a former girlfriend so as not to arouse her suspicions, all the while screaming like a school girl scared shitless and in need of a good swift slap in the face; just one of many such moments I've suffered at the expense of what otherwise needn't have been proven.

I felt the urge to stroll on over to Otis and give him a hug with the full fledged assurance he'd redeem himself at some point; if not in New York City, then certainly when he'd arrived back in Omaha, full of tales to tell, which could be altered accordingly to the expectations of his intended audience. Amid Arlene's detailed account of how she met Matt Lauer after a taping of the Today Show, Otis could wax victorious about how he shot the Freak shitless while Sharon Stone looked on in wide eyed wonder. The folks in Omaha'd never know the difference. Then all would be well indeed and he could then resume going about the business of maintaining his stature in the community, if not until the next financial dispute between himself and Arlene at the local Sonic.

"Excuse me sir?! Sir?!"

I returned my attention to my place in line. There was nobody left to place an order but myself and the two dozen or so folks waiting impatiently behind me.

"You gonna' place an order, sir or you just gonna' stand there?!"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry. I'll take a small order of chili cheese fries and a large Coke."

Apparently I'd become so absorbed by Otis' and Arlene's argument I'd taken complete leave of my senses.

"That'll be five dollars and thirty-five cents" the vendor declared. I glanced at his name tag. Reggie, it said. Suddenly recalling I'd only five dollars left in my wallet, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.

"Ah, hell, I...I'm afraid I forgot to...stop by the ATM. All I've got's five dollars. Is there an ATM around here anywhere, Reggie?"

Reggie's irritation increased visibly as he paced back and forth, nervously anticipating a mad rash to the counter.

"How much do you need, son?!" an old woman a good ninety some odd years old whispered from behind me.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it maa'm, I'll just…is there an ATM around here anywhere?!"

There's nothing worse than making a purchase and not being able to pay for it. ; aside from the burden of an angry horde of hungry tourists and a ticked off hot dog salesman glaring at you all at the same time.

"Here you are dear", the old woman muttered, handing me a dollar bill. "You keep the change dear, you never know when you may need it."

"Thank you, maa'm. I appreciate it", I responded with gratitude only outright humiliation can offer up.

"Oh, don't you worry dear. You just give someone else a hand when they need it."

"I will", I promised. "You wouldn't mind if I asked your name, would you maa'm?" I asked.

Of course, I wouldn't. Doris, my name's Doris."

The prototypical elderly woman behind the counter in a large town. A deus ex machina of the geriatric variety.

"Thank you, Doris."

"You're welcome, dear", she smiled.

To the relief of Reggie, I paid the remainder of my balance and made my way to an empty bench at the edge of the boardwalk. Taking a seat I turned and glanced back at the table where Otis', Arlene and Junior were sitting. They were gone. I turned back toward my chili cheese fries, stabbed my fork into them and withdrew a healthy heap, washing it down with a swig of coke. I lit a cigarette, took a drag and stared out at the water. Amid the laughter of children showering themselves under a rusty spigot, amid the crying gulls in search of synthetic sustenance, I could hear Barker in the background, taunting the tourists as relentlessly as ever.

As I sat there, staring out at the water, it occurred to me that "Shoot the Freak" was a perfect metaphor for an America that appeared to be in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown of sorts. We take pride in our individuality and yet at the same time we loathe it. We define ourselves not so much by who we are, but rather, by whom we are not. And in so doing, we lose sight of ourselves. We trivialize and marginalize, stigmatize and dramatize the differences between ourselves in the attempt to establish whom we believe ourselves to be, all the while turning others into external caricatures of what we despise within ourselves. We render one another Freaks, in order to perpetuate the illusion of our own normalcy.

Given such sentiments it occurred that perhaps we'd be far better off aiming our arsenal at the Freak within, than the Freak without. I've no doubt we'd be far less inclined to take fire upon ourselves, given the prospect of perishing at our own hands, or at the very least emerging with our egos bruised and our pride pummeled. And that the very thought of such a suggestion defies the current socio-political power play in which we find ourselves embroiled, perhaps that's the very thing we need in order to redeem what little is left of our integrity. Perhaps if Otis had taken a moment to ask himself why he was so hell bent on proving his manhood at the expense of his dignity, he mightn't have endured the shame that made an otherwise eventful trip to Coney Island a disaster.

However, I strongly suspect such a suggestion would fall on deaf ears. After all, to engage in the kind of rigorous self examination Socrates praised, seems contrary to our survival instinct. To do so, poses the prospect of self immolation, a virtue we love to preach, but loathe to put into practice. Look what happened to Socrates for cryin' out loud. What otherwise might have altered the course of human history, was branded the propaganda of pedophilia and promptly put down with a frothy cup of Hemlock. That Socrates urged introspection as a virtue by no means was a declaration that we should examine others. But such was the way of the world back then and sadly such is the way to this day.

No it's far more fun to "Shoot the Freak" without than examine the Freak within. We all do it. The Republicans shoot the Democrats, the Democrats shoot the Republicans. The Pro-Choice Activists shoot their Anti-Abortion Activist contemporaries. All the while under the impression they're shooting someone other than themselves. To paraphrase that wise old scoundrel Mohandas K. Ghandi, a freak for a freak makes the whole world, what…freakless? Hmn. Maybe there's something to this "Shoot the Freak" phenomena after all.

Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we no longer feel the need to "Shoot the Freak", without, within, or otherwise. Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we engage in such a form of entertainment as say, "Hug the Freak". I can see it now, old Barker standing there on the sidelines crying out in plaintive plea:

"Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Hug the Freak!!! He needs some drugs, just give him a hug, he needs your love, like a hand needs a glove!!! Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen, Hug the Freak!!!"

And just as we once did when playing "Shoot the Freak" we'll superimpose whatever image we wish to project while we "Hug the Freak". We'll hug the Republican; we'll hug the Democrat, The Pro-Choice Activist and the Anti-Abortion Activist equally, favoring one no more than the other. However, having arrived at such a place of compassion and empathy for those unlike us, we'd likely have done away with our differences and simply become human beings as opposed to Freaks, utterly fallible in all of our foibles and more like ourselves than we'd previously cared to admit.

Realistically, however, we just ain't there yet. The mere notion of "Hug the Freak" at this juncture in human history poses an absurd proposition at best, let alone hugging Republicans, Democrats or otherwise undeclared partisan peoples. Why else would we find such a notion humorous? Hell it's hard enough hugging those outside our immediate circle of friends and family let alone whatever Freak we happen to loathe.

Until then, there's quite likely a "Shoot the Freak" booth somewhere within the vicinity of your immediate environment. Such is the popularity of Freak shooting these days. And if there isn't, well, hell just purchase yourself a paintball gun and practice your aim upon your favorite antagonist until the upcoming mid terms hit the stage. There's sure to be Freaks a' plenty upon which you can fire your ire.

Locally established Freak show or no, get the hell out there and have yourself a blast. I'll even donate the sixty-five cents remaining from Doris' donation on my behalf, just to get you started. And when you've exhausted your supply of paintballs and subconscious self loathing, carve a brief moment or two out of your busy Freak shooting schedule, take a flying leap down into the pit and give the Freak a hug. He needs it. She needs it. We all do.

COYOTE IN THE CITY

I just realized that the ten years I've been in New York have desensitized me to the absurd. A couple of years ago a full grown tiger was found in a Harlem apartment. Apparently the owner had brought it into the apartment as a cub and was finally found out when a downstairs neighbor called the police and told them of a "large wild animal" lurking in the apartment upstairs whose urine had seeped into her apartment.

So when the news broke that a coyote was found in Central Park yesterday it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it kind of made sense. Of course a coyote was found in Central Park. If there was any place a coyote would be found in this nightmare of a city it would be there. Given the choice between Penn Station and Central Park that's where I'd go. A little time in the park can do a hell of a lot to soothe the nerves. Especially if you're a coyote. But upon further reports and deeper reflection, I had a bit of a realization. I'm not a coyote.

With the exception of a few bad acid trips I've spent most my life under the impression I'm human and as only an indignant few have gone out of their way to label me otherwise I've pretty much accepted it as a fact. Given the opportunity I suppose I wouldn't mind being a coyote for a day or two, just to get an idea what it's like, but certainly not in New York City. Hell being human here is hard enough. No, if I were a coyote I'd much prefer the wilds of the Catskills or the Adirondacks to this mess. Sadly, that won't be happening any time soon, at least not in this life. Perhaps it will in the next. One can only hope.

At any rate, I got around to actually thinking about it and the more I thought about it the more incredulous I became. The fact that the damned thing actually made it to Central Park without being run down by a delivery truck or held as ransom by a dope fiend is nothing short of miraculous. Considering he had tens of miles of urban sprawl to make his way through before he even reached Manhattan is amazing enough, but add to that the fact that he had either to cross one of a handful of bridges with limited access to pedestrians or swim to the other side of either the Hudson or East Rivers to get there and you've got yourself one hell of a courageous critter. Then there's the tens, perhaps even hundreds of congested city blocks he'd have had to navigate his way through, assuming he knew where he was going of course. I'm sure there's some high minded animal rights activist out there who'd assert he did, but I ain't one of them.

No, I'm more inclined to believe that like so many others of us who come here looking for who knows what, he had absolutely know idea where in the hell he was going, or why for that matter. Further to that he clearly had no idea where he was coming from, 'cause if he'd did, he'd likely have stayed there. But that's a debate better applied to we humans. We're just as bad, if not worse about having no idea where we've come from until we've already left. And on top of that we're actually held accountable when finally figure it out. The worst that can happen to a coyote is he can get shot in the ass with a tranquilizer and wake up in the woods wondering how the hell he got there. I've often wished I could suffer a similar fate, but if anybody's going to rescue me from the city it sure as hell ain't gonna' be somebody from the New York Department of Wildlife. If anything it'll be someone from the N.Y.P.D. Or the flight deck at Bellevue.

You know, amazing as it is that a coyote can make his way from the wilds of upstate New York to Central Park what's more amazing to me is how we humans did it. He was just doing what he had to do. He sure as hell didn't question himself about his motives. Misguided as he may have been he just followed his nose and left the rest to nature. What baffles me more is the question of how the rest of us got here and why we came. Though we could all cite a multitude of reasons why we chose New York as a place to live, I have a sneaking suspicion we did it the same way he did it. After years of trying to get things right in life it sure does feel like it. Perhaps we're not all that different from that coyote in the park after all, perhaps we just think we are. Hmn. I'll have to mull that over as I make my way home. That is if I don't get lost along the way.