I spy with my little eye… Mario Batali!  Circa 2004

The church of Tim Burton. 4/30/10

The Highline is both the past and the future. 4/29/10

It was when I was walking down the street, perhaps a little too quickly, as it caused me to slowly close the gap between the slouched figure in the hooded sweatshirt and myself. Sure enough, with my footfalls within his earshot, he stole a glance over his shoulder. It was only after a few more steps that he turned around and said, “You have a good night.”

“You too,” I replied, an attempt to be neighborly.

“I didn’t mean to scope you out, but it’s Bushwick, you can’t be too careful. You’re white, I’m black, we all gotta’ watch out.”

“I don’t know, there’s a lot of families around here. It’s not so bad.”

“Family don’t mean shit,” was his response. “I’m Drac,” he continued. “Track?” I misheard. “Drac.” “Track?”

“Like Dracula,” and he smiles. Sure enough, he’s missing the front four teeth on the top; only two vampiresque fangs show while he grins.

“That’s a great nickname.” “I know.” And then he turned into a bat and flew away.

A view from the balcony. 4/25/10

This bathroom is a graffiti connoisseur. 4/23/10

Evil lair in Bushwick.  4/23/10

The night felt like this.  4/21/10

On the train, he plays guitar for a woman, sitting right now down next to her and trying to speak with her or even get her to look at him, but she politely ignores him.  The music is Bob Dylan, and on the mostly tuned 12-string, it’s beautiful.

She actually stops not paying attention and turns to him, eyes closed, listening.  “That’s a great song.”

He finishes, she smiles, he awkwardly asks for change.  When he comes over to me I pretend I don’t speak English.