The Shock of A Voice

Hi Swingers. Last night I actually received an email from a viewer of this blog. Since nobody ever comments on this thing I just about shit in my pants. A person with the handle of shaka suggested some file sharing device and gave me the Net addy for it. Very kind of her. (I'm assuming that's a female handle. Could be wrong and it wouldn't be the first time.) I attempted to thank her by return email but I soon received a 'delivery failure' notice for my efforts. Anyway, Shaka, if you are reading this, thanks very much for the suggestion. Gratifying to know that someone reads this. Kind of validates my oddball life on this thing.

If anyone else would like to venture a comment, reaction, good or bad, I would love to hear from you.

I'm not used to making many text entries on this. It's so easy to justj post the Photo Of The Day from my constant collection. I usually only do it when something pisses me off. Coincidentally, I had one of those experiences on Saturday.

I live in Kingsbridge and I like the neighborhood. On Saturday I went to get my hair cut. I went early, at 9am, and was the first customer. I toss my bomber jacket on one of the chairs and hop into the barber chair. The place is called Victor's and has been there for 40 years. A few moments later, another guy comes in and sits next to the chair where my jacket is. Minutes after that, the other barber summons him into the chair at the front. They apparently know eachother and talk about baseball. I'm in a quiet mood. Finish the haircut, pay the guy, tip him, grab my jacket and I'm on my way. Doing errands and shit around the house most of the day.

It is not until about 4.30 in the afternoon, as I am coming out of the liquor store after buying some wine, that I glace at the left arm of my jacket. There is a zipppered pocket on that arm and for the first time I note the pocket is unzipped. This is very weird. I would never leave it unzipped. I touch the pocket and cringe.

It's gone! I always kept a Swiss Army Knife in there. In case I got hassled by somebody on the subway or something. For psychological value, if nothing else. The knife was given to me by a girlfriend in Los Angeles in 1988. Nancy. She was sweet, a tape editor at ABC. We went out for about six months. Now it's gone. That other customer apparently stole it.

Pissed, I walk over to the barber shop and tell the barber that was cutting the other customer's hair that the guy stole my knife out of my jacket. The barber is a young guy who seems like a decent person. He protests saying the guy is not like that. It probably fell out of my ocat. No. He stole it. Nothing "fell out" of the jacket, the pocket was always kept zipped. Tell his customer I know he stole it and he's scum.

Something about that incident that really depressed me. A bachelor guy, I used the little utinsels on the knife all the time. The corkscrew, the Philips screwdriver, etc. You can't trust anyone these days. I told my friend Judy, who teaches in the neighborhood. "That's the kind of neighborhood you live in." Perhaps. But I'm here almost two years and I've never really had any trouble with people. Guess I'll have to find a new place to get my hair cut. I don't want to have to bring my jacket with me in the barber chair as I'm getting it cut.

A little thing. But it bugged me.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

This Is New York