Slow Day

Walk down 8th Avenue on my way to Bleecker Playground, pass bum in camouflage cargo pants digging through the trash for recyclables at Abindgon Market, singsonging "I'm a bum, I'm a bum, I'm a bum, yeah I'm a bum..."

Drink juice box, fruit punch flavor, despite dislike of juice. All-natural organic juice blend tastes a lot like Hawaiian Punch.

Eat piece of toasted baguette with feta sun-dried tomato sauce.

See man with half-chewed cigar dangling from mouth walk past us three times in half an hour.

Cops come and harass bum in camouflage pants, who by now is digging through the Bleecker Park trash cans and continuing to loudly proclaim his bum status. Bum leaves, cop car lingers for ten minutes or so.

See guy who I though was Henry Winkler, then realize is not Henry Winkler.

Attempt to read Village Voice's Best Of issue. Throw paper away five minutes later, after reading "Savage Love." Best Of issues suck. Attempt to read New York Post. Learn the Eddie Murphy knocked up Scary Spice. Am amused by appropriateness of this has-been coupling. Wish them well. Scoff at Post's overblown coverage of Madonna's adoption of baby from Malawi. Throw Post away.

A mom at the playground says "Excuse me, sir, do you have any ice?" I turn around and tell her I'm a woman, perhaps with more malice than is due. She is embarrassed. I say don't worry about it, give her cup of ice. Spend next five minutes watching six-foot models and model wanna-bes walk by in knee-high suede boots and American Apparel leggings. Feel dowdy, old, and impossibly unstylish. Be glad am married to husband who apparently does not mind that I am easily mistaken for a man.

Sell bag of Tings.

Eat toasted baguette with white cheddar jalapeno sauce.

Eat apple.

Eat granola bar.

See little girl on scooter coast by with a friend, also on scooter. Their moms are on foot. Little girl says "There's that cooker girl who's always here!" Little girls scoot away. Look at kids frolicking in playground and realize even the kids in this neighborhood are more stylish than me.

Eat toasted baguette with pesto.

Break down cart. Head to subway station to get the hell home. Notice my end of platform is eerily deserted, notice C train on opposite side of platform is stopped and empty. See swarm of MTC cops loitering around. See big wash of blood on the platform just below the closed door of empty C train. A cap sits on platform next to wash of blood. See no owner of hat or blood. Turn away from sight of whatever just happened in order not to be lookie-loo. Woman with cameraphone takes picture, MTA cop yells at her and calls her a sicko and yells at people on platform to either get on a train or get away. Half a dozen more MTA cops and about a dozen firefighters walk to scene of mystery event, stretchers in tow. They walk, don't run. Figure maybe someone died--otherwise they'd be running. Maybe six stretchers go by. How many people were involved in this thing? Feel weird, in the way. Just want to get home. Realize if Weegee were here he'd be photographing all this. Realize all those Weegee photographs I like so well are of real dead people and their real living bereaved. My E train finally comes. Get on car, as it speeds past the fiasco on platform passengers crane necks to get a look. I don't look up from my New Yorker. Look at New York Times website this morning, see no mention of event. Guess it's just another incident in the city. Update: Looked on New York Post site and found out what happened. Morbid curiosity satisfied. I knew the trashy old Post wouldn't let me down.

The Sausage Index: Good. Ate a shit-ton of baguettes with cheese sauce yesterday, but actual sausage intake is well under control. Last sausage consumed was last week, a cigar-sized beef sausage to small to sell. I grilled it off and ate a few bites plain (man, those things are salty), then with spicy ketchup.