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We don’t live
in the United States, we live...
The place was nearly empty. Aside from us, there was one jocky-looking dude and one somewhat ethereal dude. They were chatting, with about five bar stools between them. The jock dude looked somewhat baffled as the ether dude rapped on and on with his observations about life. Above the canned "alternative" music coming out of the ceiling speakers, I could only make out one line clearly. Evidently it was a heartfelt sentiment that the dude spoke loudly: "No, I don't think Brooke Shields is superficial, but I think her mother is." I wanted to say to the dude, "That's funny. She only says good things about you." One of the joys of people-watching on the Island is hearing odd fragments like this. The best fragmented conversation I ever heard was on an escalator at the subway stop at 53rd and Lex. There was one homeless person, off his meds, in front of me with a political rap. As the down escalator carried us and several hundred others, the off-med guy rapped in a Shakespeare-in-the-park voice about the Mayor and complicated global economic conspiracies. Meanwhile, approaching us on the UP escalator was a homeless woman, also off her meds. She was one of those Tourettes-like compulsive mimics. Ever heard them in action? They're like idiot savants. They're gifted mimics of the order of Peter Sellers, but it's an unwilling reaction. They can't help but imitate the voices and attitudes of the people around them. As the off-med woman came up, she imitated the characters of the people passing her on the DOWN escalator. In a preternaturally loud voice, she adopted the patois of a would-be actor, an investment banker, and then a software engineer. Then she came on level with the off-meds conspiracy theorist. She immediately shifted gears and picked up his rap. She didn't just imitate his voice--she also got his rap down. She wasn't just repeating it--she got into his themes and expounded upon them. The conspiracy guy stopped his rap in bewilderment. For the first time in his life he was hearing someone who agreed with him. Sadly, he didn't look at the only woman in the world who understood him, but searched the ceiling anxiously, as if her voice were heaven-sent. Sigh. It could have been a great romance. Link Yaco has written comic books for several publishers. He is currently working on a couple comics-related paperbacks. He has been a copywriter, technical writer, newspaper journalist, and magazine entertainment writer. He has a Masters' degree in Telecommunications and was a technical manager at MIT for five years. Link lives in West Greenwich Village with his wife, Susannah, a Senior Vice President at an independent film company. Check out his web page here Read last week's column Visit Link Yaco Home Page
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richard e. schiff,
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y lovely wife and I
stopped in at a Melanesian bar to have a cocktail. The bar also
served the mildly hallucinogenic tea of the Pacific, kava kava.
This is a powdered root that some people swear by but to my
experience has no effect other than a slight jitteriness, and
this only if you drink copious amounts. At least, I think it had
no effect. This is what I saw and heard:
