When I left for my run this morning, I saw a bum sleeping on the first baseline of the park that's next to my building. He had his hands locked over his chest like he was dead or something. Bums crash there all the time. They sleep on or under the cement tables next to the park, not on the field itself, and certainly not on the dirt part of the field. Strange, no?
Well sure enough, by the time I was finished with my run, the park was flanked by the following: two cop cars, an ambulance, the coroner and a crowd of onlookers having a hoopla while the coroner took the last portraits of bum dude. Some white chick who sounded like Fran Drescher was calling her friend to come "look at the body." I gotta say, New Yorkers, I love your city, but you's a coldhearted bunch. And it's not cool. So much negative energy on the streets, this California girl--who hates everything about California except, EXCEPT, the constant, unrelenting flow of positive energy--cleans her aura ten times a day. I swear to God, I'll clean it and feel wonderful, and ten minutes later I'm due for a buffup, some sage and five more white candles from Duane Reade. I'm not even going to get into how cheery and well-adjusted your dead people are. You people are doomy. I wish I could stock this place with earth muffins.
But seriously, poor bum guy. I'm almost, sort of thinking about praying for him. Shit, what else can you do? They're everywhere around here, not even asking for money, help or food. It's just over for them. The shelters are a mile up the street and they've been to them fifty times, never getting their shit together. They want death or whatever awful stasis you find them in, just wandering around looking for a vent to sleep under. They're not even human anymore, they're so broken. But that doesn't mean anybody should make a circus out of their death for wont of something to do. It's Manhattan for chrissakes.
Posted by The Bunny at 7:47 AM