Sometimes the city energy scares me and I feel that even holding this phone to write is a huge risk. My hands tremble and my thumbs misfire and fumble to type because just as the subway doors opened a horribly unstable man tumbled onto the train car then began frantically pacing back and forth in front of me. He has an evil eye full of hatred and disorientation and a mouth spouting angry gibberish with the occasionally clear curse word that I recognize from middle school. I’m a fool for not putting this phone away right now but it keeps me from looking up and showing fear. Disappearing into your smart phone is the equivalent of playing dead when you’re frozen underground and feeling threatened. I’m afraid for the first time in a long time even though I’m a grown ass man. Eye contact is not an option sometimes but I’m ready for anything. I have enough pent up gay rage to tare down a homeless bigoted gladiator if he so much as dares to use the f* word! New York keeps me on my broken toes and mercy is rarely granted even to the worthy. I’ve become all too comfortable blurring my eyes to the clear and present danger of the suppressed street energy of guys like this when they bubble over and pop like a chemistry experiment that’s gotten way, way out of control. People that are born in this town are of a different breed all together and most New Yorkers aren’t even from New York at all. It’s a city filled with more and more little gay boys moving here every day with a dance belt, a Queens sublet, and a dream of hitting it big on Broadway. 
The out of town weekenders don’t count though. Soccer moms live it up in the big apple squealing like suburban pigs in bustling, sparkling Manhattan shit. They ride around Central Park in those awkward little pedi-cabs(pedaled by those smokin’ hot European guys that we secretly all wanna fuck!) sporting tourist sun visors, laminated maps, TGIFridays to-go bags, and rocking a sensible PTA stretch jean and Walmart-scrunchy. But the boys and girls that are born within the 212 have an extra edge even if the only thing that makes them stand apart is the numbness to all the crazy. It’s an unfortunate jadedness that clouds young city eyes giving them no way to measure how cool things really are here when compared to the small town vibe that gives me the creeps. Manhattan childhood is a bubble where nannies and after school skating teachers like myself become key in filling every moment of every single day. No time = no trouble. The spectrum of urban kiddies is wide and spans to opposite extremes with everything in between. It’s a grey area as varying and diverse as anything on this earth. And the prescription pill-popping mothers that trot around SoHo and weekend in South Hampton scare me in a different way but also inspire the most jealousy. If you come from East side money your private school reality keeps you busy and away from all things real and scary hopefully. 
Those kiddies are harmless, trying to quickly sneak into Central Park to smoke a quick j. or rub a little coke on their gums before algebra class. These are the future white collar criminals of America that pose no immediate threat. But the fire cracker energy that scares me the most is the inner city underprivileged boys that have nowhere to put all their pent up city machismo and gangster dicks. No apartment can be big enough to keep these boys off the front stoop of every building in my neighborHood making cat calls and cackling like deranged hyenas every time a pretty girl comes walking by talking on her cell phone or texting. Hot women in Harlem are like filet mignon in a piranha pit or a piping hot pizza pie in a stoner frat house. My sexy Rockettes and beautiful show girlfriends don’t stand a chance in the uptown world of gross guys sitting on their front stoops all day drooling and foaming at the mouth over every semi attractive female that walks by, much less the dancer/singer/model/goddesses that are in my contact list of dreams! Acting like fools and hungry pit bulls fighting over a boiled ham bone has never really worked at actually bagging some hot tail has it? Lines like “Ooohh mommie….you look like you got a little Dominican in you? If not, do you waaant some ?”, don’t really inspire a girl to look back twice. I’ve never seen that particular quote in the Hallmark isle either. I must say that if I could get the grown ass stoop sitters that act like stupid little boys to take a seminar (that I teach) on how to score a Radio City Rockette or smoking hot chorus girl, I could be a very rich man. 
The scary wasted man that was losing it earlier (and inspired this blog) is now not only subdued and calm but he just took his shoes off, put them under his head, stretched out over four seats and slipped into a deep snoring, drunken coma. The lion is now a lamb and I can relax into the unnerving theme of under stimulated, percolating adrenaline that makes up the city youth of any and all the New York boroughs. Sometimes my adult zip code of choice has the serene and peaceful feeling of a quaint little town known to some as…………New Orleans, where trouble is around every single corner and you have to keep one eye over your shoulder at all times. Too many Hurricanes or Hand Grenades will result in losing your shoes and dignity before the sun even comes up. It’s a dirty denial. Life in the French Quarter is overrun with countless gypsy impostors that will kindly offer to tell your fortune and life expectancy for a not so modest price. But what they don’t tell you in their original sales pitch is that if you refuse their services and keep on walking that they will curse, harass, follow you for blocks, and probably stab you in the gut for your indifference. They conveniently leave that part out of the free teaser they give you on the street. To live in any big city or metropolis you have to be somewhat made of a mixture of steel and jade or else you will easily be eaten up and taken advantage of by any number of shady characters that thrive on your vulnerability and occasional kindness. All the fears and worries your mama had/still has for you are completely justified and legit when you find yourself faced with scenarios like jilted, aggressive “psychics” that will cut you as surely as they will promise you long life, a beautiful wife, and many, many children…..even if you tell them you are gay and hate kids.
Question: Can you legally carry a tazer in this or any state? I wish I had a cell phone sized mini-tazer that you could possibly get online in a variety of colors and sizes. I would get several hand held pink rhinestone-bedazzled tazers for all my lovely lady friends as Christmas gifts and stocking stuffers in hopes that they could feel a little safer walking in a short skirt from the 157th street subway stop to my house. Or maybe it’s best that I in particular don’t have that privilege because with my short temper and lack of patience I’d be casually tazing all the annoying street performers that demanded change for their out of tune services or the Spanish senoritas that purposely cut me in line at the deli! I will taze a bitch! Loud and obnoxious dogs would also be at the top of my zap list including all the people with boom boxes that scream in other languages outside my window past three am. I can imagine that I might be a little quick on the trigger should I be allowed that luxury. If those little weapons were allowed to the stressed out New York public it would be a blood bath of epic proportions and rich white ladies with Burberry baby strollers would be zapping every black man that innocently asked for directions. I could foresee countless statistics of unnecessary drastic action but I love the idea of a potential robber thinking twice and being legitimately afraid for his safety when he considers mugging an old lady that’s packing some serious voltage in her 1920’s clutch. Would crime go up or down I wonder? Who knows? I was never in favor of people being allowed to have fire arms in their homes until hurricane Katrina showed me, and anyone who watches CNN, that the Wild West is still alive lying just underneath the surface of a potential natural disaster that makes the dangerous folks even more crazed and freakishly bold. We are the cowboys of 2011 and there will be no white flag for me anytime soon.
