Cafe Cito Bogota
Is it just me or was Greenpoint a little pointier than usual last weekend? I have long grown accustomed to the fact that some very special people grace this neighborhood. In fact, they are one of the reasons I live here. But seriously folks, last Saturday the inmates were running the asylum.
The local homeless cadre was in a particularly festive mood. I shit you not they were singing.
One person, however, was not so mirthful. Or at least that’s what I intuit when a man decides to punch a woman in the face in plain view of twenty odd people. And this is exactly how the porter of my building decided to while away Saturday afternoon. I didn’t see him get cuffed, but he is already back out on bail. Our landlord, inexplicably, decided to fire him. He’s been pretty trigger happy of late. He fired our Super last month.
Deciding to celebrate the fact our building has no maintenance staff whatsoever, Mr. Heather and I went out to dinner. Our ride home on the G train was livelier than usual.
This dude had a voice that sounded like Harvey Fierstein with a dash Jimmy Durante. I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying about except when he sauntered up to a mustachioed woman sitting across from me and exclaimed:
He had quite a floor show. Much better than anything I saw in Vegas (not that I recall much, mind you: I was 8 or 9 years old). I wanted to take him home. Mr. Heather refused.
I suppose none of the previous should really surprise me. I live in Greenpoint, after all.
Even our buildings get loaded.