Where the Streets Have no Mane

Yesterday, under springy gray skies fertile with threatened rain, I poke down Court Street for my weekly brunching joust with coffee.

I’ve got the new Philip Roth in my bag, and the night before Pierre and I met this year’s Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout on tap at the Waterfront, with predictable results. The day turns out to be a bit later and thinner than one would imagine, and that’s fine by me.

Walking south toward Warren Street I hear a strange, keening, synethic drone, like the baseline beatbox browse of a dance percussion track. It’s a warm, burling sound, imprecise and enveloping. You know those urban sounds that come without an obvious source, all echo and skip? I look for street musicians playing to a backing track, perhaps, or avant hipsters grooving the afternoon to ambient electronica.

And as I pass the 24-hour deli by Bergen Street there is the source: a homeless guy sitting on a milk crate, singing into the crook of a cane, over and over: “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow.” His face is serene, as if this is the most ordinary thing in the world. He must be a Leo.

About Linus

The man behind the curtain. But couldn't we get a nicer curtain?
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