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.