|The Misplaced Hubris of the Hypocritical Vagabond| "I've always considered myself a vagabond, living by my own wits," he said, as he pulled his brass-colored crochet hook through another set of loops. I noticed him as soon as he walked into Tiny Cup (my awesome neighborhood cafe). Tall and lean, with dark buzz cut hair and crazy blue eyes. He wore a ratty looking union local tee shirt and jeans. He asked if he could share my table. He sat down across from me, sipped his coffee and read the Fortune magazine that was already on the table. As he made quasi-crazy comments outloud to himself about what he was reading regarding international fiscal (ir)responsibility, I couldn't help but come to the conclusion that he was probably gay. At some point he pulled out his own paper and his own tobacco, rolled a cigarette and then stepped outside to smoke it. When he returned, from out of his crumpled yellow plastic shopping bag, he pulled a crocheted hat full of balls of yarn. From out of his pocket he retrieved a crochet hook, and he started to craft. Here was my chance, I thought—my in. I wasn't about to let another "in" pass me by (last week this really hot guy was looking through a stack of job posting print-outs for adjunct Sociology professorships and I said nothing). I watched him work for a bit. Mesmerized by the sinews that undulated back and forth in his muscular forearms as he maneuvered the brass tool. After some time I engaged him in conversation. Friendly enough, "Have you been crocheting long?" At first he seemed perturbed (which I didn't mind because when I'm knitting in public I don't always want to talk about it or anything else, for that matter) and I backed off, but then he started talking and didn't stop. The conversation moved in what would from the outside appear smoothly to what from the inside appeared schizophrenic from the differences between knitting and crochet (he respects one for being more "utilitarian"—you only get two guesses as to which one) to how one should live one's life to what horrors he thought were visited upon society by magazines such as "Interview" and "Details" and "GQ" (the magazines that were on the window sill next to us), with banners questioning, "Are you satisfying your wife?"What kind of question is that?He asked.Why bring that negativity into the world? I nodded. More facially intellectual but significantly superficial and pretentious observations poured forth from his beautiful lips as he railed against many of the trappings of modern life (cellular phones, laptops, etc.). He finds his peace in Japanese fencing, and does not necessarily begrudge others the peace they may find in Details and Vanity Fair magazines, though he still thinks Details and Vanity Fair are secretly openly ruining society. And then a painter walked in. Other than the medium length blond hair, they could have been twins. The painter was tall and lean and muscular and young, wearing paint bespeckled jeans and splotched workboots, and carrying a long roller (and tracking paint in on the floor that I don't think the owner has yet to notice, but I'm sure soon will). Mid-conversation the vagabond, staring at the painter says with no degree of subtlety or discretion, "Woo! I like him." He continued to talk to me, but stared at the painter the whole time. He was forming a plan—I could tell he was forming a plan, but I was unsure what the plan was. Soon he'd put away his crochet, taken out his cigarette making supplies again, and, in short order, had abandoned me to go speak to the tall, good looking svelte painter outside while they smoked. And soon they were both gone. Together? Apart? I don't know. If only I were wearing my "i [heart] irony" tee-shirt.
I went to an Ivy League undergrad.
I go to a top NYC law school.
I date men (well...).
I live in Bed-Stuy.
I don't need more to say,
just more room to say it.
Etc.