18 November 1998: Tony Curtis? Really?

It is my habit to accompany A downstairs when she needs a cigarette. This is dangerous, as 23rd Street and Sixth Avenue seems to be the nexus of the Universe. Just way to many people, vehicles, etc. Never mind second-hand smoke. There's second-hand everything. We have seen and heard it all out there. Homeless crazies, mental patients, drunks, welfare recipients expressing themselves at full volume. We were there one night after one man used our building as a toilet. Not the fluid variety, either, my dear.

I mean, it's not like working at WABC-TV, like my pal E, who has met them all. Roz Abrams. Bill Beutel. Sam "Sammy" Champion. Regis (but not Kathie Lee). Even Tony Curtis. One time she ran into him and said, "Oh, I didn't know it was you!" He replied, "I didn't know it was you!

No, 23rd Street is not glamorous. The "regular" people are not much better. People manage to bang into us no matter what. Being on the Flatiron-Chelsea border means I get to see a lot of body fascists. I also get to see a few old friends and acquaintences. I saw one of the RAs from Tower C at Hofstra. I even saw my oldest friend, Jeff, whom I have known for 30 years.

The most glamour to hit me is the appearance of a certain soap opera couple who are a real-life couple in my office elevator. They seem less than pleased to see me, even though I said to them, "Hey, I watch you two every day," and only she said, "That's great!" He is not speaking to me. Perhaps because the first time I spotted him, on the street, I looked at him because I wanted to jump onto his lap and give him a big old kiss. Or maybe it was because of the second time, when I literally jumped off the Broadway bus at 65th Street and almost hit him and his former leading lady. Or maybe it's because he's tall and blue-eyed and I am not. Who knows?

I know this. Famous like Tony Curtis he ain't.

I also am not too unhappy that WonderCamp down the street closed. It brought hordes of children into this lovely neighborhood, by the score. I love kids, but not by the score. As much as I love talking to a young child sitting on my knee, it's usually one at a time. The only people I absolve are the blind folks who toodle over Sixth Avenue from the blind residence, Selis Manor, and wave their canes as they search for the magic hidden doorway of Duane Reade. Only once has a blind person asked for assistance to the 99-Cent store. Uniform pricing is a godsend in such a situation.

Well, it should come as no surprise when a dilapidated man saunted over to us and said, in a startlingly clear and smooth voice, "I fucked Tony Curtis!"

He was telling everyone.

He even made a second pass after stopping in at Twin Donut. He came by and said it to us again, but with more finesse...

"I fucked Tony Curtis..." he said in the same tone, adding, in the ass!"

I told him, "I know, I know."

Do I have a single reason to not believe him? It's 23rd Street. Everything happens there. What's not to believe?

I've gotta call E and let her know there's another Tony Curtis fan on the loose, 23rd-Street style.

Next entry... Police, Please

Previous entry... Por la Vida


[ Contact Me | Home | Matthew Shepard Memorial | Diaries | Archives | Links | Web Index ]
Copyright (c) 1998, Seth J. Bookey, New York, NY 10021, sethbook@panix.com