Sounds of New York City
As I sit here listening to the extremely aggressive wind outside my window, I find myself waxing poetic about New York City, and the symphony of sounds that make it such a special place to live. Here are a few of the things I’ve heard so far, and would like to examine:
Almost anywhere you go in this city, you’ll hear the impatient honking of a man whose only physical outlet for his emotional and existential despair is beating the shit out of his steering wheel, even if it has no effect on the traffic.
I used to hear the sound of taxi receipts printing and think, “Oh! That’s the sound of a taxi receipt printing!” Now I hear the sound of a taxi receipt printing and think, “It’s the smoke monster from Lost! You saw what he did to Mr. Ecko, run for your lives!”
Do pigeons just always sound like they’re having sex? Or are there pigeons actually having sex outside my apartment? I suppose it could even be people on a different floor of the apartment who sound like pigeons when they have sex. I can never really tell.
When a helicopter flies over, or an emergency vehicle with a loud siren whizzes by, most people stop talking and wonder what the emergency is. For funsies I like to yell, “Do you mind?! I am trying to have a conversation here!”
The other day I was on a bus, and there was a little girl singing “Old McDonald.” However, she got stuck when she got to Old McDonald’s chicken because she couldn’t remember what the chicken said. I thought that was pretty cute. Then her dad offered to help her but she refused and kept repeating the song, insisting she knew the answer. That’s when I thought to myself, “Oh wait, she’s not cute. She’s annoying.”
I heard a crazy woman on the S ranting about Jesus. She said, “Jesus is gonna come knockin’ at yo’ do’ one day, and if you too busy playin’ witcha penis and whatnot, you ain’t gettin’ into heaven!” Now I’m no religious expert by any means, but I’m pretty sure there’s worse things one could be doing when Jesus comes knockin’ at yo’ do’. If Jesus goes door-to-door condemning everyone in the world, he has to stumble across fouler shit than some poor lonely schmo doing the only thing that makes him even remotely happy anymore. In this woman’s mind, it’s as if Jesus exists for the sole purpose of killing boners. I suppose if that’s his goal he’s pretty successful, cause I’d imagine nothing kills a boner faster than having Jesus ring your doorbell. But to be fair, how much do we really know about door-to-door Jesus? Maybe he hates his job. Maybe years of being on the road has made him weary and disillusioned. Maybe all he ever wanted was respect, but he got lost chasing the american dream, and now he keeps a rubber tube by the gas pipe in his basement. See in this scenario, Jesus is Willy Loman.
