I can’t say that I feel bad for calling Prince (the neighbourhood crackhead) a crackhead, because, well, he smokes a lot of crack.  He doesn’t steal from us (he does take pens and lotion from the desk which have a large sign underneath them stating "Please take one"), or guests - "Hey man, is this your phone", "Nah man, that’s not my phone, hey take this, this is someones, they’ll be looking for this.  See they know me around here, I ain’t no crackhead, a crackhead woulda stole that", he does occasionally scare the guests - however he does his best to help out, he once told us - "Yo man, I speak Chinese", to which I replied "Cantonese or Mandarin Prince", which received a response kind of like a five year old white child impersonating a Chinese accent.

Why is it that the word crackhead illicit such negative connotations?  Last night I saw him scurrying around the neighbourhood, as he does, in his once white, now slightly yellow lab coat with the name Jose crossed off the chest, white pants, black shoes, and a black kind of sailor hat that he normally wears, so I called out his name because I had something that I wanted to give him before I left.  Prince came running over with such enthusiasm, as there was a large group out the front of the hostel just talking, I think he enjoyed being called over as he was with someone else and he likes to tell everyone how everyone knows him around here..  I asked him to wait, and I ran upstairs to get a small black garbage bag with change that I’d been saving in a Yankees cup that I had on my windowsill.

When I came back, I saw that Prince was doing his superman routine,where basically he dances, or walks up to a pole, lets his leg catch on it and then acts like he’s flying - which the small group reacted to in the normal way, applauding, and taking photos.  He then moved onto what he likes to call "Feed the Dummy" - where he drops his hat on the ground and moves like a robot for short periods of time after someone drops change into the hat.  Eamonn walked out whilst Prince was pausing, waiting for change, and thought it would be funny to thrust his groin in Prince’s face - which Prince totally ignored until someone put money in the hat, when Prince pretended (as a robot still of course) to kick Eamonn in the nuts and dance around him a little bit in celebration - which was hilarious.

This had all been going on for a while, so per Mike’s suggestion, I dropped the bag of change in the hat - which of course fed the dummy and the routine started again.  Once he had grown tiered of the routine he was walking around shaking people’s hands and what-not (still not acknowledging the money in the hat, rather just basking in his moment of celebrity), when my turn came I informed him that I was leaving New York, off to Canada and that in the black bag was some change that I’d been saving for him.  He didn’t look in the bag, he looked me in the eye and told me how sad he was that I was leaving, then, with a tear in his eye, pointed out everyone that works in the hostel out on the steps - Mel, Marie, Mike and Myself telling everyone that "They know what I got, yet they still shake my hand, they still treat me like family - now this man is leaving tomorrow and we got to pray for him because, he’s leaving back to Canada and we need to pray for our brother because he’s flyin"..  Mike pointed out the bag of change and said "Make sure you don’t forget that", to which Prince replied, "Of course I won’t forget that, but fuck that, the man is leaving".  Prince asked me not to leave, told me that he wanted to give me something, but it was in his apartment and he’d need to obviously go and get it - I waited around on the steps for a fair while, after watching Prince take off, in the opposite direction to his building to get some pizza.  Assuming, that he’d just forgotten, and since I really didn’t want anything in return - after about half an hour or so of just hanging out, I too left and went upstairs not thinking any more of it.  However later that night, Mike came into the dormitory with a photo that Prince had left with Joaquin at reception - which was the gift he had wanted to give me.  On the back of the photo is written in freshly scrawled handwriting:
Prince
God
Love
You

The photo is of himself, and it looks like it had been tacked to his wall for quite some time.  The photo is completely heartbreaking -  it’s of Prince some years ago, possibly in the late eighties early nineties, and he’s wearing a beret and a brand new white jacket.  He looks so strong, so healthy, his eyes have this strength behind them, almost screaming to you "I’m young, I’m powerful, I’m proud - I dare you to fuck with me".

Cut back to today and Prince is wearing clothes that may never have been washed whilst in his ownership, and looks like a slight breeze would blow him away.  He lives in a halfway house on the upper west side of Manhattan and tells people that he never wants to leave.  He has been to jail twice, most recently for trafficking drugs in from Canada, and was told. whilst in prison in 1997 that he has aids.  He calls himself a "Garbage man" - he finds things on the streets and then tries to sell them.  He’s kind and generous when he can be, what he can’t sell he tries to give to people that he thinks will enjoy them - to Veronica it was a leather jacket, to Mel it was an old sewing machine.  He once asked Mike if he could buy him anything from the deli.  The things he finds he makes his own, assumes the identity of whatever it is - he once found a clipboard with information about a charity event and then proceeded to asked us to "Check out what I’m doin for the kids - you all have to be there" - he wasn’t using it to try and get money, he just wanted us to be impressed with what he was doing.

You can tell when he’s run out of drugs though, and he becomes a pathetic shell of a man, wandering up and down west 95th street trying to find something to sell or get someone to give him some money - and that’s when he can get a little strange.  About a fortnight ago he came into the foyer in the middle of the day, which was an anomaly in itself, holding his arm yelling at me "Yo man, punch me in the back", when I refused, Carlos a little too willingly for my liking started punching Prince in the back.  Once Prince was satisfied with the shots to the spine he turned to me and yelled "Motherfucker don’t be scared of me when I tell you to fucking do something do it". 

I still feel really of bad for the guy, with the dancing for change and what-not - it’s like he’s been reduced  to being some sort of dancing bear that people prod and poke for their own enjoyment.  However, still Prince keeps coming back for more.  You can tell he enjoys the company, having somewhere to go and something to do and I mean, if it brings him that brings some happiness to his life, is it really that bad?  I think yes, wait, no, fuck, I don’t know. 

How can you respect someone in that sort of situation?  How is it possible to get oneself out of a hole like that?  Who’s going to help someone like him?  Is it his fault, or a case of repeatedly being in the wrong place at the wrong time? 

How did a man once so proud end up like this?�

 I’m due in court on the 10th October.

It turns out that having an open bottle of alcohol, even if it is on the top step of the building in which one resides, is frowned upon.  I went to the deli (around the corner), purchased myself a rather large bottle of Sam Adams (a Boston beer), which was opened by Eamonn (an Irishman) with a cigarette lighter.  Being the kind, and personable person that I am, I thought that I would sit on the step whilst enjoying the first few sips of my tasty beverage to bask in the company of said Irishman to show my appreciation for freeing Samuel from his glass confines.

A police car then rolled past, glancing in my direction - words were exchanged between the constables before reversing back to where I was sitting.  They both got out of the vehicle and asked what I was drinking - to which I replied of course "Sam Adams".  It was explained to me that this was in fact illegal in the great state of New York, to which I profusely apologised explaining that I had only just arrived in the great state of New York from New Orleans, and in New Orleans drinking in public is widely accepted, and in fact promoted. Further explanation was then given to me, that I was in fact correct and why many people go to New Orleans from the great state of New York because it can be done there.

I was then asked to stand underneath the awning to the hostel, whilst the officers discussed their options of what to do with myself.  During these proceedings, another two police vehicles arrived making a grand total of six law enforcement officials presiding over my case.  Once reaching their verdict, one of the officers then served me with a summons to appear in Criminal Court on the 10th October.  Once I had explained to the officer that I would no longer be in the great state of New York, and in the fine country Canada - he requested that I wait until he had finished talking, which I of course gladly obliged.  Further explanation was then given that it was Ok if I was no longer in the country, and that no-one would come looking for me, and that I should basically disregard the whole situation.  If you, like me are wondering why a summons would be given at all, the answer is if one particular patrol mans boss is in the car with him, the law has to be followed to the letter - dopey foreigner or not.

The following day, after further inspection into the situation - out of fear that I may not be allowed back into these United States, and/or the great state of New York, I found that I had not signed receipt of the summons, making the whole thing kind of useless anyway.

So with that, I leave you with a photograph of central park, also taken late in the evening.

I’m not really turning this question into a whole little post thing out of some egotistical feeling of self-importance - more out of a search to fill the boredom of the front desk at four in the morning with some sort of creative… creation.  It probably just looks like some sort of egotistical feeling of self-importance - but aren’t all blogs like that?

The first thing I need to do is get a little help from my friends - remember The Mitch is a skyintist, and I’m just some guy that’s working for no money.

At times I find writing therapeutic, but the stuff I write for therapy isn’t really published on this blog - it’s written in a little notebook that I keep in my backpack and it’s full of things that I wouldn’t really share.  I think it was Thoreau that wrote "I never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself" - and I think that really sums up my little notebook the best, it’s normally written out of some feeling depression and once it’s all been put out there I do feel a lot better (of course Thoreau’s statement does have a slightly different meaning to that).  The stuff that’s put on here however, is done more for those that I know who check it - family and close friends, and the subject matter generally reflected in that. 

Having said that, I would say that I write more for myself than others - but what I write is written for others.  Make sense?  No, of course it doesn’t - but I’m full of complexities at four in the morning.  It’s the joy of sharing various experiences with others, and I know that Mum must appreciate knowing what random thoughts are running through my little mind.

Random recommendation - read "A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius", I’m only half way though at the moment but it’s quickly becoming my favourite book.  It’s written in such a wonderful way, like a random manic-depressive a.d.d. outburst.  The subject matter is really quite interesting, but I’m really drawn to how it’s written.  For example (you should know that Toph is the writer’s 8 year old little brother who the writer is taking care of at the age of 22 since their parents death and that he is talking about how to date again):

If, on the other hand, she treats Toph, like an adult, fine, but in such a way that inappropriate things are said, things unfit for his young ears, such as "Can you believe what they were charging for condoms at Walgreen’s?" then she is unpreferred.  In general, if, even with the observance of said rules, Toph does not like her, for whatever reason - he never says so but it becomes clear (he retreats to his room when she arrives or he does not show her his lizards or does not want to go for candy after the movie)-then she is slowly faded away, unless of course she is extraordinarily goodlooking, in which case it doesn’t matter what the little dickhead says." 

Hooray for me.  I can read.  Anyways, going to see The Decemberists play in Central Park tomorrow night which should be really cool - I’ve (read We’ve - meaning Mike (a.k.a Country Mike), Mel and I) have found a new favourite outing in New York, the Great Lawn in the middle of Central Park at one in the morning - it’s completely deserted and you get a kick-arse view of the New York skyline.

I never know how to end these. So I’ll end it with this.