City of Miracles

So this morning, as I was walking to work, I see this skinny guy hunker down like a sumo wrestler, facing this woman who’s trying to cross the street. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, then walks away, shouting “Why’s everyone gotta be starin’ at me?”

Outrageous, and the highlight of my morning.

On the exact same corner, walking to the train after an exhausting day putting the magazine to bed, I see what may have been the world’s homeliest transvestite. Mop of curly blonde hair like Robert Plant over a chiseled, fortyish face with lipstick and eyeliner. A loose blue shirt with what looked like boobs underneath, positioned on a torso balanced on manly man-hips.

And suddenly, I was grinning like a baby. Like a kid who had never seen any of this before. Everything was new.

I’m walking down 32nd Street, noticing the bald guy in the headphones and the too-chubby girl in the low-rider jeans and belly tee, and thinking that look HAS to be working for someone, some guy is finding it attractive on her, because otherwise she wouldn’t be wearing it. And there are a hundred different languages yammering on in the city, and a million different thoughts all running through our heads like stock market ticker-tape.

Anyone who tries to convince you that we’re all the same is full of it. We’re all different, we’re gloriously unpredictable, every one of us a freak and a hero.

So go for it.