I am told that folks from Astoria are a bit salty. Can’t tell you. I haven’t licked them.
But here’s what’s really going on: the East River is no river, because it’s an estuary. This is where fresh water meets salt water. You can hear the waves smashing against the stone shore, screaming “Opa!” and possibly “Please, Sir, may I have another?”
Do you really want to get mixed up in this zone where everything mixes? There’s another name for it: an ecotone. Where else do things collide like this? Bridges and tunnels? Cult mass weddings? Hot dog eating contests? One might be forgiven for grabbing one’s genitals just to make sure that nothing had shifted into something else. I mean, what are we, gynandromorphic butterflies? Why yes, I got up on the female side of the bed this morning.
The cop had pulled my man tricyle car over [e.g. Slinghot, Raptor], but was having a hard time putting my name through the computer. It seemed to be a very hard cognitive test. I asked him if, when he left his house this morning, he had planned on staying human all day long. He asked me if I was trying to exceed the escape velocity of the Earth. Which was a fair question. I guess I learned the hard way that Queens has a higher escape velocity threshold.
What’s done is done, and cannot be effaced. What you just did, you can’t erase. You can blast the volume and listen to Erasure, singing along at the top of your lungs until you turn gay. It doesn’t mean you didn’t get that girl pregnant last week. The one who’s too good for you. It’s OK, you say, there’s no room for a pregnant girl in my Tesla, let alone a baby. You will probably not find out that the baby looks more like you than you do yourself. If you showed your face to the world instead of wearing that ridiculous bandana around your mouth that does NOT go with your sunglasses.
I put that last part into an email to my brother. Will he read it? Not unless I add pictures, or make a bullet-point list. Before email, I used to write notes to my brother, and I would make mistakes on purpose so I could whip out my strawberry-scented eraser and rub until the world exploded like a strawberry patch. That was a very long time ago. It’s OK not to be perfect. The world smells so much nicer when we see and feel what we have done.