Whenever someone asks me what it’s like to live in New York City I always tell them “you see the best and worst of everything, everyday.” In a city so large, you will inevitably come across every extreme— culturally, socially and economically. It’s what gives the city its unique and unrivaled character.

This past weekend I was sitting at a bar in the East Village called Doc Holliday’s with a few of my friends. They were running a 2 for 1 special at the time and one of my friends, Lou, ordered a round of Bud Lights. As is the case at any bar during a special of this nature, the 2nd beer is placed in the well to keep cold. Once Lou had finished the first of his beers, he asked the bartender for the second Bud Light. She responded by accusing him of lying, stating that he had actually originally ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. If you aren’t familiar with PBR, all you need to know is it’s a horribly insufficient substitute to anything, including something as lackluster as Bud Light. Lou assured her he wasn’t the type of person to lie over something as trivial as what amounted to a fifty cent difference. We told her she would find his second Bud Light in the well in front of her, where we had watched her place it earlier. Sure enough, it was there— but she said that was for somebody else. After a few minutes of an entire group of people telling her she is mistaken, she finally gives Lou what is rightfully his.

Moments later, another friend of mine approached the bar to order a round. Caught up in conversation, she was not watching when her drink and change was returned. I was at the end of the bar, beginning to take more notice of the bartender’s actions as my focus shifted between her, the Yankees game and my Jack on the rocks. The bartender walked down the bar, collecting all of the money that was laid on the bar. I thought little of it.

Very soon after, my friend, having completed her conversation, turned back to the bar to retrieve her drink and change. The beer was waiting for her, but her change was not to be found. She asked the bartender if she had any change coming, knowing that $17 should have accompanied her beer. Without hesitation, the bartender pointed at Lou and accused him of stealing her change. The absurdity of the statement caught him off guard, because the idea of stealing money from one of his best friends was obviously out of the question. The bartender continued to insist that she had placed her change on the bar, and that Lou had stolen it. Upon remarking that she must be crazy for thinking he would steal from a person he considers as close as a sister, the bartender approaches him, grabs his new beer that he just had to argue for, pours it out and screams for him to get out of the bar. Lou handled the situation well, and left without a scene. I, on the other hand, was not about to go as quietly.

Since she had been yelling, a majority of the bar was now looking in our direction to see what the commotion was over. I’m still sitting in the same position, laughing at what has just transpired. I called the bartender over to have a word with her, but was going to make sure the rest of the bar heard what I had to say. I pointed out the fact that she, only minutes earlier, accused Lou of being a liar. To anyone with pride, this is a serious accusation on its own. But, to accuse the same person of stealing moments later, from a good friend nonetheless, is simply wrong.

She gave me a half sincere excuse that she sees all sorts of scumbags and doesn’t know who to trust. I continued to press the issue, adding that it must be her dismal outlook on humanity that so easily allowed her to pigeonhole my friend as a liar from the start. She argued this fact with me for about a minute, concluding that she had placed the change on the bar and someone must have stolen it. Having given her ample opportunity to defuse the situation, I decided to let her know what I had seen. I mentioned that I had watched her place the money on the bar like she said she had. I then disclosed that I had also seen her collect all of the money off the bar, including the change, when she picked up our tips. She grew quiet. I continued, stating that she obviously noticed my friend wasn’t paying attention when her change arrived, and that she pocketed the money knowing she could easily use theft as her scapegoat. I demanded to know why she decided she was going to make false accusations to cover for her own misdoings.

“I guess I didn’t realize…”

Didn’t realize what? That someone was watching? That someone would call out the bartender as being the liar? The scumbag thief? Well, then you must have not realized that I was sitting at your bar. I welcomed her to keep the money she was willing to verbally berate and humiliate someone for and suggested that she is exactly the type of scumbag she had spoke of earlier. At this point I walked out of the bar to join my friends, knowing my point had been made.

Still in disbelief, my friends and I made our way to a bar on the other side of Tompkins Square Park. We all sat along the bar and tried to return back to our normal conversation. At one point a guy with scraggly hair, a tie-dye shirt and a backpack sat next to us. He looked like a drifter and was selling CD’s out of his backpack. Due to past incidents, I typically become weary of anyone trying to sell me something unsolicited. I decided to give this guy a chance because he seemed friendly. After some light conversation, we order him a round, our way of welcoming someone as a friend of our group. After another round we decided we were going to check out another bar and said goodbye to our friend. Upon arriving at the next bar, my friend realized she no longer had her cell phone.

Thinking back, I remember seeing her phone on the bar at the last place. That’s where it had to have been. When we returned to the previous bar the phone was gone, and so was the guy. Distraught over once again being taken advantage of, we returned to the bar empty-handed. With the wounds of two violations of trust still fresh, our conversation once again turned negative. After about 15 minutes, our scraggly-haired friend walked through the door.

“I’ve been looking all over for you guys. Your friend left her phone at the last bar. I didn’t know where you guys went so I’ve been looking in all the bars in the area. I’m glad I found you.”

And with that, my faith in humanity was completely restored. It even left me thinking about how I had almost dismissed him earlier as someone not to be trusted. In a city like New York, it’s easy, if not acceptable, to be callous towards strangers. Why? Because it is incredibly hard to tell the good from the bad. The reason our fragile melting pot of a society is able to remain in balance is because for every scumbag, there is still a good, honest person to maintain a civil discourse. More of us should be aiming to be the stranger who brightens someone’s day rather than the scumbag who ruins it.

Thank you, disheveled hippy guy. Next time I see you I owe you a beer. But it won’t be at Doc Holliday’s. Dishonest employees and $17 just cost them a group of loyal customers.

 
[In my best automated 4,5,6 train voice]

The next— stop— is. Steam— Geyser. Transfers available to— Metro— North.

Seriously though, this is going to take a while to fix.

 
Despite Giuliani’s best efforts to clean up the streets of New York City, Times Square is still dangerous. What is this world coming to that children aren’t even safe while Mom is distracted by a break dance circle?

Parents— it’s time to put your children on a leash to protect them from getting served.

I was trying to catch a cab home from the West Village at around 4am on Friday night when I came across this strange situation. I saw a girl laying on her stomach on the corner of a busy intersection screaming what sounded like “Save Ireland.” As I stood and watched in awe for about 15 minutes, a large crowd started to gather— including the NYPD. The girl must have been on some type of speed. This was not normal drunken behavior— this was absolute insanity. At one point I decided this was too good to not be videotaping, so I started to record the scene with my phone (sorry for the bad quality).

A man, claiming to be a doctor, approached the girl to ask her what was wrong, but she continued to scream the same nonsense about “Ireland” in his ear. The NYPD asked him to leave stating “she’s not going to die.” As he attempted to comply, he lost his balance and tripped backwards— to which one officer responded by grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up. When asked why he was being threatened for trying to help, the officer arrested him immediately. The man was understandably confused, considering he was trying to help this girl as everyone else, including the police, stood around laughing at her. Arresting him, not the girl screaming face down on the pavement, was the obvious decision. Nice work boys.

As he was being put in the back of the police car he kept saying “to serve and protect!” I thought that was a nice touch. You have to love the NYPD’s double standards, though. Had that been a guy on the ground screaming, he would have been arrested for disorderly conduct before any crowd could have witnessed something as ridiculous as this.

Not that I would know anything about that.

I was reading an article about homeless people today. Apparently they are becoming a problem— around 750,000 strong. I’ve only been living in New York for 7 months now, but I’ve already seen more than enough of this problem first hand. If I’m not being hit up for change I’m being offended by their smell. They’re everywhere— and come in all varieties.

The Stinky Bum
This is the kind that you know is around way before you see them. The worst feeling in the world is when you realize you’ve stepped onto a subway car with a stinky bum. I made this tragic mistake a few days ago, walking onto what I thought was a less overcrowded car. I was greeted by the familiar smell— usually a mixture of wet dog, body odor and possibly urine. I turned to look for him only to realize the situation was far worse than anticipated. With his bare feet lounged across an entire bench, he smiled at us as if he was enjoying our displeasure. Nearly half the car was rendered uninhabitable. The smell left me dry heaving at work until well after lunch. How do you let your life get to that point? The point where people will literally not come within 20 feet of you. I’m not even asking that you get a job, just stay off the F line.

The Crazy Bum
This variety of bum is usually at least mildly entertaining, even if it is just for being pathetic. Sometimes this craziness is a result of legitimate mental illness, but it’s more than likely from all the crack they spent the day smoking. Some talk to themselves, some scream profanities at families and some just stare silently at nothing. You never know what you’re going to get, but it’s the unpredictability that make them entertaining.

The Preacher Bum
Some preach the word of Jesus Christ, others proclaim doomsday theories. Either way, I can’t read my book or even listen to music. I do not care about anything you have to say and I have no intent in giving you money for saying it. Shut up.

The Talented Bum
This is the bum I am most likely to spare some change for. They are showing effort. Whether it’s drumming plastic buckets or playing a harmonica, they are at least trying to make a contribution to society. This can be said of few other bums categorized on this list. I appreciate your efforts fellas— just don’t touch me.

The Caveman Bum
This bum does not speak English, or any other understandable dialect. He speaks in grunts. One of the most notable of this class is the 14th Street Barbarian. Standing roughly 6′4” tall and 300lbs, he is adorned in tattered brown rags and has a thin layer of filth covering all exposed skin that accents his long, frizzy black hair. You can usually find him grunting, spitting or pointing his fingers like a gun at people throughout this station. It’s an incredibly unsettling experience.

The Shameless Bum
The name says it all. This is the bum that you see relieving himself on the stairs you are trying to walk up, picking butts out of ashtrays or eating a sandwich out of the garbage. All I can do is shake my head in silent disapproval.

The Disabled Bum
I’m not sure if these guys are bums because they are disabled or just average people trying to cash in on sympathy. They usually don’t have the defeated-at-life look most bums do. Although, I am sometimes impressed by their determination to panhandle. One time when I was on the train, a man in a wheelchair, legs gone at the knees, came through the door. He somehow managed to make it through the doors that connect the cars while the train was going full speed, an impressive feat. He began to wheel his way down the car, shaking his coffee can. As we approached a stop, the conductor hit the brakes particularly abruptly, sending the man flying across the car and into the door with force. I knew I shouldn’t laugh, but he had to have known that was coming. I can barely stand on the train unaided as it is. Wheels would be out of the question.

The Entitled Bum
This is the bum least worthy of my pocket change. At least all of the other bums had some type of charm, especially if they are asking for money. These guys will walk by you and shake a handful of change in your face—expecting money. No story, no entertainment, no effort at all. And if you don’t give to this worthy cause they look at you in disgust. Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was obligated to give money to you for shaking change in my face. The most infuriating part about these bums is that people actually give them money for this feeble attempt at panhandling. The last thing a bum needs is to be encouraged for a complete lack of effort (See: The ‘Given Up On Life’ Bum) . I know you love your crack and malt liquor, but you’re going to have to do better than that to earn my change.

The ‘Given Up On Life’ Bum
This bum is usually passed out on a busy sidewalk. When they aren’t sleeping, they lay around with a look of complete hopelessness— not even bothering to ask for money. No purpose. No meaning. So depressing.

Got another category or good bum story? Use the comments.

Kelly and I were on the F train heading to midtown when we ran into this character. The video comes in about halfway through our conversation with him, but since his drunken ramblings made no sense anyways it doesn’t really matter.

Ridiculous claims made:

• Name is ‘Bond, James Commander’
• Is from Woodstock, NY, Bennington, VT and Hoboken, NJ
• Is 58, with 3 ex-wives, 4 kids, 2 grandsons and a Puerto Rican girlfriend who is addicted to crack (this one might be true)
• Is a chess master in Tompkins Square Park
• Kicked the wall down in Dresden; a Reagan man

Other notable moments:

• Having “Bullshersy” yelled in my face when I disagree with his claim that he’s from Woodstock
• Blowing his whistle for us— spitting all over Kelly’s face in the process
• Homeless guy tries to steal the camera while Kelly is using it, a very ballsy move
• We realize we are at our stop and leave while he is still talking