Here come the crazies!

The weather was pretty bad for most of this week - rain, drizzle, mist, chill, puddles, etc. Yesterday I went down to get on the 1 train at Columbus Circle and literally had to walk through a good two inches of water IN the subway station to get to the platform. It's been gross.

And as often happens during bad weather, the crazies seem to have been damped down by the humidity and shivery cool temperatures. But thankfully, the past few days have warmed up a bit and today we even had some intermittent sunshine, and just like crocuses and daffodils bloom to announce Spring's arrival, the crazies have jumped forth from the woodwork and begun to entertain me once more.

(Let me just make a note about my relationship with the crazies and other unfortunates upon which I frequently comment here on the ol' blog. I find that many people find my sarcastic comments and laughter at their antics to be distasteful, and I can understand why. It seems callous and downright mean to poke fun at these people, most of whom in one way or another have lost control of their lives and end up in unfortunate places, mindsets, and situations. I don't want anyone out there to think that I'm a totally evil person, although I guess if I really were trying to "Mimic Maleficent" I'd be unrepentant. But, the point here is, I'm not totally insensitive to the plights of these people. If there were a clear way in which I could help them, I usually would. However, living in a city like New York, one simply MUST develop a thick skin with which to ride the subway, walk down the street, and, of course, answer the telephone at the gallery. One cannot go through one's day with a soft heart worn on the sleeve without risking spending all one's time and money on trying to help people who need far more help than one person can provide, not to mention spending all one's money on beggars and risking getting chopped to pieces by truly psychotic people. You have to learn how to keep walking, eyes straight ahead, and be ready to laugh at things that, really, are just funny. It's part of living in the city. One that some people who haven't spent much time here might not think of.)

So, back to the crazies. Yesterday was a good day for them - it was very warm but still humid so they were out and about, but festering in the mushroom-y weather. They do well in conditions like that - they send out their spores. They needed to be heard.

So here I was, at the gallery, trying to get through the day without tearing my hair out or screaming at the dumb questions I get asked by tourists or the insanely haughty demands I get from the super-rich a-holes that frequent our establishment. It had been a tough day so far - lots of idiots and high-falutin' snobs in and out. I was trying to write, I think. I was feeling flustered.
The phone rang.
I picked it up.
And elderly woman's voice said: "Kenneth Snelson."
He's one of the artists we represent. We just took down a show of his work last week at our Chelsea gallery. But he sure doesn't have an office here.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Kenneth Snelson," she repeated. "I have to talk to Kenneth Snelson."
"Oh, well, ma'am," I stuttered, "we represent him as an artist but he does not have an office here. I can't put you directly in touch with him."
"Well can you give me his phone number? I know him personally, I'm an old friend." Just about everybody who comes into the gallery tells me they're a good friend of some artist or another. "I mean," she continued, "I haven't seen him since 1968 but I know he'll remember me. It's very important that I talk to him."
"Well," I started, "you could mail the gallery and we could forward it..."
"We knew each other when we were very young," she interrupted. "when he had his work on display in Bryant Park, but it was before he was famous. He liked me and he made me a sculpture out of straws. I'm sure he'll remember it. I lost it, but don't tell him that. I've become a very successful photographer since then." Pause.
"Uhhh..." I said. "Well, I'm not able to give out contact information, but if you'd like to send a-"
"Is he in New York? Does he live in New York??"
"Well, ma'am, I don't really know off the top of my head," I lied. He totally lives in New York. But this woman did not sound like the kind of person you want showing up on your doorstep with her straw sculpture.
"Well I mean I just was thinking of him and I just have to speak to him and I hope he'll be happy to hear from me," she started up again. "I could leave just a message there with you. Will you call him for me? I'm sure that-"
I cut her off: "Ma'am, what I would recommend would be to send a letter or an e-mail to the gallery and we can forward it to him from here. Especially if you have any personal matters you'd like to discuss with him."
"Well, we didn't sleep together or anything," she said hurriedly. "I mean I want to introduce him to my husband and everything. But the other day I was just there and I saw his face in blood red in my mind and I just knew I had to talk to him."
"Uhhhh...." I said again.
She gave me her name and told me that if he called I should tell him she was looking for him and that he should Google her, and that she would send an e-mail to be forwarded right away. I cannot WAIT to read that.