Sunday, 11 July 2004 | The screamer

There's a man who walks around Fort Greene, Brooklyn, who's known to some as "the screamer." He's an older man, has dark brown skin and graying hair. Tall and thin, with long, demonstrative arms. He doesn't scream, really. It sounds more like he's in the middle of a confrontation, except that he's always alone, talking to no one. Often he talks about an invisible "white-ass m.f." and "black-ass m.f.," whom he berates and taunts. His performance is amusing, if you can let yourself forget that it's ultimately sad.

A few weeks ago, in an unusual interaction with some non-invisible people, he walked up to an occupied Lexus that was in the midst of being parked, and yelled repeatedly, "I got twenty-six chil'ren! What you got?!"

...

I've been enjoying the beautifully bearable heat of summer. Grilling in Prospect Park, riding my bike through the seams of Brooklyn (in one case, pulling along a skateboarder, Back to the Future-style), lording over my borough on windy rooftops, drinking red wine with ice cubes on my fire escape, eating brunch in the sun, watching a rainbow of kids run through playground sprinklers and get their face painted like Spiderman, going to parties (birthdays, going away) that ended in dancing/pool playing/hip hop karaoke, eating ice cream at Coney Island, riding in a car(!) with the windows down, and listening to the street noise that seeps through my open window.