Tuesday, 24 June 2003 | Over/under

I walked into the film premiere after it had started; I could only see a sea of half-lit faces as I felt around for a seat. It wasn't until after it was over that I noticed I was under-dressed, that there had been a uniform of thin black cloth that ended at the knee. Shiny, trimmed nails, careful make-up, matching handbags. They were full of small talk and smiles; I forced some conversation and declined the invitation for drinks afterward, figuring I'd be quiet and self-conscious and have nothing to say.

I walked around the corner alone, through a pack of punks, and I noticed I was overdressed, that there was a uniform of black that was ripped and studded and full of holes. Spikes, heads shaved on the sides, thick, dark make-up. They were leaning against walls and cupping their hands to light cigarettes. I looked down as I passed them, hoping not to be seen.

Nondescript people walking down Houston, Indie-rock kids on Ludlow. Hassidic Jews on the JMZ train, in their gaberdine suits and top hats, sprinkled among the working class poor who wear different shades of skin, who sit on the gray benches with their eyes closed, who look worn and dingy. Hipsters in Williamsburg, in their flat caps and Converse and dangling earrings, in their small, feather-weight bodies. G'd out Hispanic boys on the corner; young girls wearing tight bleached jeans and halter tops, hurrying down the sidewalk.

A short walk and one subway stop away from the premiere, I'm finally home.