There are things I've done, that I'm glad I've done, that I never wanted to do. I had no desire to take statistics or physical anthropology in college – glad I did. I had no want to ever drink carrot juice or know what a radish is. Vegetables are for rabbits. I eat meat and steak is the meat I eat when I can get it. I walked into Jason Richardson's kitchen years ago. He was making carrot juice. He got me to drink a shot of it, the way you get a drunk friend to drink a bar mat shooter – the one with every spilled drink in the club and a good dose of cigarette ash. I drank the carrot juice. I loved the carrot juice. I became a juicer. To jazz it up, I've been adding radishes to the mix in recent months. As a kid, I wanted to eat spicy food about as much as I wanted to calculate standard deviation in stats class. I learned about spicy from Ryu, Shu-Yin and Sei Iwai in a Port Jefferson sushi bar during high school. They got me to eat sushi and back then, raw fish was not a thing - at all. I can still see Ryu smirk when he got me to swallow a marble of wasabi off a chopstick. Pain, wonderful pain. I loved the spice with yellow tail and every sashimi that followed. Life is better, having tried new things. I've gratitude for being carried forward. Glad , I've done things I didn't want to do.
Remarks by George Furman
On route to the best burger in New York, I rode my razor push scooter. I wanted to ride wild in the dark down sidewalks. It was the bald man's feeling of wind blowing in the hair – kind of an amputee's ghost limb experience. I wiped out. Skinned a knee and embedded gravel in my palms. Felt like the13-year-old George bleeding from the knee and too young and dumb to care. Scooting to the subwaystation, It occurred to me I had Brooklyn sidewalk dirt in my cut – wino urine for sure. The smart move went to a pharmacy and got Hydrogen peroxide. It isn't supposed to sting - It did. Fall off the horse, get back on. I scooted to the best cheeseburger in New York - $16. It came with an American flag stuck deep I the bun.
My family is originally from Brooklyn. Furman Street runs right under the Brooklyn Bridge, which is how I came to own the bridge. It provides a good living. It does require work, but it's a labor of love and the bridge toll does pay well. I am the last member of my family and sadly arthritis has set in and I'm unable manage the Brooklyn Bridge the way my family has for generation. All good things must come to an end. I must sell the bridge and live my life out in a wheel chair in the quaint town of Cookeville, Tennessee. If you are interested in a good reliable income and a great retirement investment please contact me soon. The Brooklyn Bridge is for sale – cash only.
There was no one to help. There was no one to kick in the face. I've confused feelings about the homeless . Ronald Reagan said there are no homeless people in America - it's a choice. Our leaders must know, I don't. I'm just a witness. I don't understand the world. I see and feel. After that, it's confusion for me. I saw the pink blanket camp of this guy at Graham Ave station in Brooklyn.I recognized the blanket. My child was wrapped in one like it long ago. Then, I saw the book. All I could read was “Modern.” Wasn't about to touch the guy's stuff to read the full title. I'm crazy, not homeless crazy – been close. I do see myself in homeless people. Also at times, I imagine them as old friends. That's when I want to leave a dollar or give a slice of pizza. I also see people I hate. That's when I'd like to kick them in the face while they sleep or at least piss on their blanket. Thinking that way, makes it easier to walk by, do nothing. None of my business, they are probably fuckers. Incidentally, it's a bad idea to kick a homeless person. They can take it and will likely mop you up. Not because they are veterans – many are. Not because they are on drugs – many are – when they can get it. They can take it because they got tortured as children in the possible ways a sensitive soul can be bounced around. Having had their souls twisted they go out of their minds. Don't test them. I'm sure of this. I know a homeless guy, he'll charge you $20 for a free and open kick in the balls. He doesn't flinch. Being kind is a an option, suffering isn't. Everyone suffers. It always confuses me – good guys suffering too much, bad guys not suffering enough. I don't know how to care the right way – haven't that level of compassion, intelligence or grace. I see more than I want. I hate it, the homeless remind me I'm not the good person I'd like to be. I don't know. I don't know. Too man, way too many. I did figure out the book in the photo, Straight Male Modern: A Cultural Critique of Psychoanalysis by John Brenkman – interesting.
Look closely, you may be looking at van Gogh's ear. It's the best remark from my favorite movie- Basquiat – it's good advice. I believe in the romantic as a life tool. I think without kind gestures like flowers or notes on napkins, we'll all go mad staring into the big ugly. Life's unfortunate events will eat us up, drive us to self-destruction. I see romantics leaving message everywhere for everyone. On the long beach boardwalk, I saw flowers left for someone. Perhaps the flowers were there to commemorate a loved one lost at sea or maybe they were a message left for a lover lost in life's ocean. They could have been left by a man for a woman he could not approach for all the complicated reasons that separate lovers. I know for certain, the medium is the message – here is love for you. Have it.