I’ve avoided writing a story on the Washington Square chess hustlers because they are almost too obvious. Many of them are homeless, or borderline homeless. But they are the smartest homeless people in the world. A lot of them are drug addicts. They are all eccentric. When you walk by the chessboards, they call out to you, trying to convince you to “take a shot.” The starting wager is $2 a game. I’ve never played. But I imagine, like all hustlers, they let you win the $2 game. They probably even let you win the next $2 game. Then, reluctantly, they allow you to raise the wager to $20. That’s when they beat you in 90 seconds.

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There is a circle of musicians that gather in Washington Square Park on warm, sunny days. Their talents vary widely. Some of them play guitar quite well. Some not so well. Others struggle just to keep beat with the tambourine. But everyone has a great time– especially when the sun is shining. I normally drop in for a song or two. I become part of the group, dance with the music, and make encouraging eye contact with the other members. Even without an instrument, I feel that I outrank some of the weaker tambourine players.

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Today I took my first tour of Bushwick, Brooklyn. A friend of mine once admiringly described the neighborhood as “raw as fuck.” I fell in love with the neighborhood not too long after stepping off the train. It reminded me of Bedford-Stuyvesant in a way. Poor but colorful. “Bombed out” just enough to give a really nice mix of landscapes. Great graffiti. Elevated train tracks. A few piles of rubble. Colorful people. My kind of place. The neighborhood is overwhelmingly Hispanic. It has a high crime rate, and probably can get a little scary at night. There are also rumored to be giant, code-violating lofts packed with poor artists. I’ve been meaning to investigate those.

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I saw a man sitting on a bench in Union Square. He was an older, rather distinguished looking gentleman. His clothes looked mismatched, but in a concerted sort of way– the way a professor dresses when he wishes to say: I spend too much time on my mind to worry about my clothes. The man was reading The New York Times. I approached him.

May I take your photograph, I asked.
No, he said. But sit down for a minute, let’s talk.

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I was walking through Union Square when a man stepped into my path. He had a handful of pamphlets. Following standard procedure, I tried to walk faster and avoid eye contact. But he was persistent. He walked alongside me. He asked me to remove my headphones. He pointed at my camera.
“I see you are a fellow artist,” he said. “I too am a fellow artist.”
“And like you,” I said. “I have absolutely no money.” He held up his pamphlets. Upon closer inspection, they actually appeared to be a bit more than pamphlets. They seemed to be booklets. He held one of these booklets out toward me.
“I am an author,” he said “I’d like to present to you my book called Sausagehead. It is a wonderful book about a Sausagehead who goes around doing sausage-headed things.”

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Can I see it?
See what?
The crack.

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I was followed by a team from the Associated Press today: a cameraman, a photographer, and a writer. We were a cumbersome bunch. As I walked down the street, they ran circles around me, jockeying for angles from which to photograph and film me. All the while, I was doing the same with the people I was photographing. We were like our own miniature solar system, orbiting our way down the sidewalks of the East Village. It was quite a spectacle. But everyone was very friendly, we had a good time, and I think collectively we did some great work. But walking back to the subway, alone, I felt much more in my element.

There was a man sitting alone on either 7th, or 8th, or 9th street. He sat on a giant turquoise box in front of a store. I walked up to him: “Do you mind if I take your photograph,” I asked, “sitting just like that?” He turned around and shouted into the open door of the store:
“Hey, everyone! They’re out here taking pictures of me. I’m famous!”
“Go ahead, Governor,” somebody shouted back.

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Yesterday I returned to the East Village, beginning with a stroll down 3rd Avenue. I saw a guy across the street that looked a little like Jimmy Hendrix, so I asked him for a photograph. As I was setting up the shot, two of his friends ran into the picture. One of them was a man I recognized from the day before. He was the man-in-black that I’d been sure was offering drugs to Rancid.

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The first time I saw Wendell was last summer. He was in Washington Square Park. It was a sunny day, so there was a large crowd of people. Wendell was making a scene. He was wearing a huge rainbow-colored wig. He was dancing and talking to himself. He stretched his arms out like a ballerina, and twirled in circles. He seemed agitated, unable to relax. After a fit of dancing, he’d sit down for a moment and take a swig from his water bottle. But then he’d pop back up and start twirling again, arms outstretched, making a scene. During one of these performances, I asked him for a photograph. He kept dancing, but extended his arm out toward me, rubbing his fingers together (Sign language for pay me bitch.) I put a dollar in his hand, and readied my camera. But he wouldn’t stand still. He kept twirling.

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I was riding the subway today when I heard the Star Wars theme music coming from the other end of the train. I was listening to my iPod at the time, so it was easy to ignore. (Ignoring noises on the subway is a survival tactic practiced by every veteran rider. Noises are normally attached to crazy people, or people asking for money.) But when the music didn’t stop, I began paying attention. I noticed it was coming from a boom box. Next to the boom box, a man stood, holding a three-ring binder, flipping through its pages, and announcing names. “Mario Lopez,” he said. He’d flip a page. “Ryan Seacrest,” he said. He’d flip a page. Star Wars music was playing the entire time. What is going on over there? I began to take my camera out of my bag. This could be good.

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I was photographing at Lincoln Center for fashion week, when a large van pulled up to the curb. After some time, the doors opened, and Asian children began pouring out. They were all wearing matching red jackets. They were giggling. They were lining up on the steps for what appeared to be a class portrait. I ran toward them at nearly a full sprint. All little kids are cute. But little Asian kids, in matching red jackets, laughing and flashing peace signs—absolutely adorable.

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I first met The Psychic in the subway station one weekday night around 9 PM. I was waiting for a train along with my roommate Meylin and her best friend Desiree. Suddenly The Psychic began to speak to Meylin.

I am psychic, he said.

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I immediately regretted my decision to sit by Jesse on the subway.

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One day I walked into Washington Square Park and saw a man, bent over, with a pigeon on his back. I thought: Holy Shit, that guy has a pigeon on his back, and walked faster so that I could get a good photograph. But I soon saw that there was no need to hurry, because as I got closer, more and more pigeons were landing on this guy. Holy Shit, I thought. A real life pigeon man.

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I was taking portraits in Chinatown when I noticed an agitated shirtless man in the middle of the street. He was screaming, pacing, and flexing his muscles. I approached him for a portrait, but stopped short when I noticed three other men approaching. Then this happened…

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