There was some new graffiti at the elevated Fourth Avenue stop last Thursday, as Jackie and I rode into the City. Two words on a concrete abutment: DRIP COCK. I processed it as you do any street speech: I noted its vulgarity, its absurdity, also its admirable conciseness. It's a striking phrase, the kind that makes for a good band name. Drip Cock. One-two punch.
It's also interesting that it isn't COCK DRIP. Not just interesting—important. "Cock drip" is mundane; offensive but only in a tedious, juvenile way. By swapping the words, the writer forces us to engage. Maybe it's someone's tag—that'd be great.
Yo yo, guess who hit Fourth Avenue da other day?! Drip Cock, yo!
What kind of cock? Drip cock.
But I’m overthinking already. You sense that the writer has no particular meaning in mind, and this makes the phrase yet more powerful. Is it a command? Or a description? Better not to say. Better not to know. The words inhabit the wonderful and scary world of nonsense.
On the Manhattan side a dishevelled woman stumbled drunkenly on the corner of 17th and Eighth. She appeared to be looking for the wall to orient herself in the universe. Not finding it. Loaded at 9 o’clock on a Thursday morning.
On Friday night, at the Philharmonic concert in Prospect Park, I lay down and watched a light move bizarrely in the sky. Blinking erratically too. Why isn’t this a UFO?, I thought numbly. Space aliens, abduction and experimentation. The whole nine. Then I noticed it wasn’t the light that was moving, it was the clouds.