If you're a preschooler growing up in New York City, you're going to witness some shit your more provincial peers will not. Your tiny button nose will know the scent of stale urine before most other children can successfully put on pants, and the sight of a six-pound rat methodically hauling away a tire iron is about as exotic as eating a Fluffernutter sandwich.
You think a wild-haired man dressed in sneakers and green tighty whities whacking at a drum with a pink picture frame is interesting? You are clearly not a jaded New York City preschooler. "This is so derivative," the backs of their disillusioned little heads seem to say. "Let's go to Glasslands and eat some apple slices."