Remember that time in the spring of 2015 when you walked into the East River and killed an eel?
We were on the Brooklyn side, at Fulton Landing. You were wearing a full body wetsuit peeled back on one shoulder, which reminded me of how kids at my middle school used to think it was cool to sling their backpacks over only one shoulder.
I guess the wetsuit was supposed to protect your skin from the hopelessly filthy water you were frolicking in, but there you were, plunging your bare arm into the murky soup. The tendrils of your blonde hair looked wet too, because you needed to stoop over the thrashing eel in order to bash its head in with a rock, like if Wavy Gravy had jumped down from Woodstock's stage to steal some hippy's hot dog.
You had a friend there too, I recall. Or was it your son? He just sort of dumbly stood there in his wetsuit (his wetsuit covered his entire body) as you thrashed around with that tiny eel. A bunch of tourists in bright polos and cargo shorts were eating lunch at the expensive Riverfront Café watching you kill that thing. Right after you told the guy with a camera that you were gonna "eat it" (the eel) it sounded like one of them dropped a knife.
A few hundred yards across the water, there was the Manhattan skyline; hundreds of years of civilization built up, buzzed by helicopters, swarmed with tiny people and tiny cars. And there you were in high relief, a man hunched over in the water, killing an eel.
Anyway, congratulations on the eel.