Standing at the edge of the tracks between two staircases bringing the masses up and down from the lowest level, I wait for the L train to rescue me from an auditory assault.
To my right is a deep guttural voice moaning here and there among bass slaps and a poorly placed electric drum kit; while to my left is an almost vaudeville circus sounding act I would only expect to hear in the crowded streets of modern Cairo or perhaps a theater in Paris. I am headed to the East Village area for a cheap spa day at a Russian Turkish Bathhouse. Yes. This is New York City. Anything goes.
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