So I was making soup and listening to Blondie and I thought I would tell you my Debbie Harry story.

I had recently moved from Queens into Chelsea.  This was a very exciting time for me.  I felt like a New Yorker and not a tourist who took the train into the city on her days off.  

I was walking back from the store with a roommate one afternoon, and she pointed across the street towards an aging blonde woman with interesting highlights in her hair.  One of those fluffy white dogs was trying his best not be be slapped around by her fraying broomstick skirt that was well past dragging the ground.  The roommate asked, “Do you know who that is?”  
The woman jerked the little dog’s leash forcing him towards the massive center entrance to London Terrace Apartments.  For all I knew she could have been anything from a transvestite to a member of the local homeless colony. It was Chelsea.  So I just shrugged.  

“That’s Debbie Harry.  Like Blondie–Debbie Harry.  Heart of Glass–Debbie Harry.”  The roommate was almost giddy with her name dropping abilities.

I didn’t want to seem too excited about living across the way from a celebrity.  So I muttered something along the lines of “That’s cool” and continued up the stairs into my building.  

Even though I was broke and spent most of my days off walking around the city because it was a free activity.  I secretly felt like I had made it because I lived on the same block as a music icon.  

The mysterious charms of Mrs. Harry began began to slowly wain.  I knew I would never get up the nerve to speak to her.  What would I even say or ask?  The creature that walked the white fuzzball down the street while talking to herself was a far cry from the Playboy Bunny decked out in gold lame.  I did wonder from time to time how many cocaine spoons she owned. I also began to have complete and utter disdain for the London Terrace Apartments.  It was such a massive development. It blocked all the sun from my side of the street.  My apartment was always in a state of perpetual twilight.  

One night, I was returning from a trip when I spotted the poorly dressed, heavier version of Stevie Nix.  She had taken her mutt across the street so he could urinate far from her historic marble and brass apartment.  (Only my side of the street smelled like urine at the end of the day.  It was well know that all the residents of London Terrace took their dogs to the opposite side of the street to let them do their business.)  

I passed them and the small beast tried to attack my rolling luggage.  Mrs. Harry gave me a horrible look for upsetting her walking dust bunny.  Apparently, I was not good enough to walk past the two of them. When I got to my brownstone, I turned back to the top of the street and saw Debbie letting her dog take a crap.  She left the scene with out picking it up.  

Listing to a Blondie Album has never been the same.  

I guess the lesson is that crazy women and rock stars don’t have to pick up after their animals. 

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