Craig " I’ve I first I called Last week I reintroduced "One I walked
Radioman" Schwartz is one of the city’s most eminent professional
kooks. Radioman’s a celebrity hawker: He bikes around New York looking
for who is who, and what is what, in the film and tv worlds; he follows celebrities;
shows up on the scene at whatever hotel happens to be housing a movie star.
He used to wear a radio around his neck, and I guess that’s how he got
his nickname. But every time I’ve seen him recently, there’s been
no radio anywhere near him.
run into Radioman everywhere. He’s about 5-foot-9; he resembles a homeless
man on a bicycle, a broken and unshaven Robin Williams on a bender. Get past
his superficial bonhomie and you’ll see the evil little gleam in his eye.
There’s a maniacal lilt to his voice, as if he were the leprechaun who,
instead of finding a pot of gold under the rainbow, found a pot of poteen. I
once asked Radioman if he was Irish, and his face balled up like a fist. That’s
when I found out his name was Schwartz.
met him outside Paul Simon’s apartment building on Central Park W. Radioman
slipped me his (own) phone number and informed me that Simon was a nasty little
prick who wouldn’t give anyone the time of day. Simon walked by and Radioman
started yelling at him. Simon got away safely, and Radioman told me he was laying
on Nicole Kidman, and wanted her to sign some movie stills for him. He appears
to be some kind of autograph collector, but who knows? Straight answers aren’t
on Radioman’s playlist.
Radioman a few times and listened to his outgoing message. It was a screaming
litany of what hotels every two-bit movie star was staying in, and of what movie
and tv shows were shooting around the city and where. It was an extensive list,
though; Radioman does stay on top of this game of his. I guess people
who want to be extras call his number and then show up. Again, who knows? I
left a few messages, but never got a call back. A friend of mine ran into Radioman
not long after that and, just to mess with him, asked him why he hadn’t
called me back. Radioman got flustered and walked away from my friend, cursing.
I was walking down by the Brooklyn waterfront in DUMBO, on Plymouth St, carefully
navigating the potentially ankle-twisting scape of cobblestones and old trolley
tracks. The last person I expected to see standing on the weedy sidewalk was
a shirtless Radioman, leaning on his bicycle. When I said hello he looked at
me with a flinty eye and crowed, "Do I know you?"
myself; Radioman squinted in the direction of a brick building. I asked him
what brought him to Plymouth St. Radioman sighed like he was talking to a retarded
of the directors of The Blair Witch Project is giving an interview over
there," he said. Some young guy came out on the sidewalk and, in his best
singsong voice, sweeter now than molasses, Radioman cooed, "Oh, hello!"
Then he started ignoring me.
into the nearby Empire State Ferry Park and hung with the mentally challenged
adults who invade the park at lunch and go around wanting to shake everyone’s
hand. None of them are professional kooks.