NY: Love It, Leave It, or Murder Someone in Blind Rage

Me on a typical day in NYC.

Sometimes in this fine city, I'll find myself walking along 6th Avenue, where I'll look up and catch the most exquisite view of the Empire State Building, or perhaps in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum, spinning in circles with my arms spread out, elated to be in a single building that houses every wall calendar I've ever owned. And I'll think "Wow! Am I the luckiest girl in the world?" as I skip through Central Park in my "I (Heart) NY" velour tracksuit, holding a soft pretzel in one hand and Derek Jeter's hand in the other, with Woody Allen secured in a papoose and strapped to my rack.


Well it IS winter, and I AM Native American.

Then there are days in this city where I want to drop kick a baby in the fucking face out of sheer anger.

Yesterday was one of those days.

The day itself wasn't so bad. After a pretty innocuous day at work, I made plans with a friend to go to my favorite yearly event, the Alain Mikli Eyeglasses sample sale, where I buy all of my spectacles. I slapped on some makeup beforehand -- there's nothing worse than trying on glasses with nothing but a big pasty face as your backdrop. Nothing too rash... just enough to make it look like I had a rash. That Prince Harry has it so easy sometimes.


Easy on the Nars Shim-Shim Stick, Har.

I hopped on the uptown R train, which was moving as fast as a Passover stool. Luckily, my Ipod was back in working order, and shufflin like Al Jolson. And right as I was thinking to myself how lucky I am that I had this wonderful music playing on this slow ride (Hall & Oates, as alw) the shit stopped. Just stopped. Frozen! Fuck I hate Ipods. There is something oddly infuriating about having to reboot a machine that's the size of a fucking sardine can.


Yet something oddly intriguing about a tiny boot filled with matchsticks.

But rebooting proved pointless. Because I was met with a brand new little malfuntion icon. Not the folder with the exclamation point, or the drained battery for that matter. But a little fucking picture of an Ipod with x's for eyes and a frowny face. A motherfucking DEAD CARTOON face on an Ipod.


They might as well have a little Dot Matrix Jeffrey Dahmer come up with a quote that's all "My B!"

Once out of the train, time to call my friend and -- my phone! FUCK ME! I left my fucking phone at work! GAH! The funny thing about meeting plans is they never work without a phone.

I decided to ditch my friend for the sake of glasses. I entered the sale with the same mongoloidy optimism I've been known to cherish -- only to find bins of Meshach Taylor-style Mannequin sunglasses at 1986 percent off. Where were the frames made famous by Elton John, Daniel Liebeskind and Samuel L. Jackson? I mean, I'm pretty sure these Alain Mikli people were taking advantage of the blind, read: me.


My future child.

The good news is that while I left the sale empty-handed, the skies opened up and took their mighty fury out on us pitiful New Yorkers. Thanks to my 900 foot "Condor" umbrella, I remained mostly dry. Ne'ertheless, the R train smelled like a Jamba Juice shake made out of piss, jizz, sweat, shit, dogs and a Power C Boost. The train arrived quickly, though, but was bumper-to-bumper people, and I ended up standing directly over a woman who had whatever disease Eric Stolz had in "Mask." I've never learned the name of this disease (elephantitis?), and insist on calling it "The disease Eric Stolz had in 'Mask'", which will be double-awkward when my child is no doubt born with it.

At this point, I'm fuming. Like boiling over. Everything is upside-down. I'm covered in damp-sticky-rain sweat. And now, lucky me, I get to transfer at 42nd Street for the red line, the station that puts the "New York makes me want to kill myself" in the "No, I'm serious, New York makes me want to kill myself." A million people! Narrow stairways!! Leaks and bags and canes and eyepatches and GOD I hate it there!

I climbed the staircase in full on Robocop mode (head upright, shoulders back, willing to trounce on anything to get to my platform) when I heard music playing. Then I saw it. Two fucking guys, in a ragtime band, in goddamn straw hats, one with a cymbal on his foot, just rollicking and laughing and playin' the oldies to a crowd of onlookers. I'm already at my boiling point, when the other guy starts playing... the kazoo.

The kazoo.

Playing.

The.

Fucking.

Kazoo.


Kazoo.

Here is the exact thing that ran through my mind: "Wha... What! Is that a kazoo? OMFG. I'm -- I wanna take my gigantic Nike Golf umbrella, hold it up to my waist, facing outwards, like a knight. Then, I want to run my umbrella directly into that man's chest, Braveheart-style, open the umbrella up, and listen until the sound of the kazoo fizzles out ever so slowly."

This, friends, was one of my worst afternoons in New York.

Thankfully, I was wearing makeup for it.


I looked pretty, but more importantly, I felt pretty.

In totally unrelated news, I bring to you my favorite thing of 2006 thus far: EARTH SANDWICH. (via Boing)