Mishaps in New York… Pt. 1

It’s been a while since my last blog.  Why does it seem like I’m always starting like that?

Anyway, Amy suggested/insisted that I chronicle my vacation in New York via the blog.  No one wants to read about someone else’s vacation.  It’s like looking through someone else’s yearbook.  Seriously.

However, after three days here, there’s definitely some amusing stories to tell.  Read if you want, or print it out and set it on fire if you’d rather.  I’m doing it in two parts—maybe three—cause reading is hard.

Day 1
The day was somewhat uneventful, so let’s keep it short.  Day two is when the fun starts.

Amy arrived and we went to pick up her case of organic toilet paper.  I’m no marketing major, but if I were going to advertise a paper product as recycled, toilet paper wouldn’t be it.  Especially not “Seventh Generation” toilet paper.

Later that same day, I had my first experience on the Metro, a clusterfuck of people watching at its finest.  I watched two ladies argue over how to pronounce, “shish kabob,” and almost lost it.  Neither one of them came close.

Since no trip to NYC would be complete without street meat—which at first I thought had an entirely different meaning—we ended the night at a gyro stand.

Day 2
Fuck,

Never go into a McDonald’s.  NYC has this thing about posting the calorie count next to the prices, which is ironic since the prices are so inflated you’re not sure which is which.

I held the door open for a gaggle of unruly children who flooded the restaurant.  Kids.  Can’t live with them; can’t shove them back in the womb.

Apparently, every one of them was with a second chance program trying to teach children how to function in society.  As such, the chaperones were unwilling or unable to assist in the ordering process.

Don’t get me wrong.  I applaud the effort.  Ordering at McDonald’s is a life skill everyone needs to have.  But at what cost??  Twenty minutes to get a $5 order of Chicken McBites that would have been $1 in Dallas.  They forgot the ranch.  I’ll dip them in sorrow instead.

Fast forward to Amy’s untimely arrival home.  We scoured the city looking for peach ice cream (are impossible cravings part of that time of the month?) and managed to find only mango.

We saw Magic Mike, which was a let down in some regards.  Sex and the City has managed to recognize audience expectations and exceed them.  Why Channing Tatum had to reserve a spark of mystery is beyond me.

It was almost midnight when we got out of the movie, and we decided to be spontaneous and take the midnight train going anywhere, a la “Don’t Stop Believin’”.

For whatever reason, Steve Perry neglected to mention the singing crack head on the midnight train.  Nevertheless, we found him.  We even tried to move to the next car on the train but I’ll be damned if he didn’t follow right behind us.

He was showing off his recent (favorable) HIV test results and offering fashion advice for people who seemed to be contemplating departing the train prior to it stopping.  Amy deserves a gold star for not interacting with him or encouraging him… thank Gaga we didn’t have alcohol first.

Day 3
It’s July 4!  Naturally my ADHD was in overtime when the fireworks started, but there were a few semi-functional hours until then.

Now, I need a slice of authentic NYC pizza like a Republican needs a reason to hate Obamacare.  But, alas, I was hungry.  My Adderall may as well be at the bottom of the Hudson, so my appetite is raging lately.

I found a review online for best places to eat pizza in NYC, and we ventured to the other side of Middle Earth.  The subway was another people watching goldmine.  As soon as the doors shut, a quartet of vagrants burst into a glee-like performance of “Stand by Me.”

After some poor map reading, we finally got to Sal’s and Amy paid dearly for a terrible slice of culinary incest.  To add insult to injury, as we abandoned the joint in favor of cooler air outside, I couldn’t help but notice people walking by with pizza that looked amazing.  Bastards.

Back to the subway.  This time, a homeless man fell asleep on Amy.  I was pretty amused until she woke him up and told him he couldn’t sleep on her.  He decided he didn’t have a fair allotment of floor space and began kicking out like a seizure victim.  I moved the first two times he kicked my feet.  The third time I kicked back.

As part of my sightseeing itinerary, we walked aimlessly through the city trying to find 3 Beekman Place, the movie residence of Auntie Mame.  After about a mile walk in sweltering heat, it occurred to me that she wasn’t real, and if she was, she’d be dead.  We got there, I took a poorly focused photo, and we went back to the subway.

At this point, I’m considering starting an entire new blog website dedicated to subway mishaps.  I’m not sensationalizing any of this- we have photos, videos, and Amy’s endorsement.  This is real.

In polite society, when a full elevator arrives at your floor, most people recognize that possible penetration of other passengers is inconsiderate, and as such, you gracefully wait for the next elevator.

This is not how the subway works.  We were crammed in like forged ballots in the Russian election.

Not surprisingly, as soon as the door closed, a man cleared his throat and quieted the car with, “Ladies and gentlemen: 50,000 American troops are coming home with no jobs and nowhere to work.  Hire American.  Don’t hire foreigners.  No offense to any of you foreigners, but I’m tired of not getting work because of you people.”

Of course, I speculate the majority of the car was filled with people that could, in all political correctness I can muster, be considered foreign.  You could have heard a pin drop.  It was the first time since I got to New York that the subway car was quiet enough to hear the whisper of the train conductor to mercifully inform us the next stop was just ahead.

The night ended on Amy’s balcony.  The first fireworks show was behind a building in our direct line of sight, so all we could see was the outline of the fireworks behind the building.  Which is a lot like listening to your neighbor have incredible sex as opposed to being the one having incredible sex.

But just as the Cabernet bottle started to near empty, the greatest, biggest, brightest fireworks show I have ever seen lit up the skyline for 30 minutes of uninterrupted awe.  There was a pretty big singalong of the national anthem… they weren’t quite sure on the timing of the big finale, so they kept singing the last refrain over and over again.  Priceless.

From the city that never sleeps,
Ty

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