Tuesday, June 13, 2006

I Love a Parade

Sunday was Puerto Rico Day, and since I'm not Puerto Rican I wasn't at the parade. Well, actually, the biggest reason I wasn't at the parade was that Marc Anthony was the grand marshal, and I have my suspicions that a zombie apocalypse is nigh and that dude is ground fucking zero.

Instead I was burning to a crisp at Coney Island, where there were still enough people walking around with Puerto Rican flag bandanas and Puerto Rican flag capes to remind me what day it was. There was also a tiny girl, maybe five or six years old, walking around in an impossibly short jersey dress. She could've been wearing it over her bathing suit, so it's not a given that she was a little toddler hooker, but doesn't that make any story better?

Anyway, so, short little jersey dress on a five-year-old, and printed on the dress was Betty Boop, also wearing a jersey dress. And then underneath the whole thing it says "Boricua."

That's just wrong. I mean, factually. I think Betty's German.

I kind of wish I had a cultural reason to tie flags to the antenna of my car and shut down important traffic arteries in midtown Manhattan. The powers that decide such things have yet to declare a Half-Italian Half-Polish Non-Vegetarian-Even-Though-Everyone-Thinks-So Myopic Chubby Sunburned with Visible Roots Day. My fully Polish mom once got to be a little Polish schoolgirl on a float in some big New York parade for some Polish holiday I know nothing about because I'm only half-Polish and the extent of my cultural affiliation is a weird inherited pronunciation of the word "pierogi."

My parade would be so much better than that. Who wouldn't drag a lawn chair to the curb to watch me roll by on a float, inhaling cannoli, telling jokes about how many Polish guys it takes to screw in a lightbulb, and gingerly applying aloe to my back? What's Puerto Rico got on that? Besides an entire culture and history and music and food and celebrities including very famous Jennifer Lopez?

And thus the curtain falls on Act One of this blog, because I cannot for the life of me think of a way to get from Jennifer Lopez to the thing I'm going to talk about next. The curtain rises on me, still sitting here, still typing, except this time about something else equally unimportant.

So on Saturday I was walking around St. Marks with Brad while Kai was getting a big tattoo inked onto her forearm, and I really, really had to go to the bathroom. In a neighborhood that still considers itself counter-cultural the Starbucks are few and far between, so did that gotta-go shuffle back a few blocks to where I knew I'd seen one. Of course, there was a line for the single occupancy toilet. Of course there was. Of course there would be one lone toilet in an establishment that serves almost exclusively liquids.

I didn't even stop to buy my guilt coffee. That is how urgent the situation was.

So there are three or so guys in front of me on a line that is not moving nearly fast enough to avert a big, wet disaster when another dude joins the line behind me. And he's a talker. At first this is sort of cool, because on his approach from the door he looks sort of cute.

My standards are not hard to meet (male, alive, young enough not to have sired me). Even so, this guy managed to take a headlong leap from the high dive of my heart pretty much as soon as he opened his mouth, progressing downward toward his big splash of lameness, which was: "And 'Scarface' too."

How did we get there? Follow me, my friends.

There were pleasantries, which were. Then: "It's so lame that this city doesn't have, like, human nature under control. There should be bathrooms everywhere! It's human nature."

Then: "I'm soooo wasted."

Then: "I'm in a band. I'm touring. I'm not even from New York, but you guys are all so chill. Seriously, you guys are all so chill. L.A. is a cesspool of shit, man. I'm sorry, I'm wasted."

Then, after I asked what band he was in: "Well, do you know like hardcore stuff? We're pretty hardcore. We're best friends with, like, Dillinger. We're really tight. I gotta get more tattoos, though."

Then, to a guy sitting in the corner reading: "DUDE YOUR INK IS AWESOME."

Then, the grand finale: "Yeah, I've got this whole sleeve planned out, with quotes from 'Fight Club.'"

And everyone all together now: "And 'Scarface' too."

If there is ever a Dissapointing Lame Guy parade, I think I found the grand marshal.

3 Comments:

Blogger Sunset Parker said...

The parade was sunday, not saturday

5:13 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Typo!

5:20 PM  
Anonymous nicole - yeah that one said...

is it really that lame to have "say hello to my little friends" (because that is most likely his pick) tatted on your back underneath "the first rule of fight club - don't talk about fight club"? i mean is it? and that lil toddler hooker - i have the feeling she one day will be seducing my daughters boyfrind with her latino charm - whether we're in ny or not

9:02 AM  

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