Playing Catchphrase with my sister's friends makes the "BABY FISH MOUTH!" scene from When Harry Met Sally seem totally plausible.
A sampling of some actual guesses that some reasonably intelligent people actually made:
"Blind mailman!"
"Clothes laboratory!"
"When someone has a heart attack it's called...?" "A heart attack!"
"This is the name of a toothpaste and also a famous painter." "Aqua-Fresh!"
Showing posts with label The WB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The WB. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Friday, September 10, 2010
Back In MY Day...
I was just having a conversation with some co-workers about elementary school recess. And seriously — what was WRONG with us back then?
I mean, did you guys play that game where you ran UP the slide and tried to PUSH the kids at the top OFF? The one where you'd STAND precariously balanced on TOP of the monkey bars and then JUMP OFF into a measly pit of sand? Or the one where you'd pile 6 kids on one end of the see-saw and then JUMP OFF and let the kid on the other end SLAM INTO THE GROUND?
What the FUCK were we THINKING??
At my school, we had one gym teacher who was also a recess monitor and he would actually PICK KIDS UP by one arm and one leg, swing them around in a circle, and then just LET GO. Swear to God. And we would LINE UP for this! Two kids got broken collarbones before the school finally did something about it. Not just one kid, but TWO. Like, oh, one might have just been an accident — carry on!
Ah, the good old days...
I mean, did you guys play that game where you ran UP the slide and tried to PUSH the kids at the top OFF? The one where you'd STAND precariously balanced on TOP of the monkey bars and then JUMP OFF into a measly pit of sand? Or the one where you'd pile 6 kids on one end of the see-saw and then JUMP OFF and let the kid on the other end SLAM INTO THE GROUND?
What the FUCK were we THINKING??
At my school, we had one gym teacher who was also a recess monitor and he would actually PICK KIDS UP by one arm and one leg, swing them around in a circle, and then just LET GO. Swear to God. And we would LINE UP for this! Two kids got broken collarbones before the school finally did something about it. Not just one kid, but TWO. Like, oh, one might have just been an accident — carry on!
Ah, the good old days...
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Downtown 6
"Astor, Bleecker, Spring, Canal" is the new "Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst, and Babylon."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Fear And Loathing At The Convenience Store
FLASHBACK — August '08:
It's 3:46 am and I'm on my way home from a relatively early night of poker when I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a raving case of the munchies.
"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..." — Hunter Thompson
Luckily, I live on Long Island, where there is conveniently located, roughly every 4 yards along any given stretch of highway, a 24-hour 7-11. I stop into the first one I spot. A taxi and an Entenmann's delivery truck are the only other vehicles in the parking lot, so I pull up right in front of the entrance and am about to sprint out when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes.
...ok, if you must know, a smoke break between games had turned into a round of Ultimate Frisbee in the dark on the front lawn and my socks had gotten wet so I removed them, and — as everyone knows — wearing sneakers without socks gives you the cooties, so I wisely decided to spend the rest of the evening barefoot.
However, I am now in dire circumstances. The risk must be dismissed and my task undertaken.
Of course, because I'm now so close to my ultimate destination I can almost smell it (actually, I probably could smell it — it being a 7-11 and all), it takes me about half an hour to get my laces unknotted and the damn things back on my feet. It appears hand-eye coordination is one of the first faculties to become affected in these sorts of situations.
Inside, it is glaringly bright and absolutely freezing. I assume heightened sensitivity to light and temperature are the next symptons to present themselves. I beat a determined path for the snack aisle. I am on a mission, and, for some reason, I am under the impression that only Fritos will do.
So, of course, at first glance, I don't see them anywhere.
"Ok, don't panic," I think. Or say out loud. There's no one else in the store, so who knows at this point. "They have to be here somewhere. Someone always brings them in when we have holiday parties at work, so you know they exist. And by that conclusion, they should, in all likelihood, be here somewhere." But what if that anonymous work-person had just stockpiled a whole bunch of bags before 7-11 discontinued carrying them — then what do I do? Are Dipsy-Doodles the same thing? No, they used to sell them in the cafeteria in high school; those things sucked...I wonder if that same old lady still works in the senior cafe...hey, was Mr. Barone gay? Did we ever find out? Whoa, stop! Focus! Task at hand!
I decide to apply some scientific principles to my search and methodically scrutinize each and every shelf, bag by bag, until, finally, I come upon them, second shelf from the bottom, hidden behind some Cheetos. Not even the good kind, but those mutant-looking crunchy ones. Gross.
The guy behind the counter rings up my purchase, and I manage to count out 3 singles and hand them over to him without incident when I notice he's wearing surgical gloves. The only reason I can presently fathom for this is that he's just brutally murdered the real 7-11 clerk in the back room and I've just happened to walk into the store right in the midst of it and interrupted the grisliness.
Either that, or he's been handling the chili cheese dogs. Those things are lethal.
Seconds or decades later, lying in bed with my hard-earned snack and my entire stack of Weetzie Bat books, I think to myself (or say out loud), "Man, I can't believe I haven't done this since college...have I ever been missing out!"
It's 3:46 am and I'm on my way home from a relatively early night of poker when I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a raving case of the munchies.
"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..." — Hunter Thompson
Luckily, I live on Long Island, where there is conveniently located, roughly every 4 yards along any given stretch of highway, a 24-hour 7-11. I stop into the first one I spot. A taxi and an Entenmann's delivery truck are the only other vehicles in the parking lot, so I pull up right in front of the entrance and am about to sprint out when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes.
...ok, if you must know, a smoke break between games had turned into a round of Ultimate Frisbee in the dark on the front lawn and my socks had gotten wet so I removed them, and — as everyone knows — wearing sneakers without socks gives you the cooties, so I wisely decided to spend the rest of the evening barefoot.
However, I am now in dire circumstances. The risk must be dismissed and my task undertaken.
Of course, because I'm now so close to my ultimate destination I can almost smell it (actually, I probably could smell it — it being a 7-11 and all), it takes me about half an hour to get my laces unknotted and the damn things back on my feet. It appears hand-eye coordination is one of the first faculties to become affected in these sorts of situations.
Inside, it is glaringly bright and absolutely freezing. I assume heightened sensitivity to light and temperature are the next symptons to present themselves. I beat a determined path for the snack aisle. I am on a mission, and, for some reason, I am under the impression that only Fritos will do.
So, of course, at first glance, I don't see them anywhere.
"Ok, don't panic," I think. Or say out loud. There's no one else in the store, so who knows at this point. "They have to be here somewhere. Someone always brings them in when we have holiday parties at work, so you know they exist. And by that conclusion, they should, in all likelihood, be here somewhere." But what if that anonymous work-person had just stockpiled a whole bunch of bags before 7-11 discontinued carrying them — then what do I do? Are Dipsy-Doodles the same thing? No, they used to sell them in the cafeteria in high school; those things sucked...I wonder if that same old lady still works in the senior cafe...hey, was Mr. Barone gay? Did we ever find out? Whoa, stop! Focus! Task at hand!
I decide to apply some scientific principles to my search and methodically scrutinize each and every shelf, bag by bag, until, finally, I come upon them, second shelf from the bottom, hidden behind some Cheetos. Not even the good kind, but those mutant-looking crunchy ones. Gross.
The guy behind the counter rings up my purchase, and I manage to count out 3 singles and hand them over to him without incident when I notice he's wearing surgical gloves. The only reason I can presently fathom for this is that he's just brutally murdered the real 7-11 clerk in the back room and I've just happened to walk into the store right in the midst of it and interrupted the grisliness.
Either that, or he's been handling the chili cheese dogs. Those things are lethal.
Seconds or decades later, lying in bed with my hard-earned snack and my entire stack of Weetzie Bat books, I think to myself (or say out loud), "Man, I can't believe I haven't done this since college...have I ever been missing out!"
Friday, March 19, 2010
Great Moments In Girlhood
I think I may have been a little "confused" during my elementary school days...
When I was 5, I requested an R2-D2-shaped cake for my birthday party. The bakery called my mom twice to confirm that they had been given the right name and that this cake was indeed for a girl.
I had more Matchbox cars than Barbie dolls.
At school during recess, when all the girls would chase the boys and try to kiss them, I was the bodyguard for the boys. Even they were terrified of me.
One of my classrooms was set up in groups, with 4 desks to a group and seats randomly assigned, but you could opt to switch groups or stay where you were at the beginning of every month. I'm pretty sure I shared a group with the same 3 guys for 4 months straight before the teacher split us up because it was "unfair" to the other kids.
In second grade, I had a reputation for shin-kicking and shoe-throwing. These were mainly defensive tactics used against those who dared ridicule me for liking hockey, in general, and the New York Rangers, in particular. Remember — this was Islander territory, at the height of their grand '80s dynasty. But my allegiance never wavered, and it didn't hurt that I was actually more knowledgable about the game than my male classmates. [Confidential to Danny K.: I'm sorry I hurt your feelings and your knee, but goalies can score, and it's still 3 PERIODS to a hockey game, not 3 "halves."]
In fact, the hockey thing still persists: Several years ago, after a big family dinner at my grandparents' house, while all the female relatives were in the kitchen chatting and doing dishes, I was in the living room watching the game with the guys. When a fight inevitably broke out on-screen, I jumped off the couch and yelled, "Yeah! Kick his ass!"
My dad turned to my uncle and said with pride, "That's my little girl!"
When I was 5, I requested an R2-D2-shaped cake for my birthday party. The bakery called my mom twice to confirm that they had been given the right name and that this cake was indeed for a girl.
I had more Matchbox cars than Barbie dolls.
At school during recess, when all the girls would chase the boys and try to kiss them, I was the bodyguard for the boys. Even they were terrified of me.
One of my classrooms was set up in groups, with 4 desks to a group and seats randomly assigned, but you could opt to switch groups or stay where you were at the beginning of every month. I'm pretty sure I shared a group with the same 3 guys for 4 months straight before the teacher split us up because it was "unfair" to the other kids.
In second grade, I had a reputation for shin-kicking and shoe-throwing. These were mainly defensive tactics used against those who dared ridicule me for liking hockey, in general, and the New York Rangers, in particular. Remember — this was Islander territory, at the height of their grand '80s dynasty. But my allegiance never wavered, and it didn't hurt that I was actually more knowledgable about the game than my male classmates. [Confidential to Danny K.: I'm sorry I hurt your feelings and your knee, but goalies can score, and it's still 3 PERIODS to a hockey game, not 3 "halves."]
In fact, the hockey thing still persists: Several years ago, after a big family dinner at my grandparents' house, while all the female relatives were in the kitchen chatting and doing dishes, I was in the living room watching the game with the guys. When a fight inevitably broke out on-screen, I jumped off the couch and yelled, "Yeah! Kick his ass!"
My dad turned to my uncle and said with pride, "That's my little girl!"
Thursday, March 18, 2010
BP2K6
Since the weather's starting to get warmer, I thought I'd share a fond summer memory with all y'all. Circa July 2006:
I get back from the gym around lunchtime and park my car around the corner on the next block over because our street's been barricaded off for today's block party. I expect there to be music blasting, people out on their lawns barbecuing, kids playing in the street, but except for the lack of parked cars — replaced by party tents and patio furniture — it could be any other dull suburban weekend. But I guess it's still early.
An hour or so later, though, after I've showered, changed and read the paper, there's still nothing going on. Unless you count the people across the street blaring an instrumental lounge version of "Gangsta's Paradise" from the stereo of one of the trucks still parked in their driveway.
"Man, this sucks!" I complain to my brother. "Doesn't anyone on this block know how to party? What the hell did they do with the 20 bucks everyone paid? We don't even have one of those inflatable castle bounce things [which, by the way, are AWESOME]! I guess it's gonna be up to us to get something started."
His response is: "Hey, what would you do if I just started walking up and down the street buck-naked, making small talk with the neighbors, like there was nothing weird about it, and if anyone asked me what I was doing, I'd just be like, 'Man, I did so much acid last night I don't even know where I am!'?"
Well, I guess that's one way to start something...
A quick scan of the neighboring houses leads me to the conclusion that our set-up is definitely the lamest on the block. While everyone else has circus-size canopies and ping-pong tables set up on their lawns or matching white plastic patio chairs and picnic benches lined up neatly along the curb, my family's rocking a chaise lounge without a cushion relocated from the back deck, a folding beach chair my sister pulled out of the trunk of her Jeep, and the wooden park bench from off of our front porch. The only way we could look more ghetto would be if we had saved the old living room couches we threw out a few weeks ago and set those up on the lawn instead. And maybe if we were drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper bags instead of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
A few hours in, after the DJ has set up and people have started to slowly venture forth out of hibernation, there's a commotion on the corner: everyone's descending on these two guys pulling a giant cooler down the street on a little kid's wagon. "Are those Jello shots?" my sister asks excitedly, and faster than you can say "power of suggestion," we're running after the guys, too. My brother tries to box me out, citing my notoriously low tolerance for alcohol of late, but the way I figure, I'm already in my own yard, so if I get trashed and decide I want to sleep under a tree, at least no one will have to ditch their beer pong partner and leave the party to come pick me up from the park and drive me home with my head out the window, puking, like they did the last time. I mean, just hypothetically.
Turns out it's just ice cream, which I guess is still good...until you consider that every house on the block paid $20 for this shindig and this is what they decided to spend it on.
What would YOU do for a Klondike bar, motherfucker?! [to be read in the manner of Stephen Baldwin's character during the line-up scene in The Usual Suspects]
So now it's after dark, we've done a few laps [highlights: our end of the street is the deadest (lucky us), the castle bounce is around the corner on Johnson (bastards!), and no one but my brother was really into the idea of banding our side of the street together and calling them out, starting a neighborhood civil war], and the DJ is still playing disco and that god-awful baseball-metaphor Meatloaf song. "Let's request something," we decide. "Yeah, something actually good." Opinions on this vary from "Ice, Ice Baby" to "Ghostbusters" to "Riding Dirty." We decide to go with anything by Bob Marley, in honor of the kids smoking pot across the street.
The DJ waves us over. "So," we mock, "is this the most rockin' block party you've ever worked or what??"
"Bro, I want to kill myself," he replies.
"I could be on Fire Island right now with half-naked drunk chicks climbing into my booth, and instead I'm here." With boozy middle-aged suburban mothers apparently requesting the entire Billy Joel back catalog, I imply. Poor guy.
He never plays our song, though, so screw him.
"Next time, bro, I promise," he calls out as he's packing up.
Yeah, right — like we're actually going to do this again next year.
I get back from the gym around lunchtime and park my car around the corner on the next block over because our street's been barricaded off for today's block party. I expect there to be music blasting, people out on their lawns barbecuing, kids playing in the street, but except for the lack of parked cars — replaced by party tents and patio furniture — it could be any other dull suburban weekend. But I guess it's still early.
An hour or so later, though, after I've showered, changed and read the paper, there's still nothing going on. Unless you count the people across the street blaring an instrumental lounge version of "Gangsta's Paradise" from the stereo of one of the trucks still parked in their driveway.
"Man, this sucks!" I complain to my brother. "Doesn't anyone on this block know how to party? What the hell did they do with the 20 bucks everyone paid? We don't even have one of those inflatable castle bounce things [which, by the way, are AWESOME]! I guess it's gonna be up to us to get something started."
His response is: "Hey, what would you do if I just started walking up and down the street buck-naked, making small talk with the neighbors, like there was nothing weird about it, and if anyone asked me what I was doing, I'd just be like, 'Man, I did so much acid last night I don't even know where I am!'?"
Well, I guess that's one way to start something...
A quick scan of the neighboring houses leads me to the conclusion that our set-up is definitely the lamest on the block. While everyone else has circus-size canopies and ping-pong tables set up on their lawns or matching white plastic patio chairs and picnic benches lined up neatly along the curb, my family's rocking a chaise lounge without a cushion relocated from the back deck, a folding beach chair my sister pulled out of the trunk of her Jeep, and the wooden park bench from off of our front porch. The only way we could look more ghetto would be if we had saved the old living room couches we threw out a few weeks ago and set those up on the lawn instead. And maybe if we were drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper bags instead of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
A few hours in, after the DJ has set up and people have started to slowly venture forth out of hibernation, there's a commotion on the corner: everyone's descending on these two guys pulling a giant cooler down the street on a little kid's wagon. "Are those Jello shots?" my sister asks excitedly, and faster than you can say "power of suggestion," we're running after the guys, too. My brother tries to box me out, citing my notoriously low tolerance for alcohol of late, but the way I figure, I'm already in my own yard, so if I get trashed and decide I want to sleep under a tree, at least no one will have to ditch their beer pong partner and leave the party to come pick me up from the park and drive me home with my head out the window, puking, like they did the last time. I mean, just hypothetically.
Turns out it's just ice cream, which I guess is still good...until you consider that every house on the block paid $20 for this shindig and this is what they decided to spend it on.
What would YOU do for a Klondike bar, motherfucker?! [to be read in the manner of Stephen Baldwin's character during the line-up scene in The Usual Suspects]
So now it's after dark, we've done a few laps [highlights: our end of the street is the deadest (lucky us), the castle bounce is around the corner on Johnson (bastards!), and no one but my brother was really into the idea of banding our side of the street together and calling them out, starting a neighborhood civil war], and the DJ is still playing disco and that god-awful baseball-metaphor Meatloaf song. "Let's request something," we decide. "Yeah, something actually good." Opinions on this vary from "Ice, Ice Baby" to "Ghostbusters" to "Riding Dirty." We decide to go with anything by Bob Marley, in honor of the kids smoking pot across the street.
The DJ waves us over. "So," we mock, "is this the most rockin' block party you've ever worked or what??"
"Bro, I want to kill myself," he replies.
"I could be on Fire Island right now with half-naked drunk chicks climbing into my booth, and instead I'm here." With boozy middle-aged suburban mothers apparently requesting the entire Billy Joel back catalog, I imply. Poor guy.
He never plays our song, though, so screw him.
"Next time, bro, I promise," he calls out as he's packing up.
Yeah, right — like we're actually going to do this again next year.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Faithful
Long Island was hit yesterday with MONSOONAGEDDON 2010!!!, during which power was lost, trees were uprooted, basements were flooded and substantial property damage was sustained (fence posts and aluminum siding in particular prove to make excellent projectiles). And yet, just proving my point that roller derby fans are some of the craziest people on Earth, the Long Island Roller Rebels' season opener against the Jersey Shore Roller Girls was still sold out. You go, grrrls!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
School Daze
I don't know why I just remembered this, but it made me burst out laughing at my desk and now my co-workers think I have Tourette's, so I figured I might as well share the memorable vignette with the Interwebz:
Once upon a time, in a place called "high school," I had a particularly obnoxious American history teacher who, in the manner of a true professional educator, would commonly use phrases like "S.O.L" and "retarded" during her lessons. This did not endear her to her students, the way trying to be "hip" might have for other teachers, because she was also a sanctimonious bitch.
Anyway, among this woman's many other annoying personality traits was an utter loathing of germs. She would actually interrupt the class to yell at us if — God forbid! — we sneezed into our hands at our desks: "That is disgusting and unsanitary! Why do you think I keep a box of tissues up here on my desk [this being the era before the emergence of omnipresent hand sanitizers]? Nobody else wants your diseases!"
So, one day a particularly ingenious classmate felt a sneeze coming on, leaped out of his chair, knocking all his books on the floor, made a mad dash for the tissue box...
...and ended up not making it in time and sneezing all over the wicked witch's desk.
I don't remember the rest of the story because after that part the whole class was in hysterics for a good portion of the remaining period.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End. :D
Once upon a time, in a place called "high school," I had a particularly obnoxious American history teacher who, in the manner of a true professional educator, would commonly use phrases like "S.O.L" and "retarded" during her lessons. This did not endear her to her students, the way trying to be "hip" might have for other teachers, because she was also a sanctimonious bitch.
Anyway, among this woman's many other annoying personality traits was an utter loathing of germs. She would actually interrupt the class to yell at us if — God forbid! — we sneezed into our hands at our desks: "That is disgusting and unsanitary! Why do you think I keep a box of tissues up here on my desk [this being the era before the emergence of omnipresent hand sanitizers]? Nobody else wants your diseases!"
So, one day a particularly ingenious classmate felt a sneeze coming on, leaped out of his chair, knocking all his books on the floor, made a mad dash for the tissue box...
...and ended up not making it in time and sneezing all over the wicked witch's desk.
I don't remember the rest of the story because after that part the whole class was in hysterics for a good portion of the remaining period.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End. :D
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Lame Claims To Fame: Volume I
I went to high school with former Olympian and MLB relief pitcher Billy Koch.
He was a year younger and way more popular than I was, so I didn't technically "know" him, but he was once, for whatever reason, at a local roller rink with his friends the same night as me and my friends (most likely, to make fun of the people like us who, as high school seniors, voluntarily spent our Friday nights at places like the roller rink instead of, say, drinking in a parking lot), and during "couples skate," one of the roller-cops/amateur matchmakers forcibly paired him with me and demanded we skate together, I think mainly because he was the only guy there who was taller than I was. That was our first and only personal interaction.
Unrelatedly, before attaining his actual "famous person" status, Mr. Koch had already been firmly cemented in West Babylon High School legend as the guy who got his ass kicked outside the cafeteria by Phil Iacono.
He was a year younger and way more popular than I was, so I didn't technically "know" him, but he was once, for whatever reason, at a local roller rink with his friends the same night as me and my friends (most likely, to make fun of the people like us who, as high school seniors, voluntarily spent our Friday nights at places like the roller rink instead of, say, drinking in a parking lot), and during "couples skate," one of the roller-cops/amateur matchmakers forcibly paired him with me and demanded we skate together, I think mainly because he was the only guy there who was taller than I was. That was our first and only personal interaction.
Unrelatedly, before attaining his actual "famous person" status, Mr. Koch had already been firmly cemented in West Babylon High School legend as the guy who got his ass kicked outside the cafeteria by Phil Iacono.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Why Traveling To Long Island Makes Me Glad I No Longer Live There
So I'm taking the LIRR home for Thanksgiving. It's the day before (you know, the one informally known as "the biggest party night of the year"); I've got an overstuffed tote bag and a cat with me; and, luckily, I've got an express from Flatbush Ave. straight to Babylon. Because the car's already crowded and I don't want to be one of those people who takes up more seats than they need to, I'm sitting on one of the fold-down, handicapped-reserved benches with my bag on the floor and the cat carrier on the bench across from me. When we stop at Jamaica, a whole new throng of people crowd on. I rearrange myself so 2 more people can squeeze onto the benches with me and Boo, but there are still people standing in the aisle and the little vestibule area by the doors. The conductor attempts to come through and collect tickets.
And then...
A stereotypical entitled princess-type, oblivious to her rolling suitcase smacking into everyone behind her as she pushes her way through the crush of people, stomps up to the conductor and yells, "ExCUSE me! Does this train go to Montauk?"
"Change at Babylon."
"NO," she snaps, and repeats, like one of those people who thinks that just saying it louder will help the foreigner understand, "does THIS TRAIN go to MONTAUK?"
"You have to change at Babylon," the conductor tells her irritably. Can't say I blame the guy.
"You mean I have to transfer TWICE?!?"
The guy across the aisle from me snorts and mumbles, "Well, it is 100 miles away, lady."
Princess gets all huffy, turns back to the conductor and says snottily, "Well, thanks for your HELP! I don't know what's up YOUR ass!"
People are flat-out laughing at her now and I'm thinking, "Up his ass...?"
Princess Pompous storms off, complaining, "I don't know why it doesn't just go straight to Montauk."
Well, sweetheart, maybe it's because the train across the platform that says 'MONTAUK' on the side in big red lights is the one that goes straight to Montauk, and maybe you'd realize that if you tried to figure it out for yourself instead of expecting other people to do it for you...? Just a guess.
She then proceeds to drop her suitcase on the head of her lucky traveling companion while trying to place it on the overhead rack, laugh obnoxiously about it, get sloppy drunk and spill her drink on aforementioned traveling companion, and talk loudly on her cell phone, bitching about her horrid 'ordeal,' for the rest of the ride.
You know, I always think people on the subway are rude and inconsiderate, until I remember that the people taking the Long Island Rail Road are rude, inconsiderate, and Long Islanders.
No sleep 'til Brooklyn, yo.
And then...
A stereotypical entitled princess-type, oblivious to her rolling suitcase smacking into everyone behind her as she pushes her way through the crush of people, stomps up to the conductor and yells, "ExCUSE me! Does this train go to Montauk?"
"Change at Babylon."
"NO," she snaps, and repeats, like one of those people who thinks that just saying it louder will help the foreigner understand, "does THIS TRAIN go to MONTAUK?"
"You have to change at Babylon," the conductor tells her irritably. Can't say I blame the guy.
"You mean I have to transfer TWICE?!?"
The guy across the aisle from me snorts and mumbles, "Well, it is 100 miles away, lady."
Princess gets all huffy, turns back to the conductor and says snottily, "Well, thanks for your HELP! I don't know what's up YOUR ass!"
People are flat-out laughing at her now and I'm thinking, "Up his ass...?"
Princess Pompous storms off, complaining, "I don't know why it doesn't just go straight to Montauk."
Well, sweetheart, maybe it's because the train across the platform that says 'MONTAUK' on the side in big red lights is the one that goes straight to Montauk, and maybe you'd realize that if you tried to figure it out for yourself instead of expecting other people to do it for you...? Just a guess.
She then proceeds to drop her suitcase on the head of her lucky traveling companion while trying to place it on the overhead rack, laugh obnoxiously about it, get sloppy drunk and spill her drink on aforementioned traveling companion, and talk loudly on her cell phone, bitching about her horrid 'ordeal,' for the rest of the ride.
You know, I always think people on the subway are rude and inconsiderate, until I remember that the people taking the Long Island Rail Road are rude, inconsiderate, and Long Islanders.
No sleep 'til Brooklyn, yo.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Soft Sell
Around the end of October I kept getting all these postcards requesting my assistance in updating my profile for the West Babylon High School graduate directory. So, one afternoon, while bored at work, I decided what the hell — I'll call them. Apparently it's just a gimmick to get you to buy a copy of the directory for $49.95 or, for a limited time, the CD-ROM version for a special offer of only $29.95, but anyway...
The guy taking the information has a Southern accent and keeps trying to be chatty and "relate" to me, like: "Ok, let me just look this up...West Babylon, New York — hey, are you ready for the big game tomorrow?" — meaning the Yankees and the World Series, because I'm from New York, see, and it's just a given that all New Yorkers are Yankee fans, so it must have been perplexing to him when I asked, "Uh...what game?"
So I answer all the standard questions about where I went to college and if my last name has changed and all that, and I confirm all my pertinent information. Then, when I get to my work address, Mr. October launches into this gold:
"Whoa — Park Avenue! So you're right in the middle of it, huh? You know, I've never been to New York, but I've always wanted to, and I have a friend who lives up there now, so I might go and stay with him, you know, see the ice skating rink in Rockefeller Center, or that hotel — the, uh, the Waldorf-Astoria! Yeah! Where they made 'Scent Of A Woman' — you know, that Al Pacino movie? [NOTE: I can't stand this movie.] 'HOO-AH!' Hahaha! [bad Pacino impersonation] 'I oughtta take a FLAME-THROWAH to this place!' Hahaha! Oh, boy...that was one of the good ones, huh?"
Me: "... It's not one of my favorites."
I obviously burst the guy's bubble, so he sort of backpedals and goes, "Oh...so what kind of movies do you like?" To which I jokingly ask back, "Why? Is that going in my profile?" Then he gets all apologetic, like I had been seriously questioning him: "Oh, no, no! Just making small talk." I honestly felt bad for him at this point, but still, I had to really struggle to keep from laughing.
So eventually the ordeal is over, and I decide to send my sister an e-mail relating the whole incident, for her own amusement. She responds:
"Oh my god, that is priceless. The poor guy! They probably shove him in a cubicle all day with his headset and he's got nobody to talk to so he has to make idle chit-chat with all the high school alumni. Maybe he goes through the names and makes up his own stories for each person. Maybe he is now imagining himself and you ice skating at Rockefeller Center and dining at the Waldorf. Someday you'll get married to him there, and he can say it all started with a phone call..."
To which I reply:
"Awesome! And my colors can be blue and gold, just like West Babylon, and I can bring him to my reunion so he can meet all the other alumni and it will make it all real for him and really change his perspective, just like that research guy in Titanic."
I am yet to purchase a copy of the directory.
The guy taking the information has a Southern accent and keeps trying to be chatty and "relate" to me, like: "Ok, let me just look this up...West Babylon, New York — hey, are you ready for the big game tomorrow?" — meaning the Yankees and the World Series, because I'm from New York, see, and it's just a given that all New Yorkers are Yankee fans, so it must have been perplexing to him when I asked, "Uh...what game?"
So I answer all the standard questions about where I went to college and if my last name has changed and all that, and I confirm all my pertinent information. Then, when I get to my work address, Mr. October launches into this gold:
"Whoa — Park Avenue! So you're right in the middle of it, huh? You know, I've never been to New York, but I've always wanted to, and I have a friend who lives up there now, so I might go and stay with him, you know, see the ice skating rink in Rockefeller Center, or that hotel — the, uh, the Waldorf-Astoria! Yeah! Where they made 'Scent Of A Woman' — you know, that Al Pacino movie? [NOTE: I can't stand this movie.] 'HOO-AH!' Hahaha! [bad Pacino impersonation] 'I oughtta take a FLAME-THROWAH to this place!' Hahaha! Oh, boy...that was one of the good ones, huh?"
Me: "... It's not one of my favorites."
I obviously burst the guy's bubble, so he sort of backpedals and goes, "Oh...so what kind of movies do you like?" To which I jokingly ask back, "Why? Is that going in my profile?" Then he gets all apologetic, like I had been seriously questioning him: "Oh, no, no! Just making small talk." I honestly felt bad for him at this point, but still, I had to really struggle to keep from laughing.
So eventually the ordeal is over, and I decide to send my sister an e-mail relating the whole incident, for her own amusement. She responds:
"Oh my god, that is priceless. The poor guy! They probably shove him in a cubicle all day with his headset and he's got nobody to talk to so he has to make idle chit-chat with all the high school alumni. Maybe he goes through the names and makes up his own stories for each person. Maybe he is now imagining himself and you ice skating at Rockefeller Center and dining at the Waldorf. Someday you'll get married to him there, and he can say it all started with a phone call..."
To which I reply:
"Awesome! And my colors can be blue and gold, just like West Babylon, and I can bring him to my reunion so he can meet all the other alumni and it will make it all real for him and really change his perspective, just like that research guy in Titanic."
I am yet to purchase a copy of the directory.
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