Hookah Hokies.

While walking to the subway in the East Village this afternoon, I overheard a conversation amongst three of the most generic lookin women I have ever seen in my life. They were standing in front of a hookah bar. This is what transpired:

Fat Chick: "Have you ever tried hookah?"
Horse Face: "No, you?"
Four Eyes: "I haven't. I've seen enough people who have tried it and that's enough for me."

I was a little confused. Hookah is herbal fruit. It's essentially like putting your mom potpourri in a bong and smoking it. Four Eyes made it sound like it was some sort of maniacal, orgy-inducing drug. I mean, c'mon - the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland was a hookah smoker - if you can't mold yourself around a beloved Disney character, what can you aspire to (Fun Fact: My personality is an exact imitation of Baloo from The Jungle Book and Tinker Bell from Peter Pan)?

To read more about hookah, go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hookah

It'll make you feel far more mentally superior to these three women if you read the Wikipedia entry.

Parting of the Red Sea version 2.0

A few weeks ago during my usually non-exciting work commute to North Sydney, I had a genuinely unique experience…well, unique to some people, primarily the types that can be described as “extremely bored.” Typically, I wander off into my own thoughts, listen to my iPod and watch the world go by, specifically the traffic on the Harbor Bridge, but that day, something else caught my attention. The man next to me was petting the hair of the woman sitting in front of us. Of course, I gawked, open-mouthed and completely amused by what I was seeing. My thoughts ranged from “Why is -?” and “What in the he-?” I was too confused and/or excited to complete a sentence.

A few moments later, I noticed that the woman being petted was having a bad, if not unusual hair, day, and that the man petting her head was in fact, her boyfriend. I only figured out the boyfriend part of the equation because he moved to the seat in front of me to six next to her once the train emptied out.

But back to her hair. I would say it was mostly unusual, not bad per se. It was as if she had parted her hair all the way down the length of her head. As a result, she had a perfectly formed part starting from the crown of her scalp all the way to her where her hair line ended. I should have taken a photo, but I was too mesmerized with out ridiculously perfect her part was. I was also amused as she kept running her hand through her hair, but only to have it fall perfectly back into place with the awkward part.

About five minutes after I noticed this lady's hair debacle, her boyfriend told her why he had been molesting the back of her head. He was noticeably embarrassed by her hair’s decision to be an asshole and not follow its regular routine of…well…just hanging there. He kept trying to fix the problem and she sat motionless, letting him pull and tug and try his hardest to get rid of the part. It took everything in my being to not pipe up with “Stop it! This is just like Moses parting the Red Sea! Look how PERFECT that part is! And it goes all the way back! And may I say, you have a lovely scalp – what products do you use?”

Now I will say that this scary hair issue by no means trumps other events/terrifying displays of humanity (such as the thong) I’ve seen on public transportation systems (at the end of the day, this lady just had a shit hair day, plain and simple). The New York MTA is still the reigning champ of holding my amusement, and I honestly miss all the weirdos and freaks riding on the subway every day, such as the Hispanic woman who defied convention and plucked her chin on a crowded Downtown F train, or the British businessman who fervently picked his nose for half the island of Manhattan on a Downtown 6 train.

Also, please take note of the photo I have included: Was Moses really of African-descent? Let's discuss!

Dr. Pepper Tastes Like Aqua Net: Why I like not having too much responsibility (originally posted March 27, 2006)

This morning, I woke up hung over. And not only that, I woke up late. I jumped out of bed at the cusp of sleeping in and oversleeping. It was 7:15 a.m., and I needed to be uptown by 8:30. I brushed my teeth as the shower heated up, and I frantically ran around my apartment trying to get things in order. All the while, I felt as if I was going to throw up. The room was spinning and I was freaking out. I didn't want to be late when I had only been at my new job for a week.

After setting the new world record for vomitting AND shampooing my hair at the same time, I clocked the rest of my morning ritual in under 15 minutes flat. I typically don't like to rush, so I was amazed at just how slow I must be in the morning if I typically wake up at 6:15 a.m. and don't leave my apartment until 7:45 a.m. Apparently I can stretch the task of eating a small container of yogurt into a 15 minute ordeal.

After cleaning up what was left of the half eaten bagel and goat cheese I ate the night before in a drunken haze, I headed out the door, telling myself that once I got some fresh air, I'd feel better. I learned an important truth this morning: I am, in fact, retarded. To think that New York City air is going to make you feel better is something that only lends itself to the mentally challenged, and I, my friends, am apparently running on half a brain most of the time.

Getting on the F train was the closest thing to nailing my own coffin that I've ever experienced. People crowded around me, and all the while I thought "Oh god. I hope that man doesn't like his suit too much because I can give no guarantees about my ability to projectile vomit" and "please little kid step away from me. I don't want to yack on your head. I imagine bile and goat's cheese is impossible to get out of corn rows."

The V train was a bit better, as I was able to get a seat, and the train was relatively empty. The V train has this magic ability to always remain half empty despite the fact that it runs a very central route through the city. My seat was right by the door, so I was lucky enough to get a nice breeze every time the doors opened. Also, a man who resembled Superman sat across from me, and I believe that the 20 minutes of incessant staring at his chest to see if I could see his trademark costume did a fine job of creeping him out. His chest was also acting as a point of reference as to stop the spinning in my head. And oddly enough, I think being on the subway whilst experiencing the hung over spins is the closest thing to LSD I'll ever experience. If only Led Zeppelin had been playing in the background, the scene would have been complete.

Luckily, the train was moving fast, so I made it to work with time to spare. I immediately raided the pantry and learned that Doritos and doughnuts with pink frosting and sprinkles cure any sort of beer-induced headache. Also, Dr. Pepper tastes like Aqua Net if you drink it with Doritos. But the most important part is that I'm getting paid to do all this. My boss asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I lied and said "Never been better." She replied with "I'm so hungover right now. God, I envy your job. No responsibility except to answer the phone and look cute." And she's right. I look like a fucking angel while eating a pink donut, and the FedEx guy told me I had a cute white girl giggle. Then he winked at me, so I'm guessing that was a compliment. The mailman even said that he liked my hair, and that he reminded him of the girlfriend he had when he was 22, because apparently I look "mod." I've noted this and plan on wearing shift dressed and big earrings for the forseeable future.

Envious? Well, you shouldn't be. Anyone can achieve this level of fame. All it takes is a severe lack of direction, fear of adult responsibility, an office that occasionally buys donuts and stocks their pantries with good snacks. Also, if you can look adorable while hungover, you're on the fast track for success.

Portrait of the New York City Subway System: A Snapshot in Time (originally posted April 28, 2006)

Scene:
Friday, April 28th, 2006
8:24 a.m.
Typical New York City Spring morning: sunny, but breezy

Location:
New York City
Lower East Side (Essex and Delancey)
F Train Subway Station
Stairwell of the Uptown (Queens Bound) Platform

Cast:
Mary Ann: Typical 24 year old Lower East Side resident; Self-described pseudo-hipster; long brown hair, brown eyes; dressed for work wearing pin striped pants, fitted cashmere sweater, jean jacket with a black zip up hoodie (typical Lower East Side scenester gear); also wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying oversized purse; iPod in pocket.
Hispanic Lady: Mid-thirties; short black hair; carrying Key Food grocery bag; wearing jeans, Reeboks, and a GAP sweatshirt.
Chinese Lady: Somewhere between the ages of 85 and 152; carrying small handbag and Chinese newspaper; wearing grey pants, purple jacket with green shirt underneath; grey hair; very wrinkly.
Japanese Mother: Late twenties; black pants; expensive high heeled shoes; jean jacket; stylish; knockoff Louis Vuitton purse (most likely bought off of Canal and Mulberry); accompanying two little boys.
2 Japanase boys: Between the ages of 4 and 6 years old; obviously on way to school; short, dark, hair; both wearing jeans, Nikes, and both are carrying matching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpacks; mother is accompanying them.

And now to the action...

As Mary Ann fumbled with her iPod while searching for the pocket she kept her Metro Card in, while at the same time attempting to jog down a flight of stairs to catch the approaching F train, something caught her eye.

Everyone on the stairwell had stopped.

There on the fourth step from the bottom, lay a thong. A bright red thong. And this was no ordinary abandoned bright red thong.

This thong was covered in human shit, most likely diarrhea.

All six of the commuters stared blankly. Were they actually seeing this disgusting, poop encrusted discared undergarment?

Yes. Yes they were.

The Japanese mother scurried her two boys away, along with the 1,000 year old Chinese woman, all four of them most likely wondering why the hell they ever immigrated to this god forsaken country known as the United States.

Mary Ann and the Hispanic woman looked on at the disgusting spectacle before them. Then, ever so slowly, the Hispanic woman looked at Mary Ann and said, "Fucking city. I'm moving to Brooklyn where them fuckers are civilized."

And then Mary Ann realized how proud she was to be a New Yorker, to live in a city where people feel free enough to crap themselves on public transportation systems, then disgard their shitty underwear in a public forum. How liberated these people must feel as they walk up the stairwell and onto to Delancey and Essex Street, wet poop drying on their butt crack.

New York Motherfucking City.

P.S. I'd like to dedicate this thread to tubgirl, where ever you are, whatever you're doing (most liking snorting cocaine and crapping yourself), this one is for you.