Yeah, That'll Happen #25
Recently, my "why is everyone so surprised that I have a girlfriend" girlfriend and I traveled to New York City, capital of the world. Having only been once before, and rather haphazardly at that, my knowledge of the city was limited to Friends, Sex and the City, and that one episode of The Simpsons. However, this time I was determined to make the most of it. With my Manhattan checklist in hand and my "I hate it but secretly like it when you call me Jersey girl" tourguide leading the way, we set off to explore the Big Apple.
Now, I'm not sure if New Yorkers refer to it as the Big Apple, but I don't care. The city is far too amazing to worry about looking like a backwards mouthbreather from Texas. That says a lot, considering I was falling in love and spending money like a 17 year old in a strip club for the first time.
First stop, Port Authority. Little did I know that this would be the last place I'd find with a public restroom. Aside from attitude, I think the major difference between the natives and the tourists is knowledge of the locations of public restrooms. Seriously, where do you pee? Regardless, I'm in awe at the effectiveness of the subway system. Not only is it an efficient means of transportation, but it doubles as an interesting date option. Who does Blockbuster when they can ride around town and watch magic shows?
Being the insatiable fatass that I am, much of this trip revolved around food. Sidewalk vender food, to be more precise. Mixed bag of roasted nuts, check. Hot dog from a guy who looks like he hasn't washed his hands since the last time it rained, check. Comically oversized pretzel, check. The best gyro I've ever had, with the added bonus of having it made by the khav kalash guy, check. I think food seriously tastes better when it's wrapped in foil and you have to eat it while walking. The only way my newly acquired tapeworm could've been happier is if I had found a falafel cart run by a guy who doesn't know the meaning of the words "health code."
Central Park is beautiful, but it's true what they say; all the weirdos come out after dark. Where else in New York City can you find two people getting to third base right by a family of four taking pictures by the lake?
What's a trip to New York without coming back with knockoff merchandise? I've decided that Canal Street is the best place to go for a self esteem boost. Not only do you feel great about buying imitation cologne and slightly imperfect Gucci sunglasses, but everyone treats you like a million bucks. Like the African watch salesmen that would whisper "Yo player" in your ear, and then quickly flas you a fake Movado. If I wasn't so concerned about them trying to steal my wallet, I'd be flattered that a black dude just called me "player."
I think the funniest part about Canal Street are the vendors that stand around talking to each other until someone walks by. They launch into their patter that they've rehearsed thousands of times. "Tiffany Tiffany Tiffany" goes one, "Rolex Rolex Rolex" chimes another. They're the real life version of those motion activated singing fish that people have up on their walls.
But by far the most interesting aspect of New York City is the wide assortment of people. You can see two old men holding hands in Soho, each carrying a tiny purse dog under their arms. In Times Square, you can see a bearded Muslim woman kissing as Asian man. On the subway, you can see the world's most convincing transvestite (who I never would've noticed had I not watched so much Nip/Tuck) and get so distracted by the scarf he/she is wearing that you accidentally leave your camera on the train.
So we don't have pictures, but it's true what they say: you never forget a trip to New York City.
And now, drunk hijinks and fart jokes, the things that usually happen to me.
Having watched two seasons of Entourage in two weeks, I've decided that I'm going as Lloyd for Halloween next year.
I hate it when bars do Captain Morgan or Bacardi night. Not because I don't like rum, but because it turns the entire bar into a circus. Memo to the girls who are carrying more than their share of holiday weight: Only Bacardi girls are allowd in the cage. The rest of you weren't asked to be Bacardi girls for a reason.
One time, I was at a bar and ordered a pitcher, a mug, and a rum and coke. Handed the bartender a $20 and managed to get the three items back to the table with only two hands. In the midst of all the confusion (read: patting myself on the back) I forgot to collect my change. Only in State College can you go up to the bartender fifteen minutes later and say, "Hey, I'm the one that was dumb enough to give you a twelve dollar tip. Can I get some of that back?"
Every time I get the hiccups, I think of the Guinness book of world records that I keep in my bathroom at home. More specifically, when they don't go away, I worry that I'll be in there one day.
You know what's annoying? When you're at a bar and the band is taking requests, and the guy at the table behind you shouts out a title. Not only is the song super annoying, but it has a seven word title, and the guy is so drunk that he messes it up, and ends up shouting it two or three times, while the band has already started to play another request. And this is why you should never ask to hear "the punk version of My Heart Will Go On."
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