Mondays and Wednesdays I work double shifts. Our location is kind of perfect of people watching. Tourists, locals, bums, busboys, billionaires and the beautifully tragic.
Here is a small tally of things I saw from my window yesterday:
Five skinny jean wearing hipsters with hair wider than their waists.
Three perfect asses.
One douche carrying a longboard skateboard lose a wheel and almost lost his head as he chased it into traffic. I was cheering for the traffic. Longboard skateboard? Really?
Two sets of those stovepipe calves that just let you know a chick is lazy.
One girl who full stopped in the middle of the crosswalk to talk on her phone. She blocked traffic for a good five minutes.
Seven hurricane lamps that I had to put up in our windows while it was light out that did nothing for business.
Five golden rings.
No, seriously. Five married chicks. Two of whom are married to high up NYC detectives. They’re a part of a cougar pack who come into the bar to hook up with young boys. Now, I’m all about the illicit hook up, but damn if that isn’t a gray way to get shot.
I got an iPhone. I’ve been the most ardent of mac fanboy haters but damnit if this little gadget isn’t the greatest invention since sliced bread. Scratch that, sliced bread sucks. Every supermarket gets their bread sliced too thin. The iPhone is better than sliced bread. There. I said it.
If you haven’t figures it out yet, I’m posting from someplace other than my computer. From the train, actually. Something I used to be able to do but definitely not with as much style.
Definitely not with pictures, either. See that horrid mess posted below? That’s what a local bar near my place of work is trying to pass off as a mojito.
I know mojitos. I work with mojitos. Several dozen mojitos and everyone around me becomes my new best friend. And that, sir, is no mojito.
That’s how many currently healing wounds I have on my hands.
While I love my job, something about working in extremely dark conditions around glass and small protruding screws left over from rick shaw DIY work has left my hands to be monuments to the word “Ouch.” Yes, I get lime juice in them. All the time.
A little while back during a particularly crazy night I was rushing to fill a few hundred orders and reached into the bottom drawer of the fridge to grab a pair of Bud Lights (whose idiotic “drinkability” ad campaign seems to be working like gang busters, white people can’t get enough of that shit). As I pulled them out I must have nicked the bottom lip of the door track, causing one of the bottles to completely shatter in my hand.
It was like a glass grenade had just gone off. Sudsy, tasteless beer shot everywhere and I just sat there staring at my hand. All I could do was wait to see how bad the ensuing injury would be.
I remember thinking that I’d felt this way before. It’s the same feeling you get when you’ve been caught by your girlfriend doing something that you should not have been doing. Only you’re not sure exactly which thing. And you’re definitely not sure how she’s going to react. All you do is sit there and wait to see if she’s going to start crying hysterically, call your mother, cut you in your sleep (this one’s the worst) or if she’s going to give you another chance.
The cut was small. A gusher, but small. I was really lucky.
I guess to keep in line with the previous metaphor it was like if the girlfriend had asked me to bring home the stripper I’d T-boned for a threesome.
Speaking of Twitter, I’m still blown away that someone was twittering from space. I’ve got a fucking cell phone dead zone on my goddamn front porch that drops every call I make while sucking down smokes and some dude is making bland posts about how pretty the earth is. Yes. I do wish I could see it too. How about you take a picture?
I’ve been twittering. That sentence makes me cringe everytime I say it. Like every time I hear someone else say it I just know that we’ll be having that same old conversation we always have about websites:
“Dude, do you still twitter?”
“Once my mom signed up I deleted my account, printed out a screen shot of the confirmation and burned it.”
“Yah, what a stupid idea for a website.”
I figure it’s still got some life in it. So find me there sharing mini observations even more pointless than the ones on here.
Actually, not just the weather in New York has been schizophrenic. My life has been as well. I moved apartments. I’ve fallen in love with my new job. I haven’t gotten sick, which is a little weird. I had a drunkenly sedate 29th birthday peppered with strawberry mojitos and the finest cuisine a little brother can make.
I’m starting up a new column, once I can finish brainstorming .
Time seems to be rushing at fits and starts. Fast slow fast fast slow slow glorious slow.
Actually I lied. The weather here in New York has been all kinds of schizophrenic as of late. It’s hot, it’s cold, it’s hot. I feel like I’m living in the deteriorating uterus of a sixty year old housewife from Jersey.
Ooh, or the Mets? They’re doing pretty well I hear.
Lovely weather we’re having.