Monday, August 2, 2010

Wonder Woman Hair

I don’t go to Brooklyn like cabbies (or really anybody else) do not go to Queens. It’s not that geographically it’s difficult; it’s that logistically it’s a nightmare. Sure if you squint at our newly shrunken perspective subway map through a polarized lens you may make out a faint lime green subway line that gracefully zig zags its way through Queens to Brooklyn and think, “Wow the G train, what a great way to travel between these two neighboring boroughs!”, ohhh innocence is so sweet. The G is the Hogwarts Express of the MTA system. It runs on a seasonal schedule with departures occurring during a waxing of the lunar cycle during the month of Adar between the hours of 9:18 am and 12:36 pm. Riding, nay viewing the G train in service is like spotting the Yeti. However even with all the barriers constructed to keep the peoples of the outer boroughs separated I not only traveled to Brooklyn this weekend, I took the journey TWICE!

My first jaunt over the rivers (well really only one river but it is traversed four times during the round trip voyage) was very pleasant, with pleasant people and pleasant music, therefore we’ll just skip that story and go directly to Saturday evening when through the help of copious amounts of cheep beer I slowly blurred the line from voyeur of the insane to staring member of the cast of the unclean.

Our first point of entry into the night of the dammed was a large drinking hole along the Coney Island boardwalk that served shots in plastic Dixie Cups and wine from “in flight” mini screw capped bottles. This fine establishment also charged one dollar per bathroom visit which was securely located behind a rough honed slab of plywood jerry-rigged with a taught bungee cord and a rusty eye hook. It wasn’t all bad, they did have a bottomless pit of gurgling lard that churned out corn dogs and fries and a jukebox with all the best disco hits of the late 70’s.

The early evening turned to night as Jesus and I wavered between downing suds, attending a drag show with straight contestants, searching for a non-existent classic hip hop party, bumping and grinding with alcoholic townie octogenarians, making new friends like La-teef who apparently loved gold teeth and his pink wash cloth, and a cast of characters who either wanted to kick our asses or take us home and make sweet sweet love to one or the both of us.

Through this portion of our night time adventure I still had enough of my wits to find this all very entertaining in that ironic “Wow what the F is going on?” kind of way. We were definitely the outsiders, by that I mean we had all our teeth and were not sporting sweat pants and/or fanny packs. Our new palls found us as intriguing as we found them; it was like two clans of monkeys meeting in an open field, both so entertaining….. but then in a moment of clarity I realized, oh good lord we’ve been usurped into the crazy monkey tribe, where did the irony go? We are now the joke!

Our new tribe consisted of a behemoth with a giant pumpkin head and close set eyes, his pall who looked like a taller version of Dustin Hoffman’s “Ratso” and a chunky Mexican who mysteriously appeared with a large tray of cheese fries (yummm cheese fries). Of course when Goonie Goo Goo and Ratso suggested that we follow them to another bar Jesus and I jumped at the offer, (insert Swason’s kick to my face at this point). As we walked to our new locale Goonie Goo Goo proposed marriage several times then after admitting that he was already married he proposed that I merely join him and his wife in their marital bed. The suggestion did sound lovely however because of the current outbreak of bedbugs in our fair city I gently declined the offer.

Ratso, not to be outdone by GGG, piped up and offered to purchase some CRACK for my enjoyment. Oh Ratso, so retro, so 1989. When I declined his generous gift he rattled off a few other illegal substances that he would be more than happy to procure if only I would share in the cost. Brooklyners sure know how to show a lady a good time.

I think it was at about this time that I realized Jesus and I had a better chance at either being raped, kidnapped, and or sold into a prostitution then to ever again see our humble homes. So I did what any other tech savvy almost 40 year old would do, I reached for my blackberry and posted a call to arms on my Facebook status.

By the time we reached our final destination Swason and I were rattling off texts as I laid a trail of cyber bread crumbs. Swason’s finger hovered over her 911 keys and swore that if I took this joke any further neither she nor my mother would sit shiva for me because of my lack of common sense.

Goonie Goo Goo, Ratso, and Cheese Fries eventually caught whiff of our trail (not too hard considering I reeked liked a gutter bum since Jesus found the need to practice his beer spit takes on my boobs) and showed up at the bar which ironically was hosting a gay/ lesbian dance party – of course.
We stayed, we danced, we made new friends, and then at 3:30 am I literally dragged Jesus to the N train where he narrowly avoided ANOTHER tangle with the MTA police (you’re welcome Jesus).

Hours later we both arrived home with scars from the evening’s events and my solemn vow to NEVER visit Brooklyn ever again.

One bright note of the evening: During our night of grime I was approached by a shockingly cute young man who while sipping his beer said sweetly into my ear, “You have Wonder Woman hair”, then walked away. Slick.

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