Note: The next volume of The New York Chronicles will appear within the next week. Until then, enjoy this tale.
The following took place at Subway today with The Silk, GunderBlunder and Hoot. (Incidentally, Subway is going through more changes than a confused teenage boy realizing that even his mom’s latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens has something spankworthy in it. They even sell pizza there now. Seriously.)
The Silk gets a sweet tea. We all sit down. He wonders why there are no lemons at the tea distribution area. We all agree that it is, indeed, strange to have a tea distribution area completely void of sliced lemons.
The Silk decides to inquire with the management as to why there are no sliced lemons.
Collectively, we also ponder exactly what makes up a Subway Seafood Sensation Sub Sandwich. Crab bits? Unidentifiable white fish meat? A cornucopia of processed sea-faring animals? Mentally challenged baby sea monkeys that kids don't want to play with?
It is decided that this question will also be asked by The Silk along with the aforementioned lemon question.
The Silk departs to the counter. “Do you have any lemons?”
He is met with the blank stare of the man behind the counter. His mouth is agape, yet no words can seem to make their way from his small brain to his large tongue.
The woman behind the counter, sensing the need for upper management aid, interjects and simply states, “No. No lemons.”
Clearly, she has been chosen as their leader due to her exemplary social skills and complete mastery of the English language.
Finding this odd, but knowing he must come back to the table with the important ingredient information we requested, The Silk proceeds on with his mission.
“Can I ask you something else?” he politely says. “What exactly is in the Seafood Sensation Sub?”
The puzzled look remains on the man’s face. We can’t be sure, but from a distance it appears as though a small bit of drool (or zesty honey mustard) has collected in the corner of his mouth. Obviously, the title of Sandwich Artist does not require basic motor skills.
The woman replies, “Crab meat…and…”
Then, unfortunately, she is stricken with the same face coma that has evidently taken over her subordinate and stands quietly, searching for an explanation of their culinary delights.
“Crab meat…and…” she repeats.
The Silk waits patiently. The awkwardness builds and the tension mounts as the line becomes longer behind him. What once started as a simple quest to sweeten his drink has turned into an all-out crisis.
“Crab meat…and…” she says again. You can hear the synapses in her brain firing information, searching for the next word that will end this ordeal and relieve her of the pressure that is bearing down upon her very soul. Then, finally, she reveals the elusive secret ingredient.
“Crab meat…and….lemon.”
After a brief moment spent wrapping our heads around what just happened, all of our brains spontaneously exploded at the sheer audacity of the situation.
In other words, it was a pretty good lunch.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The New York Chronicles, Vol. 2
After a long afternoon and night spent inside a cavernous Irish pub in Queens, I awoke with my upper body in a chair and my legs barely resting on a four-wheeled ottoman that had slid across the floor throughout the night. I looked around the room to see Jordo, who had wisely accepted Rhodes’ offer of a blow-up bed. He had two of them, which is a must for guys in order to avoid any “accidental night touching” incidents, but I chose the chair. Hey, if I’m going to truly pass out somewhere, I might as well go all out and make it the most uncomfortable spot in the apartment. I stretched and wondered if I could possibly find somewhere even worse to sleep the next night, like maybe lying on a pile of coat hangers in a closet or hanging out a window.
As planes from LaGuardia rumbled overhead, we began to stir and assess the damage from the night before. We had all our limbs and hadn’t woken up next to any women with Deflated Monster Faces (you know the type…they look like a monster whose head has been overly-filled with air and then deflated too quickly), so things were looking good. After a bit of discussion, it was decided that the night’s only real casualty was the ridiculous amount of money I had thrown into the jukebox in an effort to hear “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner.
In case you were wondering, it triumphantly played and we were the only ones who even noticed. Some people just don't appreciate culture.
After a few quick showers and a little Broken Social Scene playing through Rhodes’ iBook, we were more than ready to head to Manhattan and hang out. We planned on cramming the day full of sightseeing until it got dark, and then hitting up as many bars as possible for as long as possible. Here’s a quick rundown of the day.
Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center – As Jordo and I discussed how breathtaking the view was and how insignificant everyone looked on the streets below, Rhodes interjected to discuss how amazing it would be to lean a girl over the edge and do her from behind.
Central Park West – We grabbed some lunch at a local deli and stopped to eat it around a statue of Christopher Columbus. It was there where we noticed an older businessman talking to a young woman who was crying uncontrollably. Between her sobs, we came to the completely made-up conclusion that he was breaking off their affair because he “had a wife and kids. This thing…you and I…was just a fling, and dammit Debbie, you knew that. Now get your sweet little ass back to accounting before I fire you.” In our minds, he then smacked her on the butt, lit a big Cuban cigar with a $100 bill, cleaned his monocle and drove off in a roadster that looked suspiciously like a Monopoly piece.
We then decided to hit up a few more sights while we were in the area. The Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields, NYU. After exhausting all the entertaining possibilities in the area, we knew it was time to start drinking heavily. It had been a long day of walking, subway rides, pictures and intrusion into the personal lives of businessmen and their secretaries.
At Rhodes’ suggestion, we headed into Rudy’s, a dive bar in every sense of the word. We went in for cheap beer, but found a lot more. Drunken, serenading senior citizens, true love with a grey-haired bartender and a new friend named Michael. Michael C. Hall.
The time as we walked through the door to start our night? 3:41 p.m.
This could get ugly. Deflated Monster Face ugly.
To be continued…
As planes from LaGuardia rumbled overhead, we began to stir and assess the damage from the night before. We had all our limbs and hadn’t woken up next to any women with Deflated Monster Faces (you know the type…they look like a monster whose head has been overly-filled with air and then deflated too quickly), so things were looking good. After a bit of discussion, it was decided that the night’s only real casualty was the ridiculous amount of money I had thrown into the jukebox in an effort to hear “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner.
In case you were wondering, it triumphantly played and we were the only ones who even noticed. Some people just don't appreciate culture.
After a few quick showers and a little Broken Social Scene playing through Rhodes’ iBook, we were more than ready to head to Manhattan and hang out. We planned on cramming the day full of sightseeing until it got dark, and then hitting up as many bars as possible for as long as possible. Here’s a quick rundown of the day.
Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center – As Jordo and I discussed how breathtaking the view was and how insignificant everyone looked on the streets below, Rhodes interjected to discuss how amazing it would be to lean a girl over the edge and do her from behind.
Central Park West – We grabbed some lunch at a local deli and stopped to eat it around a statue of Christopher Columbus. It was there where we noticed an older businessman talking to a young woman who was crying uncontrollably. Between her sobs, we came to the completely made-up conclusion that he was breaking off their affair because he “had a wife and kids. This thing…you and I…was just a fling, and dammit Debbie, you knew that. Now get your sweet little ass back to accounting before I fire you.” In our minds, he then smacked her on the butt, lit a big Cuban cigar with a $100 bill, cleaned his monocle and drove off in a roadster that looked suspiciously like a Monopoly piece.
We then decided to hit up a few more sights while we were in the area. The Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields, NYU. After exhausting all the entertaining possibilities in the area, we knew it was time to start drinking heavily. It had been a long day of walking, subway rides, pictures and intrusion into the personal lives of businessmen and their secretaries.
At Rhodes’ suggestion, we headed into Rudy’s, a dive bar in every sense of the word. We went in for cheap beer, but found a lot more. Drunken, serenading senior citizens, true love with a grey-haired bartender and a new friend named Michael. Michael C. Hall.
The time as we walked through the door to start our night? 3:41 p.m.
This could get ugly. Deflated Monster Face ugly.
To be continued…
Friday, April 06, 2007
The New York Chronicles, Vol. 1
“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”
Those were some of the first words we heard as we arrived in New York. As we waited in line for a classic yellow cab, dozens of other drivers were milling about, promising that their rides were classier, faster and presumably featured slightly fewer urine stains on their seats. But everyone in line was more than content to wait a few minutes in order to assure riding in a taxi that was actually part of a legitimate business.
One of the “classy” independent drivers approached a woman behind us and began his sales pitch very professionally.
“Ma’am, if you’d like to avoid the long wait, I have a car available now. Where do you need to go?”
“I’m heading downtown. How much would that be?” she replied.
He thought for a moment and then made her an offer. “For you? Only $70.”
A look of shock passed over her face. “$70! That’s ridiculous. No thanks.”
What followed this brief exchange was a back and forth conversation that escalated into a shouting match, ending with the woman saying very calmly, “Stop talking. Just stop talking to me. We’re done. Stop talking.”
The driver, being the consummate gentleman, ended his proposition with an obscenity-laced tirade that concluded with him storming off while yelling the aforementioned closing remarks.
Clearly, this guy had a few more classes left in business school. Or maybe I’m wrong and, somewhere along the way, the saying changed from “The customer is always right.” to “The customer can take her luggage and cram it up her ass.”
Everyone around us couldn’t help but laugh. Anywhere else in the country, this would have been an insane occurrence that might require a call to the authorities, or at least the Better Business Bureau, but not here.
We turned around to see how the woman was holding up after her brush with Bruno, The Possibly Icepick-Wielding Taxi Driver. Would she be angry, upset or maybe even in shock of what just happened?
But instead, she was laughing too. She looked at us, smiled and simply said, “Welcome to New York.”
As if on cue, our car pulled up. We threw our luggage in and got inside. As we headed to our friend’s house in Queens, we knew we were in for a memorable weekend. Because with a Welcoming Committee like that, we were completely sold on the City That Never Sleeps.
And we couldn’t wait to help it live up to its name.
Those were some of the first words we heard as we arrived in New York. As we waited in line for a classic yellow cab, dozens of other drivers were milling about, promising that their rides were classier, faster and presumably featured slightly fewer urine stains on their seats. But everyone in line was more than content to wait a few minutes in order to assure riding in a taxi that was actually part of a legitimate business.
One of the “classy” independent drivers approached a woman behind us and began his sales pitch very professionally.
“Ma’am, if you’d like to avoid the long wait, I have a car available now. Where do you need to go?”
“I’m heading downtown. How much would that be?” she replied.
He thought for a moment and then made her an offer. “For you? Only $70.”
A look of shock passed over her face. “$70! That’s ridiculous. No thanks.”
What followed this brief exchange was a back and forth conversation that escalated into a shouting match, ending with the woman saying very calmly, “Stop talking. Just stop talking to me. We’re done. Stop talking.”
The driver, being the consummate gentleman, ended his proposition with an obscenity-laced tirade that concluded with him storming off while yelling the aforementioned closing remarks.
Clearly, this guy had a few more classes left in business school. Or maybe I’m wrong and, somewhere along the way, the saying changed from “The customer is always right.” to “The customer can take her luggage and cram it up her ass.”
Everyone around us couldn’t help but laugh. Anywhere else in the country, this would have been an insane occurrence that might require a call to the authorities, or at least the Better Business Bureau, but not here.
We turned around to see how the woman was holding up after her brush with Bruno, The Possibly Icepick-Wielding Taxi Driver. Would she be angry, upset or maybe even in shock of what just happened?
But instead, she was laughing too. She looked at us, smiled and simply said, “Welcome to New York.”
As if on cue, our car pulled up. We threw our luggage in and got inside. As we headed to our friend’s house in Queens, we knew we were in for a memorable weekend. Because with a Welcoming Committee like that, we were completely sold on the City That Never Sleeps.
And we couldn’t wait to help it live up to its name.
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