I have a couple things that I can say about last night without getting into SPOILER territory for future work-related projects, but:
1. Barbara Walters in real life looks INSANE.
2. Sheri Shepard is actually stupid.
3. Elizabeth Hasselbeck is very pretty, too bad she is a nightmare (like Barbara Walters face).
That being said, it was time to CELEBRATE with some over-priced cocktails at another one of downtown’s new-ish speakeasy-themed bars, that seriously, New York, you know who has this many restaurants where the staff all wear period-costumes? Epcot Center. Grow up. And not to get too deep into the blueberry-meuslix-revelations-of-tax-bracket-sadness from earlier this week, but it turns out I am the kind of person who can totally enjoy an elderflower cocktail, so interpret that as you will (badly).
So after all of this, I get to the subway, and I sit on the bench to read Heat, Bill Buford’s CULINARY JOURNEY (clearly someone needs to kill me). To my left are two young women deep in conversation. To my right is a homeless man in red sweatpants, drinking from a brown paper bag. I have my headphones on, NATCH, but I can hear this homeless man shouting. TRANSCRIPT:
GOT A CIGARETTE? GOT A CIGARETTE? GOT A CIGARETTE? GOT A CIGARETTE? HEY! CIGARETTE. HEY GOT A CIGARETTE?
So finally I turn to him and say “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” and he shouts “NOT YOU, YOU’RE NOT A GIRL.” Because he was shouting at the girls to my left. Which is already pretty much perfect. But he’s not done. “You might be a faggot, but you’re not a girl.” Now it’s perfect. My cigarettes are no good here (if I even had any, which I don’t, because I don’t smoke, because I’m a faggot). I should also point out that both the homeless man and I had our legs kicked out and crossed ankle over ankle, like some kind of important echo that is probably nothing, but just to be sure, I uncrossed my legs at the ankle and sat up straight, like a human being not suffering from schizophrenia and chronic poverty/alcoholism.
I just also want to point out that every time a woman walked by the bench, the homeless man would pat the seat next to him. It kind of reminded me of that David Cross joke about seeing a garbage man whistling at ladies from his garbage truck because maybe one out of every hundred girls he whistles at loves fucking on a pile of trash, you never know. It’s also funny because it’s not like patting the seat next to you on a subway bench would work for anyone, even someone who HADN’T just been having a screaming argument with one of the concrete support beams. But his consistency in patting the bench every time also made me think that at some point maybe this had worked for him and he was just hoping for some more of that beginner’s luck, or whatever.
Which is all a long way to say that that guy’s your boyfriend.