The Pot Guys II

“Motherfucking paranoid Leonard,” Ed said to himself, descending the inside stairs four at a time.

At the front door he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his baseball cap and opened his umbrella, stepping warily into the wet street. The rain had let up to a meager drizzle under a cast-iron sky.



He scanned 116th Street from his front porch, which gave him a clear view all the way down to Riverside west and up to the gates of Columbia east.

He quickly made the ascent up to Broadway, huddling for a moment under the awning of the Chinese restaurant on the corner, blanketed in the smell of greasy wontons and wet newspaper.

With no sign of a maroon Impala, Ed crossed Broadway, walked through the Columbia gates and dodged the scatter of students offering an awkward ‘hello’ to the campus security guard on his way.

Along the brick path, halfway to the steps of the library, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was Leonard.

“Yeah what is it?”

“Come in Delta Five. This is Echo Seven. We have confirmation,” Leonard said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak English.”

“Roger that, Delta. The bird has landed.”

“Fuck you Leonard!”

“Chill man. Shit.” Leonard said.

“I’m not an air traffic controller. What is it?”

“Fine dickhead. A maroon Impala just pulled up to the northeast corner, on 116th. I think it’s them.”

Ed spun on his heel and started for the intersection.

“Got it. I’m on my way,” Ed said.

“Wait. Hang on,” Leonard said.

“What?”

“Where are you?” Leonard said.

“At Columbia, approaching Broadway. Why?”

“Oh shit,” Leonard said. “Hold up.”

Back at the gates, Ed spotted a late model maroon Impala, rough around the edges, idling next to the Chinese restaurant.

“Another car just pulled up behind the Impala,” Leonard said.

“So what?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of official looking sedan. Could be an undercover. It has a big antenna on the back. I fucking told you man! It's a total set-up.”

“You’re being paranoid. I’m going,” Ed said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Leonard said.

“You’re an asshole,” Ed said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

***
Richie turned down the stereo of the Impala and scanned the street from deep in his plush bucket seat.

“Fucking college kids all look the same,” he said to himself, flipping the defrost to high to combat the moisture-clouded windows.

“Hurry up motherfuckers. Damn,” he said, nervously tapping a beat on the steering wheel. It was his first week on the job. In the rearview he watched a navy blue sedan pull up behind him.

“Shit,” he said, and recluctantly decided to call Mary, the all-knowing delivery service dispatcher, forever filing her nails on a throne-like couch in Fort Greene.

“Where you at rookie?” she said in her hard Brooklyn voice, snapping her bubble gum into the reciever.

“Sitting here, at 116th.”

“116th? We usually meet them on Claremont. Less traffic.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Seems obvious.”

“Fucking college kids. So slow,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag.

Inside was roughly a quarter pound of high-grade hydroponic marijuana, broken into $100 dollar plastic boxes -- Green Kush, Diesel and White Rhino -- bathing the air in its wicked fragrance.

“How long you been there?” Mary said.

“I don’t know. Two, three minutes maybe,” he said, eyeing the sedan behind him.

“Give it five, then take a spin around the block,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you don’t see him on the way around, then take off.”

“Yeah alright,” he said, the worry bleeding through his voice.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah. It’s nothing. Just some fucker. Pulled up behind me in a big sedan. The kind cops drive. It’s sketching me out, that’s all.”

“Relax rookie,” she said. “If you’re really worried, once the customer gets in, drop him around the corner. Nice and easy. Right?”

“Right.”

“Alright then, call me when you’re back on the road.”

“Wait, Mary?”

“Rich, honey, I got other calls,” she said.

“But like, hypothetically, what happens if I did get popped? Is there a plan or something?”

“Plan? No. There’s no plan because you’re not going to get busted,” she said. “Nobody ever gets busted.”

“But, I mean, what if I did? What am I supposed to do then?”

“It’s not going to happen. If it does, you just sit tight and keep you’re mouth shut. But, if you don’t think you can handle this, then-- ”

“I can handle it, fine.”

“Okay, then I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation,” she said.

“Fine whatever,” he said.

A silent moment passed between them.

“So is it still there?” she said.

“What?”

“The car, numb nuts.”

Richie scoped the sedan in his rearview.

“Yeah, still there.”

“Did anybody get out? Is it parked or what?”

“No, nobody got out.”

“Alright, you know what, fuck this. Richie, I’m hanging up now because you’re starting to bug me out. Don’t freak, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hung up and tried to drown his concern in some loud Biggie, but couldn’t take his eyes off the rearview and the ominous, idling sedan. He pressed the automatic locks.

“Sit tight? Fuck that,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag again. “Bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to jail for this bullshit. I knew I never should have quit Starbucks. At least I had benefits.”

The rain started falling hard again, forcing him to turn on the wipers so he could scan the street.

He was jarred out of his train of thought by a hard knock on the window a moment later.

“Fucking shit,” he said, seized with the impulse to throw the Impala into drive and take off.

Through the rain-blurred driver side window all he could tell for sure was that there was a white guy standing there, motioning for him to open up.

Cops are usually white, he reasoned. Then again, college potheads are also usually white. Fifty-fifty. He held his breath and unlocked the door.

The door swung open revealing a shifty-looking young guy with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

Ed climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door, shaking off his wet umbrella all over the upholstery. Richie glared at him.

“Hey what’s up man,” Ed said.

“Yeah, nothing man. Same old,” Richie said, a little defensively.

“So. You got it?” Ed said, eyeing Richie suspiciously.

“You got the cash?” Richie shot back, eyeing Ed suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Ed said, rummaging in his pocket. “Hundred right?”

Richie nodded and put the car into gear.

“Whoa, hang on,” Ed said, gripping the dash. “Where we going?”

“Just taking a spin around the block,” Richie said, eyes still glued on the rearview.

“Why? What’s up?” Ed said, turning to look back at the sedan.

“What are you looking back there for?” Richie asked.

“Because you did,” Ed said.

“No I didn’t,” Richie said. “I’m just checking shit out, generally.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Ritchie edged the Impala onto Broadway, both of them watching the sedan as discreetly as possible. They both breathed a silent sigh of relief when it stayed put.

He eased the car to a stop at the red light.

“Look man,” Richie said, confidentially, meeting Ed’s eyes for the first time. “You're not a cop or something are you?”

“A cop?” Ed said, dumbfounded. “Why? Do I look like a cop?”

“Just answer the question man,” Ritchie said, instantly regretting asking.

“Why? Are you a cop?”

“Me? Fuck no,” Ritchie said, regarding his own tattooed arms.

Ed presented a wad of wrinkled twenties on the center console.

“Look, I’m in kind of a hurry, so if you don’t mind-- ” Ed said.

"Oh I see. Now you're in a hurry and shit. Pssh," Ritchie mumbled, eyes on the road.

"Sorry man," Ed said, trying not to look incredulous. "How long were you waiting? Like five minutes, tops?"

"Forget it. You sure you're not a cop?" Ritchie asked, his dark eyes drilling into Ed's goofy, unshaven mug, trying to decipher some hidden truth.

“No. What makes you think I'm a cop man? I buy from you guys like once a week.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that? Plus if you are a cop, and I ask you, then legally you have to tell me.”

“I think that’s just an urban myth dude,” Ed said.

“Fuck it,” Ritchie said, whipping the car to a hard stop on 115th. "Shit is stressing me out."

"You want to smoke?" Ed asked.

Despite himself, Ritchie cracked a smile, his first and only. He removed a box of weed from the duffle bag.

"Nah man. I don't smoke that shit. Makes me paranoid."

They made the exchange, quick and low, and Ed hopped out, hustling back toward Broadway.

“Punk ass pothead,” Ritchie said, pulling away.

***
“So I take it you didn’t get busted then?” Mary said.

“No ma'am,” Richie said, cruising down Broadway solo.

“I told you, paranoid freak.”

“Sketchy ass college boys,” Richie said. “I hate that shit.”

He could hear Mary laughing on the other end.

“Well, get used to it. That’s most of our business,” she said.

Back in the apartment, Ed flung off his shoes and dropped his umbrella in the hallway. He could hear the Simpsons playing on the TV in the living room.

“So did you get busted or what?” Leonard asked from the living room.

“Yeah dumbass. I got busted. That’s why I’m standing here with a bag of weed.”

Ed plopped down on the couch and started packing a bowl. The rain had finally stopped and a thin ray of sunshine poked through the window.

“I swear that sedan looked like an undercover though,” Leonard said. “Didn’t it?”

“Whatever. Next time you’re doing the pick-up,” Ed said. He took a monster hit off the pipe, coughed heartily and passed it to Leonard.

“Fuck that,” Leonard said, flicking the lighter. “Sketchy ass drug dealers.”

“Get used to it dude. It’s the only service that delivers up here.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Leonard said, blowing smoke.

“Yeah, that guy was a freak,” Ed said, feeling better already. “It is tasty weed though.”

“True, true” Leonard said.

more ...

The Pot Guys II

“Did you call them yet?”

“Who?”

“The pot guys.”

“Yeah, but they haven’t called back yet.”

“Damn,” Leonard said, swinging his legs up onto the shitty couch in the living room. “Are you sure you called the right number?”



“Of course, it’s programmed in my phone.”

“Don’t they usually call back within like five or ten minutes?”

“Not always,” said Ed, who was leaning out the large living room window, his palms resting on the dusty sill.

It was muggy and overcast outside and the rain came and went in dramatic fifteen-minute episodes. The cloud-swells floated over the sun making it almost impossible to tell what time it was, making it the perfect day to get stoned.

Leonard, now stretched out on the couch with the remote control balanced on his stomach, flipped to a rerun of the Simpsons.

“What if they got busted?” he asked.

Ed returned from the window and sat down in a rocking chair, one of an assortment of second-hand furniture scattered around the apartment.

“I’ve used these guys a lot,” he said. “They’re not like that. Don’t worry.”

“Not like what?” Leonard asked.

Ed went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Leonard lived in the apartment below Ed. He’d spent about the last three months of after-work hours and most weekends sitting on Ed’s couch smoking joints and playing backgammon.

Leonard never actually bought pot though. Mostly he just smoked it.

“Anyway, they’re very professional,” said Ed. “They don’t fuck around.”

Ed was more or less a master pothead, highly effective in just about every part of the process, from bong maintenance to purchasing etiquette.

Leonard continued: “If they’re so professional what’re they doing selling weed anyway?”

Ed was clipping his fingernails over a full ashtray. “For pot dealers, they’re very professional.”

“Do they sell other drugs too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’re they called?”

“Like ‘Happy Face’ or something. I don’t know.”

“That’s not very inventive.”

“It’s a pot delivery service. You think they want to stand out?”

“Well, yes,’ said Leonard, now propping himself in a sitting position. “I would think that among the many pot delivery services in Manhattan they would want to make a splash, yes.”

“See man,” said Ed, wagging the nail clippers at Leonard. “If you ever actually dealt with these people you’d know that asking so many questions makes them nervous, it’s really not appropriate.”

“I do deal with them. I went down to meet them last time, remember?”

“Yeah, and you fucked it up.”

“It’s not my fault they can’t make change.”

“I told you they only sell $100 boxes.”

“And I told you, I TRIED to explain to him that he could just split one order in half and sell it for $50, and when THAT didn’t work, I tried to tell him I was going to the ATM and I’d be right back. Then he just took off. What could I do?”

“You probably freaked him out with all your sketchy questions and shit. I’d probably take off too.”

“They’re pot dealers, " said Leonard. "Big whoop. And what's all this 'meet me on the corner' bullshit anyway? They should come up to the apartment. Much easier that way."

"They used to," Ed said. "I think they got sick of looking for parking."

"Lazy drug dealers."

“Leonard, how is it that you have absolutely no street smarts?”

“I don’t know,” he said, picking his nose. “Too much school I guess. I’m just glad he didn’t shoot me.”

“They’re not like that! They’re fucking POT dealers. They don’t carry guns. The guys running the whole operation are probably a couple of hippies sitting on a farm upstate or something.”

“That could explain why haven’t they called back yet.”

“It is taking a while,” Ed said, looking at the clock on his cell phone. “It’s been almost an hour.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Ed stood in front of the window, looking down into the empty street. “Jesus, is this rain ever gunna stop?”

Leonard made his way to the kitchen. The counter was covered in what appeared to be either wet bread crumbs or a field of swollen roach eggs. Something about the afternoon light made the kitchen appear gloomy and dirty, or dirtier than it really was. Cringing, he brushed the questionable specs onto the floor and began rifling aimlessly through the cabinets. Ed appeared in the kitchen, a little agitated.

“There’s no way. These guys will never get busted,” he said. “What did I tell you about all the questions man? Now you’re making ME nervous, and I’m just a customer!”

“All I’m saying is that you should at least acknowledge the possibility that they got busted. That’s all. What if they DID get busted? How would you know? It’s not like they could call their customers like ‘Uh yeah, hey Ed, what’s up? Sorry I didn’t call you back the other day, I’m in jail and since you’re such a loyal Happy Face customer I used my only phone call to tell you that we got busted so you shouldn’t call anymore.’ No dude, they’d probably be too busy flushing weed down the toilet before the cops broke down the fucking door.”

“Do you hear what you're saying? First of all, weed is not fucking flushable! You can’t flush weed down the toilet.”

“If you’re about to get busted I bet you could.”

“These guys aren’t fucking big-syndicate cocaine traffickers or anything. It’s a small business, a cottage industry.”

“They deal all over Manhattan right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cottage industry my ass. You know how many pot smokers there are in this city? It’s fucking huge. Ten of millions. I bet the cops would love to bust these guys, I bet it’d be all over the news, I bet the Post would run it on the cover.”

“So what? They didn’t get busted,” said Ed, now pacing.

“Have they ever taken so long to call back before?”

“No, but,” he said, looking again at his cell phone. “These guys are totally consistent, it’s always the same deal when you call. It’s like clockwork. They always have the same …” Ed stopped short, and something like concern came over his face. He began pressing buttons on his phone.

“Are you calling again?”

He held up his index finger and pressed the phone to his ear, his face perplexed. He quit the phone suddenly.

“What?” Leonard asked.

“Their voicemail is different. It’s always been the same. I didn’t notice it until … fuck man, what if they?”

“What’s it sound like?”

“I dunno exactly, it’s like,” he fumbled with his phone again. “Here, just listen to it.”

“What are you doing?” Leonard jumped up and tried to pull the phone out of Ed’s hand. “Don’t fucking call them again! If they did get busted the cops are probably just waiting for people to call so they can bust them too.”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Then don’t be so stupid about it!” said Leonard, almost joyously. “I bet the cops are sitting down at the fucking station right now waiting for all the pothead Lemmings to just dive off that cliff right into their hands, and then boom!” he said, clapping his hands. “They gotcha. Think about it, it’s an easy bust. Low risk. Then they can pump up the headlines with numbers, which is great P.R. and …”

Leonard was clearly enraptured. He made broad hand gestures.

“But,” said Ed, finally, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “They probably didn’t get busted so let’s just drop it.”

“You said the message was different, right?”

“Yeah, it used to be some Reggae tune and then just a beep.” said Ed, furrow-browed. “Now it’s some chick’s voice and it just says ‘leave a number,’ but the voice is definitely sketchy.”

“I just can’t help but think of this one episode of Law And Order when they bust this guy for smuggling and…”

“Shut the fuck up Leonard!” said Ed. “Help me figure this shit out!”

Ed’s cell phone rang. He hesitated.

“No number,” he said. “Should I answer it?”

“I dunno,” said Leonard. “If you do, and it’s the cops …”

He answered.

“Hello? Oh, um, hey. Yeah, it’s 116th and Broadway. Okay, how long? Ok, see you in a few.”

Ed set the phone down and looked at Leonard.

“Fuck,” he said. “I think you might be right. I think we’re being set up.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, the voice on the phone was definitely not familiar. I’ve never heard it before. And the guy didn’t really seem to know the drill.”

“Sketchy man,” said Leonard. “Very fucking sketchy. What’d he say exactly?”

“It’s gotta be a fucking set up. He said they’d meet me in a maroon Impala at the corner of 116th and Broadway. And first of all, they’ve never driven a fucking Impala …”

“Yeah, that just screams ‘hey we’re undercover!' Do they think we’re fucking idiots or something?”

“And secondly, and most sketchily, they never meet me on Broadway. We always meet at Claremont.”

Outside, the rain started to fall again. After a moment Leonard turned to Ed.

“Hey, wanna scrape some resin?”

“Sure. Then we can figure this out.” Ed picked up a lumpy, colorful glass pipe from the coffee table. “You got a paper clip?”

“Yeah,” said Leonard. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a deformed paperclip with a blackened end. “Here ya go.”

Ed began poking the end of the clip around inside the bowl. “So, let’s think about this logically.”

“Okay,” said Leonard. “So, if worse comes to worst, we don’t have to go down and meet them, we can just watch from the window.”

“True,” said Ed, now rolling the end of the pipe around over the flame of his lighter. A tiny wisp of smoke leap from the pipe. “But, there’s gotta be some way we can …”

“Also, I bet we’d actually have to buy the weed to get busted.”

Leonard continued to fiddle with the pipe while Ed prepared to go.

“You have your cell on you?” Ed asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay so, I’m going down to meet them. I want you to watch out the window, watch the car. I’m going to walk around the block once to scope it out too. If you see ANYTHING weird going on I want you to call me.”

“Then what?” Leonard asked.

“Then nothing. I’ll come back.”

“But what about the weed?”

“Fuck you man!” said Ed, turning to leave.

“Well, good luck! Be safe!” Leonard shouted down the hall.

more ...

Bob Dylan vs. Cheetah Girls

This is the closest I'll ever come to Bob Dylan, the first night of his two-night stint at the Bill Graham auditorium in San Francisco. We crammed into the core nearest the stage in general admission, one of those rubberized cement floors, partly to get a close up view of the the immortal American alien poet himself -- who somehow squeezed through the fatal 60s rock star bottleneck unscathed. Okay, a broken neck, a religious awakening or two, Self Portrait, but that's it.



The other reason we were on the floor though, was to be with the people, the Dylan folk. How can you resist their myriad charms? It was a little disappointing actually, no jealous monks or lumberjacks or lepers, no sword swallowers or one-eyed midgets. There was though, a smattering of young modish pilgrims -- the Bobsters in dark glasses and tight jeans, ala Don't Look Back. Yes, I remember them well.

"Check it, I printed a set list," he said, whipping a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket.

"Let's see," his fellow Bobster said.

"Hang on. Oh awesome encore! I totally called it."

"Let me see it."

"Wow. This is going to be a really, really good show."

"Why won't you let me see it?"

"Hey, I just had a thought. Holy shit. We should get Dylan's autograph! We should get the set list autographed!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Umm. I dunno man. That's kinda lame if you ask me. The whole 'autograph' thing."

"What? Fuck you man. Why is that lame?"

"Because that's what 12-year-old kids do, with like sports stars and shit. I like Dylan more as a myth, not an actual living human being. I mean, would you ask -- I dunno -- like Buddha or Vishnu for an autograph?"

"Yeah probably. If it was convenient."

"SO lame. Can't you just absorb the show without having to take home some kind of memento?"

"I don't understand why you think that's lame."

"You know 'Leave only footprints, take only memories.'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind dude."

"Fuck off."

Here's the set list, by the way:

1. Lenny Bruce
2. Rollin' And Tumblin'
3. Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)
4. I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
5. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
6. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
7. Desolation Row
8. Tangled Up In Blue
9. Highway 61 Revisited
10. When The Deal Goes Down
11. Watching The River Flow
12. Workingman's Blues #2
13. Summer Days

(encore)
14. Thunder On The Mountain
15. Like A Rolling Stone
16. All Along The Watchtower

There were lots of confused pubescent high school boys smoking joints on the down-low and sweeping their nappy bangs out of their faces and acting suspicious.

Then there were the pickled hippies, relics of the good old days -- lots of them -- the genuine summer of lovers. Big, drunk, Santa Clauses dribbling whiskey in their beards and sun-baked tootsie roll-colored women with stringy hair and crystal amulets.

As the crowd warmed up to the empty stage, one of these -- a jolly man outfitted in a safari hat and woven poncho -- clear leader of the Dylan expedition, ambled past and, perhaps sensing an opportunity to exude some of his happiness, paused at a pair of straw haired preteens sitting on the floor bothering their blackberry wielding parents.

"These kids grow up with Bobby?"

His tootsie roll lady friend smiled bizarrely down at the girls, who seemed stunned by the old hippy and sat motionless, frozen in his only-slightly-creepy gaze. He squatted and spoke directly to them with a wheezy smile.

"Do you girls like Dylan?"

Terrified, the younger girl spun around and clawed her distracted mother's leg while the older girl managed a shrug. Mom stared up at the booming old man from behind her plastic wine glass.

"Can I help you?"

He was unfazed and remarkably well preserved, glowing in the pre-Dylan daybreak. He swung a plump arm around his skeletal lady friend and let loose a chuckle.

"Did these kids grow up listening to Bobby?"

"Oh, sure, they've heard him."

"That's great," he said, still eyeing the girls benevolently. "It's just amazing to see how Bobby transcends all generations."

"Whether they actually listen, I'm not sure. They like the -- oh I can't remember the name -- who is it girls?"

In unison the daughters -- eyes on the ground -- chirped: "Cheetah Girls!"

"Yes," Mom said, with some sarcasm. "They like the Cheetah Girls better than Bob Dylan."

Defiant now behind her mother, the younger girl met the old hippy's gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "We like the Cheetah Girls."

"Well, I think I've heard of them," offered the old hippy lady to her man. But he didn't seem to hear, apparently hypnotized by the little girls.

"What's your favorite Dylan song girls?"

Aware now that she was dealing not only with children who don't understand dirty old hippies, but old hippies who don't understand children, Mom gently interceded.

"I don't think they really have a favorite Dylan song."

"No favorites? Sure they do! What is it girls? 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'? 'Like a Rolling Stone'? 'Lay Lady Lay'?"

"That's a really fascinating question, isn't it girls?" Mom said, sparing her daughters momentarily. "I'd have to say that MY favorite Bob Dylan song of all time has to be --"

But the boozy old man wasn't hearing it. He squatted again, determined to make a breakthrough with the little girls.

"Aww c'mon! We don't want to hear what boring old MOM likes, do we girls?"

"Excuse me?" Mom said.

At this point the younger of the two girls bolted straight for Dad, a few feet away and enmeshed in conversation on his cell phone. I can't say I blame her; at this point I was scared shitless too. Sorry hippies, you just don't seem to age well.

"You're so drunk Harold!" cackled his crazy lady, slapping him in the head lovingly. "Look, you're scaring the children! Ha ha!"

Harold did not hear though. He reared up, red-faced and sliding quickly from jolly to terrifying. He raised his voice an octave, addressing the entire vicinity.

"I dunno about you all, but MY favorite Bobby song has always been 'Maggie's Farm'!"

Having gotten everybody’s attention, Harold began to sing, loud and mournful, stamping his foot as he went. His lady performed the ancient hippy ritual twirling dance around him.

"Well, he hands you a nickel!
He hands you a dime!
He asks you with a grin, if you're havin' a good time!

Then he fines you every time you slam the door!
I AIN'T GONNA WORK FOR MAGGIE'S BROTHER NO MORE!"

And he held the last word. 'MOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRR,' carrying it high and far across the auditorium, pulling out a Zippo and lifting the flame high above his head. A few like-minded rebels clapped. Harold bowed deeply to the little girl, now on the verge of tears.

"Whew!" he said, laying a sloppy kiss on his lady. "God I love Bob honey."

"I know you do baby. And Bob loves us too."

more ...

Metallica Is Hilarious ... And Sad

All the baddest motherfuckers at my high school were into Metallica. I remember watching them stagger through the hallways (drunk, stoned, whatever) in their leather jackets and tight black jeans, making the sign of the devil and blatantly ditching class.

As a frightened nerd, naturally I assumed Metallica was just another part of the secret code among the terminally bad kids at school, something which I -- with still-married parents, with a house in the leafy suburbs, having never had sex or done drugs or been arrested (yet anyway) -- would never understand.

But I knew enough. About the time GN'R Lies came out, my mother -- sensing my burgeoning interest -- decided to school me on the evils of heavy metal. Axl Rose, she explained, was an anti-semite who hated gay people. The rest, including Def Leppard, Metallica, Poison and Megadeth were devil worshippers at best, and child molesting drug addicts at worst.

I was told never to listen to these bands, and most especially, I was not to hang around with heavy metal fans. Who knew what kind of trouble I would get into, she wondered.

Soon she found out. I blew out my father's prized JBL speakers one morning (Yes morning -- the folks were still sleeping. Very subtle) after discovering '...And Justice for All,' I started smoking cigarettes, I got a bad girlfriend who liked to slice herself up with razors -- specifically I remember a crude rendition of 'Metallica' on her ankle. No shit.

'One'


My initial reign of terror ended one summer night sitting in the passenger seat of a local motorhead's '72 Mustang in the local arcade parking lot. The police were there waiting for us. We were bashing mailboxes, stealing lawn trolls, pissing out the window, smoking pot and getting wasted. And yes, I remember Master of Puppets was playing on the stereo that night, which made me love it all the more.

I stuck with Metallica through the 'black' album in 1991 before losing interest, probably about the same time everybody else stopped caring about them. Yet no matter how bad they got, how sad their attempts to transform into the ultimate alterna-heshers, I always kept a cold, black, devil-worshipping spot in my heart for the old Metallica.

And then, recently, came the documentary "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster." The movie catches up with the band in 2002 as they try to shit out another album (what will become 'St. Anger') and somehow capture the old magic.



James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich have turned into lame, rich old pussies who constantly bitch and snipe at each other's \wounded egos, while poor, childless loner Kirk Hammett meekly attempts moderation. When tensions threaten to derail the new album, the band decides to hire a cable-knit sweater wearing therapist to help them sort out their feelings. There's just something wrong with that; it's an offense against the demon-gods of rock.

It's hilarious ... and crushingly sad.

Most bizzare moment: As part of therapy process, the shrink brings in Megadeth frontman and long-ago Metallica guitarist Dave Mustaine to confront Metallica about kicking him out of the band back in 1983. Keep in mind, that's 26 years ago. Let it go, Dave.

Shrouded by his luxurious nest of red hair and worked up to a rolling boil, Dave delivers the line you know he's been thinking up since they threw him out of the band: "I watched people around the world say what a great guitar player Kirk is and what a piece of shit I am."



Seems a little touchy-feely coming from the man who brought us 'Symphony of Destruction.' Incidentally, Megadeth does suck.

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Western Bearded Crack-Eater

Exciting news! Last night as I was beginning my evening patrol and just after finishing my Mexican burrito at one of the many local taquerias, I may have, quite unintentionally, discovered a wholly new hipster species.

It appears to be exclusive to the local environs and has likely evolved wholly separate from all other known hipster species, despite maintaining breeding grounds and habitat right alongside, even overlapping, with our more common species.

Exciting news indeed!

Much work must still be done, but I am tentatively calling this clever and fascinating creature the Western Bearded Crack-Eater. I'm not too proud to admit: this, like so many of the (dare I say) great scientific discoveries, began haphazardly.

Being still unfamiliar with my surroundings and suffering acute disorientation after consuming the prohibitively spicy contents of my El Mojado Burrito (May contain some type of psychotropic agent. Will have it analyzed) I broke from my usual route and, quite beside myself, staggered down an unfortunate looking alley.

Suddenly I found myself faced with a roguish figure, who in the half light, I mistook for one of the more familiar hipster species, perhaps a Sweater-Bellied Hipsterati, albeit, an extremely aggressive, unwashed specimen -- for he exuded a decidedly foul odor. Perhaps some type of territorial marking mechanism.

Clad in a soiled demin blazer of indeterminate vintage, too-long woolen trousers, ruined wingtips and an raffish purple head piece (much like a turban, it was twisted around his head in an elaborate knot), the subject was struggling with his lower zipper, having apparently just finished micturating upon the alley wall.

Hoping to gain favor with the man, I politely inquired as to the location of the nearest poetry reading or suitable used book depository, whereupon he casually belched forth a string of alien words, such as I have never encountered, and which I can only assume are typical of the local crack-eater dialect, a partial transcription of which follows:

'Wha nutha mutha-fucka ... (indecipherable) wha-choo wan? (indecipherable) ... you na po-po, outta ma mutha-fucken fae ...sevey fi cen fah da bus?'

I cannot describe the excitement that overcame me upon hearing this bizarre dialect! What happened next I cannot fully explain, except to say that I was overtaken with joy at my discovery and still intoxicated by the strange burrito-euphoria, for I then embraced the subject and bid him hearty hello -- a mistake which nearly cost me the entire evening and, yes, even my life itself -- for he grew extremely agitated and nearly felled me in his attempts to free himself. Poor creature! I must have scared him half to death in my glee.

But luck prevailed. I regained my composure and the crack-eater fled only a few feet before I was able to stall his retreat with assurances of my friendly intentions. After several minutes of awkward attempts at conversation via hand gestures we forged an alliance of sorts. He conveyed to me his name as Shithead (a popular moniker among the crack-eaters, from what I gather), and said that he would be happy to lead me to more of his splendid people for a cursory fee of one dollar. Well worth the price, I think. By and by, Mr. Shithead brought me to a herd of his fellow crack-eaters, all the while holding forth in his peculiar dialect.

I was fascinated to learn that this particular herd of crack-eaters, and perhaps the entire species, are nomadic. Their primary territory stretches along Mission Street from 15th to 20th and like most hipster species, they appear to eschew conventional modes of dress and speech in favor of second hand clothing and an amalgam of invented language.

The differences between the rock-eater and other hipsters, however, cannot be overstated. Foremost, the rock-eaters appear to have successfully adapted to the mild outdoor climate of San Francisco and so make their homes out-of-doors, moving their quaint gypsy caravans nearly every night, though never straying very far from their beaten trade paths along Mission.

And whereas most hipster species subsist primarily on used records, organic macaroni and cheese and Pabst Blue Ribbon, the crack-eaters have but one staple food: small white pebbles, alternately referred to as 'rocks,' 'crack,' or simply 'the shit,' which seem to serve not only as their primary food source but also as an important spiritual and emotional salve, for they spend nearly every waking hour seeking out and consuming crack, and seem to have few other interests.

As for recreation, the crack-eaters of Mission Street are a relaxed and playful species. After consuming their breakfast rocks, they often spend hours at a time lazing in the sun, rough-housing in the street, directing traffic, greeting pedestrians and passionately reciting what I can only assume are the great epic poems of the crackish language.

They are a tight-knit community, often gathering round the bus stop in the evening for lively discussions of current events and how to improve conditions in the community. On this particular evening they concluded that more crack must be the foundation of any improvement. Incidentally, Mr. Shithead has agreed to school me fully in the crackish language in exchange for a small weekly fee (you will find this included in my monthly expense report).

As I said, theirs is a peaceful and tolerant existence, but, alas, like all societal utopias, there is a price to pay. As I found near the end of our interview, a crack-eater without crack is like a ship without its rudder. More on this in my forthcoming dispatch. Until then.

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Hipster Ethnological Survey, San Francisco

Greetings. First, let me apologize for my tardiness in reporting. Suffice to say, my correspondence has been delayed for good reason. My efforts to initiate contact with a significant hipster cell in San Francisco has required the utmost discretion, and due to the technological sophistication of the hipster community here, I fear regular reporting may compromise my attempts at infiltration. I will try to keep you abreast of all developments, but do not fear, for I remain -- more than ever -- dedicated to the success of the project.



By way of updating my progress, as of yet, I'm afraid I can say very little concerning the speciation events that have contributed to the distinct evolution of hipsters in San Francisco, as opposed to the New York City variety, a project into which, I might remind you, I have been completely dedicated for the past five years (has it really been that long?). Before reprimanding me with an unfavorable report, however, I would urge you to keep in mind that I have been enmeshed in my foreign hipster observation for only one month, and as such, my progress has been meager, though I feel I am laying a solid foundation for a very significant advance in the near future, assuming my cover holds.

From what little I have gleaned thus far, the San Francisco hipster stronghold appears to be centered in the Mission District, a sunny, largely Mexican enclave, where, I am happy to report, I have located a small bungalow from which I may quite comfortably live and continue with my work of observation and classification.


Here you see the some of the fruit of my undercover work so far, a contact of mine, a classic hipster of the literary bent, though -- as you may tell from the skeptical look in his eye -- the connection remains tentative at best, and I fear he may be less than forthcoming.

As an aside note, I must say that the natural beauty of the area -- clean air, large park areas, an abundance of cafes and fresh Mexican cuisine -- is highly preferable to the rather dreary environs of my previous post in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, with its crumbling warehouses, hostile native population and L train problems. Of course, without those harsh environmental restraints, I do not believe Williamsburg could have produced such a dizzying and complex array of hipster species -- from the Platinum-Crowned Homestead Hipster to the Sandal-Toed Rilke Tongue -- yes, Williamsburg is rather like a Hipster Galapagos. But I must stop with this ribald sentimentalizing. I am a scientist, after all.

As I have often noted during our bi-weekly Hipster Musicological Research Conferences (HMRC), for which I serve as chairman, the Hipster Ethnological Survey (HES) is essential work, and I firmly believe our efforts will be vindicated, if not during our lifetimes, then sometime.

To allay the committee's thirst for data, the following is a partial list of my future points of research:

Extensive bodily tattooing

Plethoric caffeine consumption

Casual canine co-habitation

Gender non-specification

Bicycular transportation

Regular cannabis consumption

That is all for now.

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Heat Advisory

Since it's much too loud for the parents to hear over the SCREECHING, I'd like to appeal directly to the source: babies, please stop crying so much. I know you're hungry and uncomfortable. I know that your mom wants you to sit on her lap because the bus is so crowded. But it's about a zillion degrees outside and a zillion percent humidity, making it feel more like a zillion and four, and I'm smashed into this bus that's lurching and dragging itself up Broadway like a dying animal.



I guess it's your right though, as a baby, to cry, and maybe I'm just jealous that I can't start crying on the bus anymore. It makes me think 'I hate babies,' but then I look over at you, your gleaming, cried-out baby eyes, your brave little baby forehead. You're too cute to hate. So please, just stop crying so much.

I'm sorry, babies. I'm just venting. It's because of this heat. I didn't mean to take it out on you. Today was like a death wind, barreling through the fortress canyons of Midtown. Walking along by Port Authority at three o'clock people began to stagger down 9th Avenue, from shadow to shadow, rushing across the blazing sidewalk in little groups. It seems dangerous to be alone in that kind of heat. If you get bum rushed by a crowd and fall down, or even stop in the sun to tie your shoelace, the heat could just take you, turn you into a skeleton. It's a biblical kind of plague heat. It feels like punishment.

I got home and went into the bathroom to watch the beads of sweat roll down my forehead, racing for my eyebrow, dripping off my jaw. I'm like a cold beer in this heat, dripping and sweating all over the tile. I propose that New Yorkers should have coasters for themselves during the summer, to keep the sweat from getting everywhere.

I'm not from here though, so maybe that's why I'm bitching so much. Maybe real New Yorkers just get used to it, but I still haven't. It's weird, I'd always associated sweating with physical exertion, but here I am sweating, just standing here. It used to be, when I got home from a day like this, I'd rush into my room and pull off my bag, socks, shirt, to cool down. But now I know to just leave it all on. It'll soak up the sweat. Just sit down, be cool. Open the window, turn on the fan, wait. If you have a cold beer in the fridge, crack it open and drink the best beer you've ever tasted. That's the stuff.

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Bargain Undies

By the time I cut a jagged path through the swarms of Sunday shoppers just inside the H&M echo chamber the search had entered its terminal phase. I felt like a wayward pilgrim, grunting my way through the endless colonies of shopping bags, with Andrew trailing behind me, offering tactical advice and shouting above the clamor: “Cut left!” “Hang on!” “Head for the escalator!” All six feet, eight inches of him was trying desperately to find the men’s section, parting the shopping masses like the waves off an ocean liner. Andrew is a good man to have in a crowd. He’s the eye in the sky, the periscope.


“I don’t see any men around,” I said. “Do you?”

“Downstairs,” he said, his enormous hand falling on my shoulder, angling me toward the down escalator.

“Please God, I hope you’re right,” I said as we pushed on, sandwiched between clusters of sale-struck women all beaming with eyes that looked like they could slice a man in half. The crowd was packed in so tight that normal breathing had been downgraded to furious, shallow puffs. I grew dizzy as we descended through the polished glass and chrome labyrinth. The escalator lurched to a halt.

“I think I’m having a breakdown Andrew,” I said. But if he heard, he didn’t let on. I closed my eyes and imagined the zillion atoms popping like pinballs in the surrounding bodies, all cranked up to high, ready to pounce on the nearest clearance rack. I was left with only one conclusion: If provoked, these women were ready to shut the whole fucking place down, like a prison riot.

The situation felt precariously close to becoming an awful freak accident. My mind began to drift with the current of disaster: 40 Killed In Escalator Collapse. Escalator Rage In SoHo. Man Trampled To Death By Half-Price Pumps. The Great H&M Riot of ’08. I gripped the rubber handrails for support as the staircase resumed its glacial pace and throngs of shoppers began streaming onto the bottom floor. The amusement of shopping downtown was long past.

“Can it really be so difficult to find a pair of men’s boxer briefs for under twenty bucks?” I asked.

“We’re in SoHo,” Andrew said. “You should really try Century 21 next time. That’s where I get all my underwear. Why did you come down here for underwear anyway?”

I might’ve admitted failure at this point, but I was eager to save face, to see it through. He’d only just joined Christina and I minutes before, out on the street corner. And now I’d unfairly dragged him into what had become a three-person underwear expedition. If nothing else, I thought, he would fortify my spirits. Andrew is the kind of hearty, enterprising guy who can get things done. Not like me, hapless me. Me, who gets dizzy riding on escalators; who takes his girlfriend underwear shopping on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

“The men’s section should be just over here,” he said, so sunny and optimistic that for moment he infected me with a beautiful, mirage-like image: a mountain of bargain undies, just out of view. I needed underwear.
I needed it so bad that I wasn't even wearing any. I was free balling. I didn’t have to do it. I had a few pairs, the older, rattier ones, hiding out at the rear of my top drawer. But I needed to stay vigilant, because buying underwear is one of those things I don't really think about until it’s too late. And now, little by little, my jeans were beginning to chafe the insides of my thighs. Deep down I had already whiffed something of the disappointment that awaited us on the bottom floor. H&M was the last resort in a long line of failed attempts to find some underwear in SoHo. By this time, I was running solely on the perverse desire to witness my own defeat.
Christina and I had already scoured five or six stores along Broadway, dodging and hustling our way toward that little plastic display case where every store keeps the men’s underwear, with no luck. It was embarrassing. And this was the only errand I had set out to accomplish all weekend.
I could only imagine her thoughts as I stood, wincing incredulously over the umpteenth box of Ralph Laurens or Calvin Kleins, repeating the same phrase over and over: “Twenty bucks for one pair of underwear? Who charges that much for a single pair? It’s ridiculous! Can you believe this? Don’t they have any Hanes in this place?”

After the fourth round, Christina’s face had permanently hardened into a solemn gaze. I couldn’t blame her. I could feel my resolve turning to putty. I set the box down and pinched the bridge of my nose, wondering how it had all gotten so complicated.

“Maybe on the way home we should just stop at Marshall’s on 125th,” she said. “They’ll probably have Hanes there.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just get some here.”

“Well, you could.”

“How much does women’s underwear usually cost? Is it normal to pay twenty dollars for a single pair?”

“I’ll be outside,” she said.

As I pacmanned aimlessly around the store, I began to wonder if my inability to find affordable underwear was emblematic of some crippling personal problem I’d somehow overlooked until now. Was I incapable of facing down life’s minor travails? I’d purchased underwear twice, maybe three times, in my entire life. Like Santa Clause’s gifts and the Easter Bunny’s candy and the Tooth Fairy’s dollar bill, new underwear was just another mysterious package that appeared out of nowhere.

I’d never thought about it before, but my entire underwear evolution had been silently guided by my mother. It was always the last gift under the tree, an afterthought, slipped in at the end. I suddenly saw my whole life in underwear fan out before me, from Underoos (2-5 yrs.) to briefs (5-12) to boxers (12-23) and finally to boxer briefs (23- present) – and my mother was always there, just off to the side, stuffing my bureau with the underpants of her choice, and I’d never so much as lifted a finger to stop her. But should I have? Was buying my own drawers so important in my emotional development that I needed to take a stand earlier? Any accomplishment I may have boasted, any length I may I have traveled, all seemed so paltry now, armed with the terrible knowledge that even from 3,000 miles away, my mother still knew what kind of skivvies I was wearing. That was the true humiliation. I was not a man. I was a momma’s boy.
Trailing Christina back to the street, I realized why I’d brought her with me underwear shopping in the first place, why I had the nerve – not only to hijack the entire afternoon – but to whine and brood about it: because despite having worn them nearly every day of my entire life, I was still an underwear novice, underwear impaired, and somewhere in the folds of my brain, I expected her to pick up where my mother left off.

Andrew and I had lost her to a window display of handbags on the way in, and as we rounded the last corner of the bottom floor, it was just the two of us, the only men as far as the eye could see.

“Are you sure there’s a men’s section at H&M?” I asked.

“Of course there’s a men’s section!” he scoffed. “There has to be a men’s section. It’s not the Dress Barn, for God’s sake.”

We stole across the floor, dodging between racks of cardigans and sweaters, hoping against hope. For a few bewildering moments we just stood among the women’s panties, staring blankly at our distorted reflections bouncing off a hundred different mirrored surfaces.

“That’s so weird,” Andrew said. “I swear there was a men’s section last time I was here.”

Crushed, I loped back toward the escalator. Eventually we found our way to the street. Christina was leaning against the building, flipping through a magazine.

“Find anything?” she asked without looking up.

“Apparently there’s no men’s section,” I said. “What kind of place doesn’t have a men’s section? They could at least post a sign or something.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “The H&M on 125th is all women’s too. I told you.”

I caught a glance of the window display as we started back down Broadway. It was packed full of female mannequins, all dressed and posed in the fall collection, with piles of fake yellow leaves tossed around.

“Next time you should really try Century 21,” Andrew said. “That’s where I get all my underwear. It’s cheap too.”

“I’m going to Target this week,” Christina said. “I’ll pick so

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Personal, Political

Huge strands of incongruous demonstrators twisted their way down the West Side Highway, lapping happily along the streets edges, spilling over sloppily onto the sidewalks where their loud, logo-heavy t-shirts and poster board signs, their strangely recreational dress and their preachy, throaty voices gave serious pause to the average New Yorkers; the pleasantly self-absorbed New Yorkers who were forced to dodge and swerve around the sluggish masses; the New Yorkers who looked on, blinking like distracted birds, and tried, despite themselves, not to feel resentful about how much extra sidewalk the protesters were taking up; the New Yorkers who struggled not to note aloud how most of the protestors in line for the bathroom at Starbucks hadn’t even purchased any coffee; the New Yorkers who feel they’ve done their global duty, and then some, simply by taking the subway rather then driving.



It seems there are two types of people these days: No, not conservatives and liberals; not Democrats and Republicans. It’s even more rudimentary than that. I’m talking about political and non-political. Non-political people are those who see the world barreling ever faster off the rails of plausibility and deep into the wild, gurgling bowels of turmoil and cyclical disaster and respond with only irritable resignation. They scoff over the shoulders of eager news-readers wrestling with their Sunday Times on the subway; they sneer at the Robo-cops on the platforms, overtly not caring about the automatic rifles they wield; they feign ignorance of the situation (‘Seriously, who in the hell is Ayad Alawi?’); they watch Friends reruns and order take-out; they fall asleep in the middle of ‘Fahrenheit 911.’

But then there are the others, the Political, who see the world barreling ever faster off the rails of plausibility and deep into the wild, gurgling bowels of turmoil and cyclical disaster and respond with intense devotion. They struggle to assert their connection to American democracy and determine where it all went wrong, somewhere in the column inches of USA Today and Harper’s, somewhere between BBC and ABC; they wrestle defiantly with the Sunday Times on the subway and cast the ten pounds of glossy ads in the garbage as if it were the very embodiment of global Jihad (or is it the Bush administration?); they spend innumerable handfuls of pocket change on aluminum buttons to tell everybody who gets stuck behind them on the subway stairs that ‘war is not the answer,’ that ‘peace is patriotic,’ and that, despite any illusions we might have, ‘war kills;’ they resolve to vote (‘when is the next, like, big election?’) They attempt to shock themselves out of the stupor they now realize has mired their lives in a perennial haze of petty consumerism and self-absorption, and in doing this, they figure they might as well try to shock you out of yours too.

So they protest and chant and march, and protest and chant and march, and protest and chant and march, some more.

Our paths seem sometimes to diverge so violently that we think perhaps the space between us has grown too far to span, but take heed fellow humans! For as sure as President Bush smiles every time he says ‘merderous regime;’ as sure as Osama bin Laden is playing Texas Hold ‘em with Dick Cheney in an underground bunker somewhere; as sure as Matt Drudge IS A MIAMI BEACH LEATHER DADDY WHO LOVES EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!, we will come together next month for the Republican National Convention, if only to piss in the same porta-potties, get frisked for weapons by the same cops and crowd onto the same subway cars, warily eyeing and sniffing one another for strange bomb-like bulges, loose wires, gunpowder, detached gazes and incessant chanting.

But sometimes, even in our ultra-polarized times, the line between political and non-political becomes blurred.

We go live now into the not-too-distant future: It’s Monday, August 30, on the Great Lawn in Central Park, to give voice to the silent, forgotten New Yorkers on this day of protest against what they consider an unelected president who has plunged the United States into an indefensible war in Iraq.

“Wow, Jenna Bush is so hot dude,” said Larry, shoving Vogue magazine in Lance’s face. Lance surveyed the photo coldly.
“I dunno,” he said furrowing his brow. “Jenna’s face is like so, round. I dunno, every time I see a new picture of her it looks like her head is swelling. It’s kind of weird.”
“Oh, whatever. You just don’t want to admit it because she’s Bush’s daughter. But just try to tell me that you wouldn’t drill that wetland,” said Larry, poring over the photo spread. “My God! Just look at her in this picture! It’s like she’s saying: ‘Come and get me, come and fuck me like a dog you filthy bastard!’”

"That's an Onion headline," said Lance.
"What?"
"'Drill her wetland.'"
"No, I don't think so," said Larry.
"Yes it is. You just completely ripped off an Onion headline."
"Why are you so critical?"
"But it is."
"Maybe it is. So what?" said Larry.
"Not maybe. It is."
"Fine!"

They stood side by side, Lance leaning on a crudely-fashioned protest sign scrawled with the words “BUSH SUCKS ASS,” staring silently at the photo for a few long moments, attempting to glean any further insight into the Bush twins’ fuckability.

“Nahh. It’s not a partisan thing,” Lance said. “For instance, I’d never bone Chelsea Clinton, even though I admire her father immensely.”
“True,” said Larry pensively.
“When it comes to fuckin’ –  I’m totally bipartisan. I’ll cross the aisle for the right girl,” Lance continued, poking his finger at the photo of Barbara Bush, posed next to Jenna in a pearly gown. “I mean, give me Barbara any day. She’s the sophisticated one. Plus, she’s skinnier.”

They started walking slowly across the grass again, when Lance broke in:
“Hey, you think she likes to be called Barb?”
“How the hell should I know? I doubt it,” said Larry, still gazing at the photo. “I think you’re just scared of Jenna because you know she’s the friskier one. Shit, I bet you’re afraid you couldn’t get it up for presidential pussy. I bet you’d wilt like a goddamn flower under that kind of pressure.”
“Are you questioning my virility Larry?” asked Lance, planting himself on the lawn, oblivious to the distant crack of a baseball bat, and the clumps of scattered picnics and occasional Frisbees lofting through the air.
“Yes,” said Larry, twisting his face into a grimace. “For fuck’s sake! Just listen to what you’re saying!” He used the rolled-up magazine like a pointer. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t fuck Jenna Bush – daughter of perhaps the most divisive and contentious president in modern times – just because her face is too round for you? What other conclusion can I draw? That reeks of sexual inadequacy and you know it!”

“Whoa. Hang on just a second,” Lance hoisted his protest sign to point at Larry. “I thought we were talking pure aesthetics here. If you want to drag political capital into it, fine, but you can’t go shifting the parameters on me mid-discussion. That’s just unfair.”

“Mid-discussion my ass!” Larry said. “Didn’t you just tell me you’re bi-partisan when it comes to fucking? Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think that statement alone implies partisanship.”
“It does not!” said Lance.
“Yes it does.”
“No it doesn’t dude! What the fuck do you think bi-partisan means? It means non-partisan.”
“Bullshit dude,” said Larry. “It means both partisan. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just drop it. You’re a sexual gimp – let’s leave it at that.”
“Fuck you,” said Lance.

They started walking again. Lance swiped the magazine out of Larry hands and gazed at the picture as they slouched across the Great Lawn.

“Okay,” Lance said finally, and with an air of defeat. “I’d fuck her.”
 “Who? Jenna?”
“Yes. I’d fuck her on star power alone.”
“Well,” said Larry contentedly “I’m glad you finally saw the light.”
“But, again,” Lance continued, handing the magazine back to Larry. “If we’re talking about pure aesthetics, she’s isn’t all that. Her head is far too swollen”
“Damn,” said Larry. “You’ve got more flip-flops than John Kerry.”
“Flip-flop? What flip-flop? I said I wouldn’t fuck Jenna Bush based on the parameters of our discussion – i.e. looks alone. But if you factor in political power – then yes, I would fuck her. It’s as simple as that. It’s two separate answers for two separate questions.”
“Flip-flopper,” said Larry.
“Shut up.”

They approached a hot dog stand, sweating and wheezing.

“Man, will you hold this sign for a minute?” Lance handed Larry the protest sign. “Goddamn, I knew I should have sanded this fuckin’ stick before we used it for a sign. I think I have a splinter.”
Lance squeezed his the end of his index finger until a drop of blood rose on the surface. Under it, the end of a dark splinter was visible.

Larry tipped the sign over his shoulder and stared around the Great Lawn, baffled.

“Hey Lance, isn’t the protest supposed to be here?”
“Yeah,” said Lance, peering across the lawn, using his hand to shield the blinding sun. “I don’t know. I guess we’re just early.”
“We’re such good citizens dude,” said Larry.
“Totally,” said Lance.
“Hey, the convention is today, isn’t it?” asked Larry.
“Yeah, I’m almost certain.”
“That’s bizarre,” said Larry. “You’d think the protestors would be out in full force by now.”
“Well, it is Monday,” said Lance. “Maybe they all had to work.”
“Yeah maybe. Hey, you bring that joint with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, fuck dude. Let’s find a nice spot to chill and get stoned until the protest gets going.”
“Sounds good.”

So Lance and Larry walked off the Great Lawn toward a thicket of trees and shade, forgetting all about the protest.

“How about Condoleeza Rice?” asked Larry. “Would you fuck her?”
“Funny you should ask. Just this morning I was watching a clip of her on TV and I was thinking: ‘Condi, baby, you got it goin’ on!’”
“Seriously,” said Larry. “I don’t know what it is about her, but Condi is one foxy mama.”
“It’s those cute freckles of hers,” said Lance.
“Yeah, and the gap in her teeth – like Madonna.”
“And of course, there’s the power factor,” said Larry.
 “Indeed.”
“Well,” said Lance. “At least we agree on something.”

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New Yorkization

I was by myself, standing outside some bar, smoking. Happy hour had just ended. The street was quiet, except for the sound of traffic. There was another guy out there smoking too. He was lurching to and fro the way drunk people sometimes do, taking furtive looks at me and mumbling to himself. I was trying to suck down my cigarette quickly, so as to avoid any potential for chitchat. I wasn't in the mood. You know how it is. But I wasn't quick enough.
 

He came up to me, just as I smashed the butt under my heel. He stamped his foot on the sidewalk, almost losing his balance. He set his hands on his hips and swiveled his head very close to mine, in a sassy-hoola-hoopy- Mick Jagger-esque roundabout. It was a surprising feat of coordination and balance.
 
“Tell me!” he said on his first pass. It was a put-on high falsetto, ala Little Richard.
 
“Please!” he said on his second pass, but this time he stopped and held my stare. His eyes were floating around like a poaching egg. He seemed to be losing focus. I was too confused to say anything. But as it happened, I didn't have to.
 
Just then a small ceramic figurine flew out of a window above the bar and crashed on the street just behind him. A woman's voice shrieked: "You wanna fucking die asshole?"
 
He stopped swiveling and walked out into the middle of the street and raised his arms with fists clenched in fury:
 
“Fuck you!” he screamed. “Fuck you motherfucker! This is what the smoking ban gets you! Write your goddam congressman you fucking jackass bastard! You sonofabitch!” 
   
He started humming a song and hopping around in the street with his back hunched over, like a hipster goblin:
 
“Fire and brimstone outside your cute little windows lady!” he sang. “He-he-he! Ha-ha-ha! Gobbeldy gook and flobbeldy fook! Ha! Fuck your mother! Get used to it! Ha-ha-ha! Catch me if you ca-aaaan!”
 
Then he started spinning around with his arms held out like propellers.
 
“I’m a’comin’ ta git you! You motherfuckers!” he snarled, his voice oscillating as he spun. “I’ll smoke a whole fuckin’ carton out here if I have to! Get old moneybags Bloomberg down here and I’ll stick a big cigar right up his polished ass where it belongs! Haha!”
 
There was no response from above.
 
He stopped and turned to face me, or tried to. He gripped his head between his hands and staggered back to the sidewalk. When he regained a steady gaze he said:
“Can you fuckin’ believe these people?”
 
His voice rose to a whiny, believably sincere tone and he scrunched his face up real sweet and looked like he might start to cry. “This is what I say: This country has really got to take a good … hard … look … at …itself! Ya’ know what ah’m sayin’? Well do ya? Chicky-pie?”
 
“Sure,” I said.
 
“Can I call you chicky-pie?”
 
“If you must,” I said.
 
“Atta girl!” he said. “Ya’ see!”
 
He flopped his arm around my shoulder. “Now here’s a lady who understands what ah’m tryin’ ta say here! Not like you mutherfuckers!”
 
He gestured broadly to the empty street, as if to introduce me to his regular audience. I was a guest player, it seemed, in his own theatrical production. And for some reason, his defiance of the empty street seemed poignant to me, just then.
 
“Yeah!” I said, a little too forcefully, to the empty street. “Give ‘em hell man!”
 
I made a jabbing motion with my arm and furrowed my brow.
 
“You show those motherfuckers!” I shouted.
 
I find drunks difficult to read, and even more difficult to play with. Though I really did try. But he must have sensed some measure of insincerity because he promptly pulled his arm off my shoulder and squinted at me and shook his head and said:
 
“Who’re you talking to, Chickey-pie?”
 
“Same person you are,” I quipped.
 
“An’ who might that be?” he asked.
 
"You know! Them," and I pointed out to the empty street like an idiot.
 
He peered off into the street and I noticed just how ragged he was: bleary-eyed, sweaty and dressed in smudged tatters with a week-old beard. I wondered if maybe I'd finally lost all sense of propriety and mistaken a mentally ill homeless man for a harmless fashion-climbing LES hipster. But his shoes betrayed him. They were new Adidas, the kind you get at the SoHo outlet. He was either a slumming hipster or a superior bum. It's hard to tell sometimes.
 
"I don't see anybody," he said.
 
"Are you trying to fuck with me?" I asked.
 
"You're crazy girl," he said. "Like a cuckoo."
 
My face suddenly went all ruddy and clammy, and my mouth filled with tear-like fluid. I don't exactly know why, but I felt very ill and guilty, and not just ephemeral guilty, like I-didn’t-give-up-my-subway-seat-to-the-old-lady guilt. No, it was something else, something much deeper and nastier, something hid away in my psychic underbelly. I had that feeling like a piano or an anvil was about to fall on my head, like the next step I took could be into a deep hole, full of rats or snakes raw sewage. 
 
The only thing I can call it was a drunken pang of conscience, and a grave one at that, because anybody who drinks heavy and regular knows that the walls of inebriation are meaty and almost always impenetrable, except by sheer force of physical blows, death or police.
 
And I looked at the guy laughing at me, and I thought: Mom and Dad warned me about this kind of thing, about being had, about letting my guard down, about playing the game with all the fucking lunatics and getting sucked into the fray, away from the cleanliness, the trustworthy, upstanding compass of the Midwest. And here I was doing just that.
 
“Who was it you said you were talkin' to chicky?” he said.
 
I searched his patchy face for some glimmer of amusement, some time tested cue with which I could trip my own bullshit detector and open a way out.
 
I’ve met a lot of bullshit artists in my day and there’s always a way out: the crooked eyebrow, the cheek twitch, the eyelash flutter, the half-smile, the bobbing throat, the raised shoulder, the hand-wring, but there was nothing with him, no way out.
 
Wield the mighty saber of bullshit with much trepidation, I thought, for one can never know when the toilet of believability will get clogged and leave you to clean up your own mess.
 
"What's that chickey-pie?" he snarled, his face now twisting and steaming and bubbling up like melting plastic under the street lights. "I couldn't hear ya'?"
 
And that was when it happened: my New Yorkization. It was like a snap in the head and all the filth and clamor of the city flooded in and set up shop: a scale model, a snow globe of New York City, complete with trains roaring and buses farting and people throwing down on my streets, sleeping in my beds, cooking in my kitchen – and this person standing in front of me, trying to fuck with me, was a crumb, a speck, a nothing, less, even.
 
And for the first time, I thought: if this motherfucker thinks he’s going to ruin my $30 vodka buzz, he’s got another thing coming.
 
"You sonofabitch," I said, clear like a ringing bell. "Go back to Texas."
 
And this felt good folks. So fucking good that if I tried to explain, you probably wouldn't believe me.
 
"Wha?" he said. "Wha'd you jus' say to me?"
 
“I said, go back to Texas – you know, where you’re miserable parents probably conceived you on a potato sack in the back of the Cracker Barrel during a smoke break.”
 
I turned to go back into the bar.
 
“Wait!” he said. “Question! One fuckin’ question fer you, young lady!”
 
Then he began speaking, very deliberately, and taking much care to elucidate the perfect sentiment with his choice of words.
 
“Do … you? No, no all wrong,” he said, coming toward me. “Will ya’ just gimme a fucking’ minute? Jesus Fucking Lord! You New York girls have got a real problem with listening when a guy …”
 
"That's right, I am a New York girl," I said. "Now hurry up and speak your peace, you goddamn hillbilly."
 
“Aww, fug it. You’re all the same you lousy … ah geez,” he said. 
  
He closed his eyes. “Ah Jeezuz, of all the lousy fuggin’ … Ah, ah’m sorry,” he said, flinching like I might break his nose. “I don’ mean ta be such a mutherfucker, it’s jest that ah ..”
 
"Your time is up," I said, looking at my watch.
 
Then I smacked him on the head with my umbrella and made my way back inside, with a big smile on my face and a smoggy, muggy, sweaty sort of New York City warmth in my heart.

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