F*$k You, You F%*kin’ F#!k!
As I alluded to in my last post, ya know, the part about whole grain goodness and the Jergens “analogy”? Alas, it’s true. And it followed me throughout the weekend. Like a bad case of lost, lonely puppies with severe Chlamydia. Sound it out if you have to.
First, cold, hard salami-like proof of my previous post:
Onward. The boarding process proceeds as its usual, uneventful self, until I set foot on the plane and was greeted by the first flight attendant. You’ll find the dialogue exchanged between her and myself after the next few sentences of picture painting. Fingers and all.
The gentleman in front of me donned a nice, dark navy, pin stripped suit. White shirt, seemingly freshly pressed, attaché in hand. Clean cut, short curly black hair sat atop his 6’7”frame. Oh, and he was black. Not slightly black. But black. Not like the Kenyans, but black enough that he would melt into the camouflage we call dusk. And being that I’m 6’5”, European-white, and walked in immediately after him, it’s easy to see how the following confusion could’ve happened:
Flight Attendant: “Oh wow! There’s two of them in a row.”
Me: “He’s my father.”
Flight Attendant, (Bright-eyed with a mix of curiosity between, ‘I bet the men in this family have gigantic genitalia,’ to ‘They’re both wearing suites. Must be a father-son business trip.’): “Really?”
Me: “No.”
As if our night and day contrast in skin color didn’t give it away.
. . .
Business goes better than expected, and as I navigate my way from Who-The-Fuck-Knows-Where-Delaware back to Philadelphia airport, I’m motivated by sweet, dirty thoughts of just how much Smiles and I are going to fuck up that Manhattan hotel room.
She advises me from the coziness of her café local in Midtown, that it’d be in both our best interest if I could catch the 7:57 pm Amtrak. Upon arrival at 30th Street Station, at 8 pm, I’m told that the 7:57 is delayed, but if I hurry, I could catch the delayed 7 pm that’s boarding at a location not on my mental map.
Standing. Room. Only.
For two hours.
On a train that was so crowded, the French woman next to me spent the entire trip standing in the coat closet. Possibly because she was all French, all woman, but mostly because there was room in there. Anyway, it seems as though a train had broken down south of Wilmington and had offloaded many of it’s passengers onto this train. A SECOND train bound for Boston, had run over a tire just north of D.C., which had pawned off more passengers to this train. (It’s at this point that I’m struggling with the reality that I just might possibly be on a train to Boston and not New York). Apparently someone from that train had a roll of duct tape and, in a futile effort with the conductor, tried unsuccessfully to tape the severed brake line back together. You can’t make this shit up kids. This was straight from a few individuals who were on that train. And not only is it disconcerting that someone would attempt such an idiotic repair, but the fact that the conductor was in on the emergency surgery? I thought they only did that kind of thing in the south. Like Kentucky, or Detroit.
So my first-time arrival at Penn Station in NYC, and I’m as discombobulated as a pack of kittens with Chlamydia. As I find the entrance to the subway, I battle with choice of not looking too stupid by looking at the map, or ask the information booth. Cause really, I have no idea what train to catch. I opt for the map. And then I opt for the information booth to help me make sense of the map cause really, what the fuck?
Me: “I’m trying to get to 56th and 7th?”
Guy in information booth who had one of the worst speech impediments secondary to some kind of severe cognitive/mental disability: "IIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEMMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAA DDDDDDDDDDRRRRRRRRRRRIAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPATAAAAAAAAAATDA
ADDDDDDDDDDDDDTFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMD-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-DAAAAAAAIEEEEEEEEE."
Anyway, I made the mistake of verifying the pain I thought my cochlea had just endured. And subsequently suffered through the above-mentioned statement one more time.
Somehow I ended up in Central Park. Surrounded by the smell of rape and the fear of horse manure, I pushed on.
And had yet another unbelievable, memorable, Manhattan-attitude filled, and otherwise heart-warming weekend with Smiles.
First, cold, hard salami-like proof of my previous post:
Onward. The boarding process proceeds as its usual, uneventful self, until I set foot on the plane and was greeted by the first flight attendant. You’ll find the dialogue exchanged between her and myself after the next few sentences of picture painting. Fingers and all.
The gentleman in front of me donned a nice, dark navy, pin stripped suit. White shirt, seemingly freshly pressed, attaché in hand. Clean cut, short curly black hair sat atop his 6’7”frame. Oh, and he was black. Not slightly black. But black. Not like the Kenyans, but black enough that he would melt into the camouflage we call dusk. And being that I’m 6’5”, European-white, and walked in immediately after him, it’s easy to see how the following confusion could’ve happened:
Flight Attendant: “Oh wow! There’s two of them in a row.”
Me: “He’s my father.”
Flight Attendant, (Bright-eyed with a mix of curiosity between, ‘I bet the men in this family have gigantic genitalia,’ to ‘They’re both wearing suites. Must be a father-son business trip.’): “Really?”
Me: “No.”
As if our night and day contrast in skin color didn’t give it away.
. . .
Business goes better than expected, and as I navigate my way from Who-The-Fuck-Knows-Where-Delaware back to Philadelphia airport, I’m motivated by sweet, dirty thoughts of just how much Smiles and I are going to fuck up that Manhattan hotel room.
She advises me from the coziness of her café local in Midtown, that it’d be in both our best interest if I could catch the 7:57 pm Amtrak. Upon arrival at 30th Street Station, at 8 pm, I’m told that the 7:57 is delayed, but if I hurry, I could catch the delayed 7 pm that’s boarding at a location not on my mental map.
Standing. Room. Only.
For two hours.
On a train that was so crowded, the French woman next to me spent the entire trip standing in the coat closet. Possibly because she was all French, all woman, but mostly because there was room in there. Anyway, it seems as though a train had broken down south of Wilmington and had offloaded many of it’s passengers onto this train. A SECOND train bound for Boston, had run over a tire just north of D.C., which had pawned off more passengers to this train. (It’s at this point that I’m struggling with the reality that I just might possibly be on a train to Boston and not New York). Apparently someone from that train had a roll of duct tape and, in a futile effort with the conductor, tried unsuccessfully to tape the severed brake line back together. You can’t make this shit up kids. This was straight from a few individuals who were on that train. And not only is it disconcerting that someone would attempt such an idiotic repair, but the fact that the conductor was in on the emergency surgery? I thought they only did that kind of thing in the south. Like Kentucky, or Detroit.
So my first-time arrival at Penn Station in NYC, and I’m as discombobulated as a pack of kittens with Chlamydia. As I find the entrance to the subway, I battle with choice of not looking too stupid by looking at the map, or ask the information booth. Cause really, I have no idea what train to catch. I opt for the map. And then I opt for the information booth to help me make sense of the map cause really, what the fuck?
Me: “I’m trying to get to 56th and 7th?”
Guy in information booth who had one of the worst speech impediments secondary to some kind of severe cognitive/mental disability: "IIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEMMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAA DDDDDDDDDDRRRRRRRRRRRIAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPATAAAAAAAAAATDA
ADDDDDDDDDDDDDTFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMD-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-DAAAAAAAIEEEEEEEEE."
Anyway, I made the mistake of verifying the pain I thought my cochlea had just endured. And subsequently suffered through the above-mentioned statement one more time.
Somehow I ended up in Central Park. Surrounded by the smell of rape and the fear of horse manure, I pushed on.
And had yet another unbelievable, memorable, Manhattan-attitude filled, and otherwise heart-warming weekend with Smiles.
