Wednesday, February 23, 2005

The Mexican Standoff

Okay, I've been gone for a month, and here I am making two posts within minutes of each other. Not only that, but I'm also talking to myself because I'm certain that no one is listening.

So today I was taking the C train up to Harlem, and I got on at 59th St. I sat across from this woman with enormous eyes. We're taking huge fucking eyeballs, people. I mean, she could have easily doubled as a mogwai...with much darker skin...without the body hair...or the cute songs sung for an old Chinese man. Anyway, she decided to engage me in the game that New Yorkers love to play on the subway:


I sat on the train, and I noticed her gigantic eyes staring at me. At first, I thought she might be in a daze, staring off into space, so I stared back. After a few seconds, a good riposte stare will usually fend off any novice starer.

But alas, she was a pro.

I tried looking away, pretending to read an ad that was surprisingly not for Dr. Z's acne removal system. Then I darted my eyes back to her, hoping to wake her from a potential daydream. No, she was awake and transfixed on me.

Why was she staring at me? I will admit that I might have looked a little strange. I was carrying a bag containing a Roast Pork Italian wit and a Cheesesteak Provolone Sharp wit from Tony Luke's Old Philly Style Sandwiches, which would later become a delectable dinner for my woman and I. In order to preserve the warmth of the sandwiches, I kept the brown paper bag inside my coat, using my body heat as an incubator. (My coat now has a wonderful pork smell to it.) I clutched the coat under the bag and thought, "Maybe I look like a terrorist. I do have a thin beard now, and despite my lack of olive skin, I guess a bearded guy clutching his coat fits the profile." Then I realized that terrorists wouldn't carry a bomb inside their coat and clutch themselves while reeking of pork. If these were Middle Eastern terrorists, Allah would have made them order the chicken.

I tried smiling and looking relaxed, but she wouldn't budge. She was emotionless, but her eyes were piercing through me. It was unnerving, so I once again tried to stare back. I sucked at this and cowered under pressure. I was starting to get pissed, so I kept trying to regroup and stare again, but I couldn't hold up under her intensity. She owned me.

I have a friend, who when encountering these situations, likes to yell, "You wanna fight or fuck?" (He typically gets lots of responses to the latter, and almost always is ammenable to the suggestion.) I have asked this question once in the past, and it did prove surprisingly effective at warding off the offending starer. But this is not exactly the most tactful thing a man can say, especially to a beautiful woman, especially when there are children around, especially when there are very large, menacing men around, especially when there are very large, menacing women around. I just cowered away in fear, and for the first time in my life, I lost The Mexican Standoff.

But then I regrouped and tried to make it a "best out of three" situation. She had already looked away after thrashing her prey (me), so the game could technically be on for another round. I geared up, rolled my eyeballs back into their sockets, and with full force, I shot my eyelids open and stared with tenacity.


Her eyes were closed.

She was intentionally cutting me off.

You can't do that. That's totally bush league! Just slide into my leg with steel spikes, why don't ya?

Then she got off at the next stop and wouldn't even pay me the respect to glance at my obvious disgust.

I was pissed, and I needed to stare at someone. The next guy who sat down across from me was a very large dude. I got ready to stare, and he immidiately went to sleep. I started to look him over, and I saw that he had a picture of a woman and a girl (presumably his wife and kids) around his neck. His bulging sweat pants had a big hole in the crotch that looked like it had been re-sewn more than once. His head was adorned with a New York Post hat.

It figures.

Times readers would never blow out their crotch.

Bloggus Interruptus

Well, so far, I've successfully remained in a blogosphere vaccum. It's been a month since my last post, and I have yet to receive a single comment. No one knows I'm here, and I love it.

In the meantime, whilst playing my new favorite game of hitting random blogs, I realized that blogs are essentially a medium for non-English speakers and emotionally underdeveloped teenagers. The latter is of slightly more interest to me, and I discovered this one blog by this incredibly smart kid, Kyle. Kyle is working on some huge cyberspace-like project that is far to vast for my feeble mind to comprehend. It has something to do with the world coming together, creating universal harmony and peace, developing a better tasting fat-free potato chip...blah, blah, blah. Anyway, poor Kyle's hormones are raging, and just when he's about to go postal over losing his bitch of a girlfriend, he suddenly discovers this rare flower that he falls head over heels for. Reminding me much of myself at his age, Kyle goes full steam ahead when he should take it slow and the girl gets scared. Then she comes back to him. Then she backs away. The back-and-forth continues, and poor Kyle's heart is about to burst. I swear I've gotten hooked on this Kyle story, and the crazy thing is that I sense he's writing this blog with the full knowledge of not only his friends but also the object of his affection. This kid is so bent out of shape that he's letting the whole world read his diary, setting himself up for either adolation (like in a Corey Haim movie) or extreme disappointment (like in the real world).

Kyle's blog has become my crack. I was addicted, getting the shakes and at one point, checking back every hour or so to see if his heart was beaming or broken. This is how housewives feel when they get attached to soap operas. I wanted to tune in every day to see if Bo and Hope would finally live free of the evil clutches of Stefano Demero. And then it happened. I checked back this evening to see where young Kyle's heart was headed, and he dealt me the death blow. He erased all record of his heartbreak. He cut me off. Kyle's blog was cancelled.

Fuck you, Kyle.

I was going to tell you that the world is full of hope and things will get better when you grow older. But you know what? You, young man, taught me that the world is hopeless and full of disappointment. If you think you have it rough now, sonny boy, wait until you're a bitter old man (or at least you feel like one) and your entire world hinges on living vicariously through a young man half your age. I hope that chick ripped your little post-pubescent heart out of your hairless chest, threw it into a bucket of hydrochloric acid, stomped on it repeatedly with a stiletto heel, forced the pulp through a Jack Lalane juicemaster, and then fed the liquid to her evil black cat.

That's what the world is like, you whiny little pissant.