Clareified

Where does the good go

I Spent A Month In Queens…

I thought that headline was going to be about getting lost in New Jersey Friday night.
I stood in the middle of the Path platform waiting for a train. One arrow, pointing to Track 1 said “to WTC and 33rd Street,” the other arrow, pointing to Track 2, said “To Newark.”
So, crazy me, wanting to go to New York, figured I’d get on the Track 1 train to the World Trade Center or 33rd Street.
But this is Jersey, so instead, that train stopped at somewhere called Journal Plaza. Conductor announced it was the last stop and everyone got off.
I immediately searched for an authority figure to ask my standard “I’m lost in Jersey” question.
“Excuse me. Umm..how do I get to New York?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“New. York.”
“33rd? World Trade…? Where in New York? ”
Look lady. It’s 1:30 a.m. If the look on my face says anything other than I want to get the hell out of the this state and anywhere into mine, including —heaven help me—Staten freaking Island, then I’m doing something wrong.
“Uh…anywhere is good.” AS LONG AS IT’S NOT JERSEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Ok, stay on this train. We’re going back.”
Terrif.
I got back on the train, went all the way back to Jersey City, then took a detour to Ho-freaking-boken, until finally the train crawled into the Christopher Street station.
I had won about $250 at a game that night, so I decided I could treat myself to a cab from the West Village.
At last I was safe in the bosom of my city.
And so it was, that when I accepted Tim’s invite to a Czech bohemian beer festival in Queens, I thought “no problem.” At least, it ain’t Joisey.
Mmmmm.
Indeed, Queens is not Jersey. No, Sir. Queens is Oklahoma. Or Kansas. Or…Poland.
Seriously.
The streets are lined with white picket-fenced houses, with little old ladies sitting out front. American flags jut out from every second floor. I cannot tell you the depths of creepiness reached when one gets onto a NYC subway car and gets off in Kansas.
I checked my blackberry to look up the address that Tim had sent: “It’s at 21-19 24th Avenue in Astoria, Queens and is really quite simple to get to (take the N train to the second to last stop in Queens.”
I loved the “the toast is done one minute before it burns” stop getting out instructions.
I looked at the map in the subway and noticed there was no 24th avenue, so I asked a black guy in a hospital workers uniform where I needed to go to get there.
“24th avenue? 24th and what?”
I checked Tim’s directions again.
Umm…I don’t know. It’s an Bohemian Beer garden.”
Black guy gives me the “beer what now?” look.
“Umm..thanks. I’ll go ask over at the gas station.”
The gas station attendant tells me to walk 12 blocks south, make a right and go three avenues East.
I start my trek in my very summery, but non practical for walking, flip flops.
Boy, that Tim has a very odd definition of “simple.”
I walk and stare, mesmerized by the borough that time and geography forgot. Unlike busstops in Brooklyn and Manhattan –which are usually encased in glass structures, with timetables and directional maps – Queens stops just have a blue pole sticking out of the ground. I stopped into Papa Johns to get a slice.
Yeah, they don’t sell slices.
I reached 23rd avenue, and was eager to cross over to 24th. I was parched, my feet hurt and the heebeegeebeees were strong.
Of course, I cross the street, walk another two hours and nothing resembling a 24th avenue materializes.
After circumnavigating Astoria park and crossing a crazy Triborough bridge highway, four times. I stop a group of hippie looking people to ask for directions.
For sure, they will know when the Bohemian Beer Garden will be.
“Whoa. That is also far from here.”
“What?”
“Oh, we just got stopped by someone else asking for directions to somewhere that was really far away.”
Damn Queens Twilight Zone vortex.
“So…how far is far?”
“Umm…look, all I can tell you is to go that way. You need Astoria boulevard.”
Her finger pointed back toward the Papa Johns I had passed.
I saw a bus coming and ran to the nearest blue pole.
The driver opened the door. Oh.MY.GOD.
The bus seats were GREEN.
And metal. Yet further evidence that I had stepped through some portal to another universe and I had no hope of getting out.
The bus driver let me out on Astoria Blvd., and again, I looked for someone to ask. I was still far from the subway, starving, thirsty, tired and ready to quit.
Eh, I don’t like beer anyway.
I found a hotel type thing and gave it one more shot.
“Hey, do you know where the Bohemian Beer Garden is?”
“yeah…it’s on the other side of the bridge,” he says pointing back toward the place I was when the group of hippies sent me back here.
Well, that’s it. I’m going home.
The nice hotel guy hailed a cab for me –an actual yellow, not green, cab.
I checked my cellphone and there was a text message from Kaz. One of her daily “this is where I am” messages.
She was at the beer garden. Turns out, I had the wrong address. I tried to tell the cabdriver the address, but he totally didn’t understand—Queens addresses have like a 15 digit minimum. 293-314 on 24th avenue between 31st and 32nd
What???
I hand him my Treo and he reads Kaz’s message.
Oh, ok.
Finally, I get to the Beer Garden. A renaissance style arena encapsulated by a huge stone wall—picture Monty Python throwing a cow over kinda wall. A line snaked around the outside.
I was tempted to scale the wall.
What a fitting end to my marathon wandering through the Queens desert.
But, I choose to wait.
When I get inside, it’s a whole different kind of pandemonium. Row after row of picnic tables, surrounded by vendors and bars and two stages and a dance floor. I circumnavigate the “room” (park?) twice before finally running into Tim, who is on line for food.
“Hey!”
“Hi.”
“Did you just get here?”
“Why, yes. Yes. I did.”
I tell him my whole sorted story and he sympathetically says:
“Funny. You’re the only one who had that problem.”
“Well, yeah. Black people are dumb.”
“Oh my God. That is soooo true.”
I promptly inform him that Al Sharpton will be boycotting his place of business first thing Tuesday morning.
“Well, if you guys can find it.”
Turns out the food line is longer than the wall scaling line.
I am not quite catatonic, but the smelling of food without the eating of food, is starting to get to me.
Tim says he’s having a Kielbasa. I decided I was too. But then I realized I was confusing that with a shish kabob.
“Whoa. Kielbasas are huuuuge. I can’t possibly eat one of those.”
Except. By the time we had reached the front of the line I was thinking one wouldn’t be enough.
At the table I met up with Kaz and F-train, a bunch of F-train’s college buddies, Tim’s friend Tito and his brother…well…Jermaine, Tim’s long lost exchange student brother from high school—Yoshi and Yoshi’s platonic friend Chia. Like the pet.
Oh, what a merry band we were.
Chia talked about the key to good sushi (making friends with the chef.)
I made my usual mature face of tolerance for that which I do not understand.
“Have you ever even had sushi, Dawn,” F-train asks.
“California rolls.”
“That’s not sushi.”
“Well, I think food should be cooked.”
“You at least have to try the food before you can not like it.”
“Not true. I believe that food must be cooked, that which is uncooked, is not food. It is ingredients for food.”
But this is a bohemian beer garden, after all, and our merry banter would turn to sloppy drunk before the night’s end.
F-train’s friend Seth was introduced to me in the best way possible “Hey, Dawn. He’s a fan of your blog.”
I love blog fans!
He was such a nice guy, one could not help but wonder how on earth he’s friends with F-train.
Must be that whole opposites attract thing that makes me friends with F-train.
Speaking of attraction (did you see how I did that…it’s called “segue.” Kids, do not try this at home.) F-train set his sights on Chia.
“What are my chances with the forty-year-old Japanese woman,” he asked me.
“Umm…forty? And single? I’d say good!”
“Yeah, but that’s more a product of her patheticness than my positive attributes.”
“Dude. Umm…yes. And it’s time you embraced that lot in life.”
“Fuck you, Dawn. When’s the last time you had a date.”
Touche, F-train, touché.
With that pearl of encouragement he was off for an evening full of swapping spit with Chia, multiple looks down her shirt and her head on his shoulder – I think twice – but who remembers.
Seth played wingman, keeping Yoshi occupied with mindless chatter while F-train macked it up with Chia. (“I told my wife I was playing wingman for F-train and she said. Yes, that’s good. You talk to the middle aged Japanese business man, not the hot Asian chick.”)
Unfortunately, Seth ran out of material around 8 and Yoshi and Chia prepared to leave. F-train sealed the deal with the very smooth “here’s my card. Hope to hear from you again.”
“So what are the odds I’ll hear from her again?” he whispers to me.
“Two to one!”
“I’ll take those odds!”
She stood up from the table and said her goodbyes.
“Nice to meet you, Dawn, Tito, Jermaine, Seth, F-train”
“Oh, no. I’m Seth. He’s F-train.”
“Ok, three to one,” F-train and I recalculate simulataneously.
After my trek through Queens, I decided I was done with any activity that required standing for the rest of the week. So, I ended up talking poker with Seth and Jermaine. I also had a conversation with one of F-train’s college friends which either ended with the phrase “well, you probably don’t worry about making partner because you probably want to get married and have kids” or “well, you probably don’t worry about making partner because you can just marry someone who does.”
Kaz, on the other hand, was playing social butterfly with some friends from college she randomly ended up sitting next to, and three tables of Tim’s friends. She played wingwoman for F-train’s friend Sonar, by finding him a dance partner.
“I just asked her if she would dance with you because you were a really good dancer, but I was messing you all up because I am a terrible dancer,” she said triumphantly after Sonar returned from dancing with the girl, “but of course, that is a BIG lie. I am an AWESOME dancer, but I was playing a ROLE,” she reassured us.
And indeed, she did spin and spin around the dance floor — of course, she could have just been avoiding dealing with the now plastered F-train.
At this point in my story, F-train is now sprawled across our picnic table attempting to cut his wrists with a plastic knife.
“I can’t believe I didn’t get her number. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY”
“Because you’re an idiot?” Sonar helpfully offers.
“Did you see? She put her head on my shoulder. Twice.”
“Yes, you mentioned that.” When F-train is drunk, he repeats himself. A lot. We’ll call this personality the F-F-F-F-train.
“Look, if you’re going to use a plastic knife, you are going to have to press harder than that,” I offered even more helpfully than Sonar.
F-train promptly gives me the finger in rapid succession to the oompapa beat of the Czech band.
Impressive for one so drunk.
“God. I can’t believe I didn’t get her number. She put her head on my shoulder!”
“What? No way! How many times.”
“I’m going to hit you Dawn. I swear.”
“No you’re not. Cause then I will kill you, leave your body in Queens, Kaz will move into the big bedroom and put your stupid cat in the street.”
“Kaz wouldn’t leave my cat homeless.”
“Well, sure, she’d give the cat a couple of days to make other arrangements, but by week’s end, it’ll be out on the side of the road with its kitty litter, scratching post and squeeze toys.”
“Arrangements? So, my cat’ll be typing away on craig’s list ‘meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow…bitch meow, meow, meow.’?”
“HA! Exactly.”
He balled up his “fist,” I mean seriously, more bone than fist. I call it grist!
“You’re going to put someone’s eye out with that,” I said taking custody of his left arm and leg (both of which, by the way, I could firmly grip without straining the range on either of my hands.)
When he flailed. I beat him with his own grist. When he kicked, I kicked him with his own leg.
It was…a sight to be seen.
So, really, no one could be too surprised when a Kaz ended up coming down with a migraine.
We were heading back to Brooklyn on the subway and F-train and Sonar were both making such spectacles of themselves that the Goth couple wearing black leather pants, heavy black mascara, with tattooes across half their face and arms, with interlocking nose rings, were staring at us like we were the freaks.
“Daaaaawwwwwn, has a coke nail!!!”
“Coke nail. Coke nail.”
“I wanna see Dawn’s coke nail.”
Yes, someone is a smite overdue for a manicure.
“Shhhh…let’s play a game. Who can be quiet the loooongest,” I said as Kaz collapsed into a ball of writhing brain pain in the seats across from us.
“Fine. I LOSE!” Sonar exclaimed.
“Yeah, yeah!! I LOSE TOO,” F-train, his two-year-old brother joined in.
“Let’s see the coke nail,” he said grabbing my hand and refusing to let go.
One…Two…Let go, F-train…Fine.
“Ow! She bit me!”
He screamed, finally releasing my hand after I may or may not have bitten him.
“I’m taking a picture,” F-train said grabbing his camera phone.
“Dawn bit me.”
“Well, to be fair, I have pictures on my phone of you trying to hit her as proof that you had it coming,” Seth replied. Have I mentioned how awesome and great Seth is? No? cause he is.
By now, the entire half of our subway car was staring at us.
Can’t.Imagine.Why.
But one woman, in particular, was riveted. And unfortunately, F-train noticed.
“Why is that woman staring at us? That one right there in the green shirt.”
Then he goes into his Christopher Walken impression. Which, since F-train will never do his Walken impression when I ask him–which is pretty much whenever I see him, this is the only redemptive quality of the F-F-F-F-train. He’ll just casually do Christopher Walken at the drop of a hat.
The woman stares more.
“Well, we’re probably teaching her some English,” Sonar says.
I cover my face with my hands, which is pretty much what Kaz is now doing – but for non-embarrassed my F-train reasons. I think.
“Wow. That lady looks real concerned about Kaz,” F-train loudly observes.
“Yes, this is all your fault.”
“No, it’s not.”
Tito, the only thing approaching an adult in our group, went to get Kaz water.
That seemed to do the trick, and F-F-F-F-train took the opportunity to tattle.
“Kaz, Kaz look what Dawn did,” he said showing her the camera phone picture of his bite.
“What is that?”
“Dawn bit my hand.”
“Then, why don’t you just show me your hand?”
“Cause it’s gone now.”
“I don’t know, F-train. That doesn’t really prove anything. You could have bit yourself,” Tito suggests.
Which, now that I think on it, is exactly what happened. I was on the train minding my own business, when F-train shouted, “why didn’t I get her number???” and then bit himself.
As we waited on the platform for the F-train –not the drunken man-child—but the actual train to arrive.
I noticed a woman with a baby stroller. But inside the baby stroller was a small, yippee dog.
She walked away to look at the map and the dog started yelping.
“God dammit. You are like a child,” she said stomping over to the DOG in a STROLLER.
Yah. Can’t imagine how the dog got the impression that it was child.
She wheeled the dog over to the large subway map and started having a hissy fit.
“Carmen, come here. This train doesn’t go there,” she hissed to the Latina chick a foot away.
It was then we noticed the other woman who was holding like seven bags from the finest stores in midtown and pushing a shopping cart with yet another dog inside.
The woman quickly came over to the dog stroller woman and started apologizing and explaining something.
“Man, I fricking HATE rich people,” I say glaring at stroller dog lady chewing out Carmen.
“Uh, Dawn. You are rich,” the newly unmigraned Kaz says.
“Nu uh. I am working class…I work…and…I um…went to class.”
Kaz, still watching the two women interact, mutters “classy” at something dog stroller woman did.
“Ooh. Yes! That’s what I should have said. Ok, do over. Nu uh. I am working class. I work and I have class.”
Damn, I’m so clever.
Seats open up on a bench a few feet away, so we walk over there.
F-train crouches against the garbage can next to me.
“Oh my God!!! THAT’S NOT A BABY!!! That lady has a dog in the stroller,” he says loudly enough for the entire platform to hear.
Kaz and I laugh and laugh.
“Yes, dude. We’ve been talking about her for the past five hours.”
Finally, the train came and we were on our way home. When the train pulled into their stop, F-train said “now, you’ll be all alone!”
“Oh, thank GOD!”
I put on my ipod and settled back into my usual train ride of obscurity. What a crazy night.
My word.
The last time I bit a boy was the fifth grade and we ended up going out for a week until he let Tamara sit at our table at lunch and I punched him twice in the stomach.
Hmm, come to think of it, that was also the last time I had a date.

16 Responses to “I Spent A Month In Queens…”

  1. F-Train Says:

    You’re being highly uncharitable, dude. Drunk does not equal plastered. You have seen me plastered.

    Btw, “Seth” is called “Ben” by most people who aren’t so drunk that they don’t remember his name.

  2. dawn summers Says:

    i have never been drunk.

  3. Pearatty Says:

    That was pretty funny.

  4. Alceste Says:

    Given that both you and Jordan ended up in Journal Square, I suspect the trains were running on only one track… (did you look to see which train you were boarding before you got on it?)

  5. kaz Says:

    “that’s not a baby, it’s a dog! a dog!!!”

    hahahahahahahaha

  6. dawn summers Says:

    Give it up alceste. Jersey sucks and you know it! You were probably trying to get on a train back to your apartment on the Upper East Side, but they kept diverting you deeper and deeper into Jersey until you finally gave up and just decided to stay in Jersey.

    Admit it!

  7. PAUL Says:

    Queens is all messed up with how they named their streets. It’s so friggin confusing. What possessed them to name all the Ave’s, St’s, Rd’s, ways, lanes and drives. All numbered similar and all near each other!

    I used to go to the Bohemian Beer Garden a couple years ago, back when if was kind of undiscovered by the rest of the City. It was a great place and there was never a line on the weekends.
    Last year they kept getting written about in nightlife articles and stuff and the secret got out. Now there is that megaline on the weekend! It sucks. I haven’t been back since.

  8. toby Says:

    Hey, watch it with the Path! Our trains actually have a “time table.”

  9. Dawn Summers Says:

    Bravo. And now if they’d only go to the right stops, you’d have the whole package!

  10. Pearatty Says:

    The worst part about the Path is the smell of the stations in Jersy City. That is just the worst smell ever. What is it?

  11. Dawn Summers Says:

    Jersey.

  12. toby Says:

    If you looked at the right map, Dawn, the one that shows after-hours (ie, though Hoboken) you would have realized that Hoboken WAS a stop. Silly New Yorker, everyone knows the WTC train cuts 20-minutes off the trek in the middle of the night.

  13. Dawn Summers Says:

    :)

  14. Alceste Says:

    Dude, you’ve been taking too many ferries, the 33rd St. takes the Hoboken detour. Hop on the train with “WTC” on its side and you’re in Manhattan in six minutes.

    and Pearatty, most of the PATH stations are much better – Exchange place, however, has some severe water damage and the stench of mildew fills the air…

  15. Clareified » Blog Archive » Pass the sugar salt Says:

    […] Sometime last year, after Chugarte made him quite the December fool, Fisch thought to himself “yeah, he’s funny now. I wonder how funny he’ll be when he doesn’t have me to kick around anymore.” I imagine he used a Richard Nixon voice, but you know, I dunno, he was thinking to himself. He then asked Chugarte when his next show was and added “ok, Dawn and I are coming.” I looked up at the sound of my name. “What’s that now?” “We’re going to see Chugarte in concert.” “Uh…we are? When did we make these plans? Was I sober?” I don’t recall what the answers to these questions were, but I had evidently agreed. Of course, that was like 2006 and well, ask anyone, Fisch has a memory like a sieve. Or a strainer. Or a cylinder with no bottom. So, I doubted it was going to happen. Lo and behold, he actually ims me yesterday afternoon to make actual plans to go. I know. Be afraid. Be very afraid. That’s when I discover the most awesome part about this whole outing. It’s. In. Queens. You all know how I feel about Queens. (Click the link of course, but for the lazy or stupid, it’s about how I got lost in Queens for a week and half last Spring. You will laugh, you will cry, you will ask why on earth Dawn is going back to Queens.) “Oh, come on, Dawn! Queens is closer than Manhattan!” Nu uh. Queens is in the Midwest. It’s closer to Indiana. But fine, it was Chugarte. And Chugarte is very very funny. I hadn’t seen him perform since last year, so I agreed. And, since it worked so well on me, I Jedi mind tricked, F-train too. We planned to meet at my apartment. F-train arrived first with his furrowed brow of concern. “Dawn, do you know how to get to Queens?” I rolled my eyes and gave him the what-kind-of-idiot-do-you-think-I-am look as I showed him that I have looked up the directions and emailed to myself on my blackbe…uhh…wait…where are the directions…. Ap-Cray. I guess my balckberry doesn’t interpret the yahoo map formatting very well…so…d’oh. “Uh…well, good thing you asked,” I said in my well-I-guess-that’s-the-kind-of-idiot-that-I-am tone. We got the instructions, Fisch finally came and we were on our way. Fisch and F-train amused themselves by trading “oh my God and then Dawn did this totally stupid thing” stories, while I took turns flipping them off. They then prepared to laugh at my inability to park the car, but it was a right hand side spot and I had no trouble whatsoever…sasat. We got out of the car and found ourselves standing in a very residential neighborhood, with no idea where to go. “What’s the name of the place, Dawn” “I dunno…I just plugged the address in…” Fisch points to a blue neon sign and says “well, let’s try that building.” We are about to head in that direction, when a lady stops us. “You guys look lost.” “Uh…we’re looking for a comedy club,” I stammer. “No, it’s not. It’s probably a bar,” F-train corrects. The lady points us to a coffee shop in the across the street. “I think that’s where you’re going.” We get there and I ask this dude outside to take our picture. F-train deems this beneath him and tells Fisch to glare in the picture. Of course, F-train is a vain, vain man and when it comes right down to it, does not like ugly pictures of himself in the universe. So, while Fisch is scowling, F-train and I have pleasant smiles on our faces. “HEY! You said you were going to glare,” Fisch complains later as he scans through the pictures on my digital camera. “See, Fisch. This is why we don’t trust F-train. Lesson the first.” We went inside and discovered that when they say “free show” they mean “$7 show.” We said hi to Chugarte and he said that if no more comedians showed up, he would have an incredibly long set. Oh, would that were so. Would. That. Were. So. The MC opened the show with “welcome to what we’re calling ‘agents don’t come to astoria’ show” I laughed. Let me preface the rest of this post with this: the MC was hot. He can do no wrong. If he sat Indian style on the floor, running his hands through his hair. I would laugh. (Provided he was looking for laughter, otherwise, I would applaud. Or cry. You know, whatever, hot guy wanted.) So hot guy does an amazing set. Including a bit about how his mom was race neutral and would call her inner city high school students monkeys. Look, I mangled that joke. It was funny. He was hot. I punch you in the face. Oh, at the start of the show he did that things comedians do where they ask people what they do. “You can lie, if you want.” So Fisch did. “I’m a fireman.” Hot guy laughs in his face. “You can lie, but at least make it believeable.” Fisch admits he teaches the LSAT. I laugh and decide I love the hot guy. (Later in the car when we (and by we, I mean me) are mocking Fisch, I say “Fireman, dude? What are you four?” He then glumly says “yeah, but when I said that all the women in the room turned around to look at me. And then when I said I was a teacher, they looked away.) After hot guy comes this guy that looks just like Alceste. (He even made a joke about how if their was a Harry Potter rapist, he’d be collared. I did not mangle that one. He was terrible.) No one really laughed at his jokes and then he got all surly and yelled at the audience for not laughing. I kid you not, he said “that was a funny joke, you guys.” And then like stormed off. He then left with a suitcase a few minutes later. Of course, I would listen to that everyday and twice on Tuesdays if I enevr have to think about the woman that followed him. She made me want to jam sharp things in my ears and eyes, just for the relief of not hearing her whining anymore. Her best line came when she kinda got heckled by an audience member who said “I would never do anything so [dirty] I am a Southern Belle.” “Are you kidding me,” she replied “You girls show your boobs for plastic beads. Give me a break.” That I laughed at. But it was mostly dead silence for her set. The Hot guy came back out and said “Alright people. This is no longer a comedy show. It is a officially a battle. And you guys are winning.” I laughed and laughed. Then Chugarte came out and said (and yes, I will be doing my best to mangle all these lines, because then he will comment with all the corrections and I will get lots of comments.) “I’m glad the Michael Richards thing is fading from the news. I am so sick of talking about it. Geez, you know, people find out you’re a racist and suddenly it’s all they want to talk about.” HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA…see, it’s funny cause you thought he was gonna say comedian, but no, he then goes the other way. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH And then he said “all the coverage of Gerald Ford’s funeral reminded me that Ford was alive…which you know, two days after he died, is kinda sad.” (Oh, the hot guy had this joke where he said that people had packed the Apollo theater to see James Brown body. “So, there you have it…even dead, he’s the hardest working man in show biz.” I laughed.) Then Chugarte talked about having christmas dinner with the in laws and how he became very afraid of all the food once he tried the white cream and was told that it was sour cream mixed with whipped cream. “Dude. That’s just disgusting! What the hell…what else do they have? Here have a spoonful of sugar salt? you just must try the pepper and the coal shavings?” He then told some jokes I do not repeat here because they require my hands to be over my face and I need to stick my fingers in my ears. Oh, but before he told them, he asked this guy and this girl if they were a couple. The guy was all wishy washy about it and Chugarte was like “whatever, for the purposes of the next minute. You are.” Then he spots another guy and girl and says “hold on…are you guys a couple, cause then this can be salvaged.” They say that they are and Chugarte says “ok, fake couple you’re out. Real couple, you’re in.” HAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAh He then says that this year when the kid’s came trick or treating he saw the best costume ever. “A little boy about six, was dressed as Superman, but his bucket for candy was a Spiderman head. The effect was really cool. It’s like put the candy in Spiderman’s head or else you’re next. Superman don’t play.” Ok, and then Charles finishes and we all want to die again. I mean there are a couple of one liners here and there: I saw someone reading sheet music on the subway and I was like “buy an ipod, loser” I really need to stop correcting people’s grammar…at funeral’s. The best thing about growing up in Syracuse is that whereever else you go for the rest of your life, you’ll be impressed. And then of course, whatever else the hot guy said. Seriously, by the end he asked me to come to all his shows or to marry him, I can’t remember. Then a fourteen year old kid goes on…except he looks eight…and sounds forty. I gotta tell ya, there is nothing so depressing as a little boy trying be grown. He had all the mannerisms of these comics around him and told all these raunchy jokes about “pulling out too early” and getting a girl an abortion for christmas and it just made me sad. Where’re his parents? Jesus, get that kid a baseball glove and some sun. He doesn’t need to know that life is disppointing quite this early. We hung out with Chugarte for a bit and he agreed to let me follow him back to Brooklyn, lest I have to rent an apartment in Queens and relocate. As we head home, Fisch says he really liked the Christmas dinner joke, but thought it needed to end with something funnier than coal shavings. “What coal shavings? I thought he said shaving cream.” “No, coal shavings and pepper.” For some reason I find that the funniest thing in the world and just lose it. (I am laughing like a lunatic even as I write this. ahahahahahahhahaa) Fisch gets worried when I don’t stop laughing and the car begins to swerve. “Stop laughing, Dawn. Drive safely!” F-train was nonplussed. “Fisch, I accepted long ago that I take my life in my hands when I get in this car.” I was too busy trying to control the car while laughing to give him the finger. Ah, good times. Good times. Coal shavings and pepper. AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH […]

  16. Chugarte Says:

    Nice abbreviation the ellipses provide on that trackback.

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