DON'T COUGH ON ME, YOU BITCH!

The other day, I was walking up Second Avenue after work. As I crossed St. Mark's, I got a tickle in my throat and coughed a little bit. I covered my mouth. Not that that's the point. An old lady in front of me, as I coughed, turned around and yelled at me, really loudly: 'DON'T COUGH ON ME, YOU BITCH!' I was so shocked that I started laughing and said, hand still over mouth, 'I didn't--' But she didn't want to hear it, and responded by yelling 'YOU BITCH, GET AWAY FROM ME.' The most awesome response from me would have been to cough directly in her haggy face (yeah, I'm a bitch, what about it?), but unfortunately, that didn't occur to me until I was on the phone with my cousin Maddy, two blocks away, relating the story.

I've been doing a lot of fun but somewhat-misguided things lately. Last Saturday, I went with Erin and Jimmy to Coney Island in the late afternoon to see the "Creepshow at the Freakshow." Tempted with the promise of Presidents, spookiness, and freaks, how could I resist? By the time we got off the train, it was raining hard and the wind was blowing sideways. My umbrella flipped inside out more times than I bothered to count, and we were all freezing cold and wet in that really indisious, clammy way within minutes. It was kind of awesome. It was definitely ridiculous. We strolled down the boardwalk, fighting the wind, avoiding a sheet-metal sign that had ripped off the front of a concession stand. We watched as some moron trolled the raging beach with a metal detector. Seriously, dude, you could die out there. What could you find that would make it worth it? We (I) ate a hotdog at Nathan's. We went to the Creepshow. Which was exceptionally strange and actually legitimately terrifying. My favorite part were some terrific glow-in-the-dark paintings of the Presidents, in a rickety stairwell. I couldn't get a really good look at most of them, since we were being hounded by an 'animatronic' Richard Nixon who declared every one of them a different variety of Commie and had to hustle. Along the way, I was menaced by Laura Bush, Erin got touched by Nixon, and Jimmy assassinated JFK. All in all, it was sort of great, sort a mess, and I felt about it the same way that I feel about the normal Freakshow-- I admire their enthusiasm and their creativity a whole lot, and I really like how much they love Coney Island. I just wish there was an outside eye with a little more attention to detail to make everything go a little bit smoother. (I really hope they don't Google themselves and then write excoriating comments on my blog....like they did to Erin's dad. Eekerz! Leave me alone, freaks! I like you!)

Another foolish thing I did recently was walk the thirteen-something miles comprising this fair island of Manhattan. Jason and I took the train to 207th Street yesterday, walked up to 218th, and didn't stop (save for a terrific half-an-hour at Grant's Tomb and a horrible fifteen-minute lunch crouched against some planters at the Time Square Sheraton) until we reached Battery Park. Somewhere around Union Square, it became apparent that if we stopped, even for a light, it was really, really hard to get started. So we did a lot of jaywalking or pained, Frankenstein-ish lurching in place on corners to prevent our bodies from shutting down like they wanted to. Jason felt bad the whole time, saying "People run this far! On a daily basis! This is a half-marathon! What's wrong with us?" I felt bad, but in a different way. Mainly in a way that is a direct result of never exercising and wearing Converse on a thirteen-mile walk. Let's just say that I'm sort of walking like Quasimodo today. It isn't charming.

I didn't really expect this to happen, but I'm getting super nervous about the election. Not necessarily worried, just really nervous. I can't wait for next week.

I also can't wait for Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie? Sign me up.

But Halloween is another story. Though I am very happy with my costume (thus far)....only the people at work will get to see it. :( Bummer. On the bright side, I'm sure the East Village will be overflowing with freaks for me to watch while work is slow. Good.

What's all this I'm reading about snow?

#$&%@*!!!

Ah, Guardian blogs! Letting me down, at last! Today's batch featured this just-plain-insane entry from a man whose last name is "Pulver," which puts me in mind of a verb describing what I'd gladly do to him if I saw him onl the street. (Alright, not really, but please. Pulver? There's a divorce lawyer near Erin's apt. whose name is"Tracey Bloodsaw." How can that be her real name?! Every time I walk by the sign, I say to myself "Blooooodsawww" in a Vincent Price voice.)

Anyway, here are some key sentences from the entry entitled : 'Should Tim Burton Have Cut Sweeney Todd's Songs?'

"It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm no Sondheim maven, nor am I much of a fan of musicals in general. In fact, the only Sondheim tune I know I've heard is Send in the Clowns. But I really wasn't prepared for the cavalcade of horribleness that was the Sweeney Todd music. (I'm presuming, rightly or wrongly, that it's been lifted pretty much intact from the stage show.) Sweeney Todd the film pretty much grinds to a halt whenever the music starts swelling; the plodding melodies and uninspiring lyrics seeing to that."

"Personally speaking, I still enjoyed Sweeney Todd the movie a great deal. Edit out the songs and there's plenty to get excited about."

And finally...

"The Todd story is colourful and gory enough, you'd have thought, without the need for such pedestrian warbling. (Once again, I stress this is not the fault of the performers, who acquit themselves perfectly well. It's the songs themselves.)"


Oh, dear.


In happier news, I leave today for the Keystone Convention in Christiana, PA! (My mom said "At least it's an appropriately-named town.") Jesse, Lauren, Rachel and I are leaving at prime rush-hour-out-of-NYC and who knows when we'll arrive at our destination. (We've got all four parts in the car. Dorks dork dorks!)

Speaking of dorks, Lauren summed up the theme of the Time Mag article in this succinct statement: "Jesus Christ is a Superstar. He got that way thanks to punks, Jews, Buddhists, freaks....and geeks." You have to say it in a Poindexter voice for it to work. (I use that word at least once a day. My cousin used to have a cat named Poindexter-- they called it 'Pointy.')

The downside of Keystone is that I have to wear clothing there, and since it's a convention, #1, it theoretically should be nice clothing, AND , since it's a convention, #2, I have to have two DAYS worth. I don't really own any nice clothing, per se, so I spent the better part of an hour last night ripping everything out of my closet and throwing it around the room. Then trying it on. I settled on a dour, dour black skirt and shirt outfit which I'll pair with black stocking. But so no one mistakes me for a witch (it's literally what I wore for my "Halloween costume" at temp-work this year, minus the striped knee-socks) or a Quaker I'll wear red high heels. And I'll smile.

Anyway, I'm so excited to go away and to see my friends and to eat very-unhealthy Sacred Harp food and see people from everywhere else. And sleep in a a farmhouse basement. And be inappropriately dressed. And try out three of the four parts. And get anxious about what song I'm gonna call. Etc etc etc. Fun and games.

Finally: a guy who works here brought in some junk from his apt. that he's welcoming people to pick over. One of the things is a beautifully-embossed book from teh late 1800s called "Conscience Tales," or "Flemish Life: Four Stories." It's by a man who is going by the name "Hendrick Conscience." Certainly not one of MY forbears!
Non sequiturs galore!