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?

You're the leader of the galaxy! Show a little taste!

Despite an okay morning of doing nothing and cuddling in bed with Lucifer (I don't mean the cat, either), today quickly turned into the kind of day that only Elvis Costello can make worth it. I think about the following quote on days like this-- this is from a piece by Patton Oswalt about doing yoga and shooting guns in the same day:

"[It] was the biggest “You got chocolate in my peanut butter!” moment I’ve had so far in my life. Guns and yoga are French fries dipped in a milkshake. Scotch and ginger ale. Elvis Costello’s “This Year’s Model” after a bad breakup. Reruns of “Law and Order” and having no life: they’re good together."

It made me laugh when I read it (bus to showcase, incidentally....very, VERY incidentally), and now whenever I'm in a mood and turn to E.C. for help, I think about it. Anyway, some of the aforementioned album and I was pretty okay again. It's so angry and when I listen to it, I think I feel worse about whatever I'm upset about for a little...but then feel wholly better. As if I needed to get really pissed to be okay. I don't know. All I know is that happiness is Elvis shrieking in my ear at a too-high volume.

Last night on the way home from work I had a silly encounter with these two slighty-drunk guys. I was walking to the train and I yawned, and as I was doing so I made accidental eye contact with this guy in a very Slavs! outfit. He wove his way over to me and said "You've got four cavities. I could see them when you yawned." I told him "I've only got two" and they apparently took this as feistiness, which they liked. This guy sort of shook my hand and laughed and then kissed me on the cheek, saying "A kiss because you're beatiful. You're really beautiful. You look like Nicole Kidman, did anyone ever tell you that?" I said that yes, people had. Who knew there were so many people who don't actually know what Nicole Kidman looks like? Right. Anyway, things got sillier from here with his friend trying to get in on the action but not being half as stupidly charming. Cossack-chic (yeah, he can't really be a Cossack AND from Slavs! but I don't give a shit) told me "You've got knockout beauty. I bet guys are going crazy for you." On my negative, he said "Okay, maybe you just don't know it."

Now, call me anything you want, but...I am told I am pretty almost exclusively by drunks or crazies on the street. Do I worry? Nah. I've always liked it, and I always will. Probably.

Anyway, this went on for some time, him asking me if I like "Those guys with the tight jeans and the stringy hair, those hipsters" or if I was more into "Guidos. Or brothers." (His friend was black.)

I came away from the encounter with a momentary lift in self-whatever, AND, best of all....two wrinkled photocopies of this joker's headshot and resume. Don't get me started. This life.

Work is work. I read and sit around. What do I have to complain about? I talked astrology and cards and whatnot with Valois and watched SVU. Please.

New Presidential obsession: Franklin Pierce in general. Second New Presidential Obsession: Zachary Taylor's death. Third: James Buchanan's bachelor status and the way that Bunny Breckinridge is distantly involved with him.

Ain't that peculiar.