Recently I went to New York for the first time as an adult—you know, legal drinking age—and I was excited. Well, cautiously excited. The last time I was there, I was almost mugged by a 70 year old man. Who had, according to the store owner, tried to rob two other customers that same day. Despite it being 10 AM when he tried to rob me.
Hopefully, this trip would be different.
Our TV crew went out there to cover the famed “Climate Week”, a full week dedicated to fighting global warming, staged at the UN headquarters in New York City. By inviting hundreds of leaders spread across the globe, whose total pollution emission totaled 839 million miles of combined airline travel, over 63.4 trillion watts of electricity emitted from personal devices to jumbo-screens, and 7 million gallons of water consumed (4.4 million on spa bills alone), and 9.3 trillion tons of orally spewed human bullshit, leaving a greater ecological footprint over a 5 day span, than the continent of Africa emits… in 3 years.
All this covered by literally thousands of members of the press, of course, accounting for untold more consumption and pollution and waste and wait…THAT’S US!
OH MY GOD!!!
WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!!
(*Throws himself off a New York City skyscraper*)
So the focus for our story is the Governor of California, and it was all going well until he saw us filming him outside of the elevator. He quickly questioned who we were. My Japanese coworker leaned in to save the day and assured the governor of our good intentions and says, “We are following you.”
Having seen too many Italian mob movies in his time, the Governor misinterpreted the intended “we are following you for our story” for “we are stalkers and we are following you.”
Shortly after, we were all being interrogated by his security team.
But enough about inconsequentialities.
This isn’t a story about why I went to New York. This is a story about what I found in New York:
I found love.
(In a hopeless place.)
I FOUND LOVE IN A HOOOPELEEESS PLAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!!
That was a great song. Rihanna!
(Rihanna seems like the girl who would fuck your brains out and then murder you with an icepick concealed under the pillow… and then do a line of coke off your dead, still-erect penis.)
Anyways, New York! Where to start?
Well first of all, I gotta get this out there: the pizza was fucking fantastic. And I didn’t have any gourmet shit or nothing… literally the first pizza shop (parlor?) I saw, and then another near Times Square I found walking around at 1 AM. Yes, I had pizza twice in a day, what’s wrong with that? Do you know what they try to pass off as pizza in LA? Do you know what I have to DEAL with here?? DO YOU KNOW MY PAIN!??
I’d like to touch upon the nightlife, because, the nightlife is quite squirrely. And if you don’t know what I’m saying about squirrely, let me jazz your life up: shit go down in NY. And In. And arrooouuunnnddd.
I met up with my cousin Melvin, an ex-collaborator to this website, but was removed for alleged terroristic, pornographic behavior. Really attracted a lot of bad energy to the site, so I had to cut him.
I hadn’t seen Melvin since we got thrown out of an Uber en route to a wedding party in Chicago. And we were direct participants in that wedding party. I’m not going to say it was his fault we got thrown out, because it wasn’t his fault—it was mine—but he’s still guilty by association.
My plan for my only free night in NY was not overly ambitious: I wanted to have Melvin to take me out for drinks, to give me a feel for the city, a true taste of New York. In return I could teach him how not to be such a fucking cunt muffin in public. It will go down as a mission failure. He continues to enjoy cunt muffining, especially down 2nd avenue on a warm, wet days.
The first thing we did was get on the train, the L line or the 4 line, or Green line… some combination of symbols and lines. And then we disembarked in Soho, where a short walk led us to Little Italy, a neighborhood that just happened to be having a spontaneous street festival. In the middle of the road. People were just walking around hammered and shit. And there was food, and pretty girls, and it was a Monday night.
Unlike me with, well, everyone, New York made a great first impression—the type that would do mama proud.
We got a beer outside in some little makeshift tent bar thing, found refuge in the corner, and people-watched the shit outta the waves of passerby.
After a couple of quickies (beers, you perv) we marched on. The clock was ticking, for we had until 8 PM to make it to Happy Hour in East Village.
On the walk we passed by an outdoor comedy show, Chinatown, and some really nice trees. We saw trees, and then we did trees. If you catch my drift (*winks blatantly 12 times in a row*)
We arrived at the Happy Hour spot, The Hair of the Dog, where we got two pitchers of beer, for the reasonable price of 23.99. It was around this point where I started getting a little “tipsy” (as they say). There was a New York Giants football game on, and that was fun for about 3 minutes. Because the Giants suck cock better than your local lady of the night, and I don’t even watch football, I’m just telling you what I saw, objectively, was a lot of cock sucking. All the other fans watching were quite enjoying the cock-sucking. At least enough to continue watching it, grunting, groaning, cheering—but mostly grunting and groaning. Football is an odd sport.
We were forced to change locales when somebody on the street leaned over the guardrail and asked me for money, and I immediately started trolling him, unaware of the fact that homeless people take everything at face value. So when I told him I was the human incarnation of Bugs Bunny, and it became a lengthy conversation, Melvin had to dismiss me for my poor homeless person etiquette. I did give a bum 5 bucks later in the night though, so I atoned for my sins.
After that we walked through the East Village. From there it just became a safari. I just wanted to take in all of the imagery, all of the cocks. This was a very vivid and alive city, and full of cocks.
We tried to go to some speakeasy thing where you go into a phone box and dial a special number and then the door opens and they tell you there is a 3 hour wait to get inside. So that’s a nice little experience.
But we did go to a German beerhouse. I ate sausage. Not sure why. Guess I just had something on my mind.
Afterwards, we go to the infamous McSorely’s Ale House, the 2nd oldest bar in the nation (Irish, obviously), and opened way back in 1854. One guy inside called his boy at the bar an asshole, and then it was revealed the guy that got called an asshole wasn’t his boy, but a complete stranger, and I sat there praying that these two wouldn’t start exchanging blows and spill onto our table, where me and Melvin were just trying to play a civil game of Mario Kart in peace.
It does makes me wonder though, how many brawls do you think have happened in a bar that has been open that long? Thousands? Millions? A million thousand? Square root of Pythagorean theorem?
We hopped around a bit more, but by this point everything had gotten hazy, and I was able to be classified as “legally intoxicated”. Also “legally retarded”. That one has nothing to do with the alcohol though.
By the end of the night, I got on my train to go one way, and Melvin got on his to go the other. As I stood on the train platform waiting for my train, I noticed a weird crackhead dancing on the platform opposite side of me. And the whole time he was thrusting and gyrating in the creepiest way imaginable, it seemed pretty apparent that he was staring at me the whole time. 2 minutes later, as my train pulled up, I finally realized that it was Melvin. That’s when I realized how crunk I was and how it was clearly time to go home.
New York on a Monday review: 8.5/10
(1.5 points docked for housing legal liabilities like my cousin Melvin)
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