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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

It's times like these that I wish I could write about work because man oh man was it Awesometown, USA this weekend. I love visiting New York because it's just this mammoth explosion of a city that includes everything you want and don't want out of life with a thick, protective coating of pretention on top. Whereas Paris weirdness comes from it being a big city and from it being populated by the French, who are naturally strange anyway, New York attains a level of weird that's way above the level you would expect for a city of only 8 million people. One thing I love about New York that ONLY happens in the Big Apple is the fact that when I'm there, I routinely get complimented for things I am not currently doing. This weekend I was complimented for:

* Not cursing out a bouncer when he asked for my ID
* Not dressing like a slut
* Not being mean to a taxi driver

In Richmond, I am normally only complimented on things I am doing not just right, but above and beyond right and often times, not even then. Being thanked just for not being a jackass kind of makes you feel a little bit better than everyone else.

For me, the real draw to New York is the number of awesomely weird things there as well as the number of freaks who, like me, truly truly appreciate them. This weekend I saw a band called Satanicide (featured below):

Note the man dressed like a woman in the background. He was the group's token dancer. I wasn't sure whether or not I was going to like Satanicide until the lead singer came out and said, "Here's a song about my two favorite food groups: pussy and ice cream" then proceeded to play an 80's hair band-style song about said food groups. Other highlights of the trip included watching a man have meat thrown at him on stage, witnessing an all-out yelling match between an old lady and a college boy in an Italian restaurant (when the college kid told the woman she should "go back to Brooklyn," the woman chimed in with "You should go back to the ocean" and then there was complete silence for a good minute and a half until the yelling resumed), going to a birthday party with a kid I've never met for a kid I've also never met from New Zealand, attended a second party that had a serious air-eoke tournament going on where this man rocked the air guitar:

and getting told by some guy that I'm "totally makeoutable with." That's nice, I guess.

In short, the weekend rocked harder, dare I say, than a hurricane. Coming home is so overrated.


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