Use Your Illusion, Part II.

I made the fatal mistake of walking down St. Mark's PLace between 2nd & 3rd Avenue last night. For the non-New Yorkers, this particular stretch of St. Mark's Place is a horrid little street that was once full of quirky little boutiques and divey bars. Some of these still manage to exist, but on the whole, a creepy sort of gentrification has begun to take hold, which explains the condos and the Chipotle snuggled up to to the filthy sock vendor and the comics store. I make it a point to avoid being here as much as humanly possible, and this rule is in strict effect from Thursday to Sunday. I refuse on principal to drink at any of the sorry-ass bars that remain (with the exception of the excellent St. Dymphna's which is further down on St. Mark's and 1st, which if you get there early enough is tolerable- but this is only because it is full of real Irish people and not stuid ass tourist trash from out of town who want to say they partied in the Village), and I would rather be shot than eat the crappy food that people seem to be content with getting elbowed over. However, one cannot always chose crossstreets and sometimes the rule must be broken. This was the case last night. And of course, I knew I'd regret it.

The sidewalks are always crammed full of idiots who come into the city with no other intention than standing around outside of bars and blocking the way for pedastrians. It's like a fucking suburban Circle K. I just tried to keep my head down and weave through the throngs of dipshits with my companion. And this is when the magic began. Some balding troll, who was way too old to be hanging out with the crowd of unattractive, greasy teenage girls he was most likely buying booze for, eyed me. He was that kind of non-descript ugly, meaning I can't tell you what he looked like but it wasn't good. He was wearing a kind of maroon North Face-knock off jacket, nothing at all stylish- the kind of thing a Mom or Grandma would buy for her 30-odd year old son who still lived at home. This thing, who had clearly crawled out from under a bridge for the night, looked me up and down like a wierdo and then said, "Xena!" Now, I am tall, yes. I was wearing very high heels to compound the fact, yes. But I look nothing like Lucy Lawless. She's in much better shape and has long, straight hair. I also had on my glasses, which I do not recall seeing Xena having on in any of the promotional materials I was exposed to for the series. Also, I believe, as I was not a viewer of that programme, that she wore some sort of taupe ultra suede loincloth, but I cannot be sure. At any rate, I was stunned, as I always am at the gall of men in general to feel comfortable commenting on a woman's appearance, as if it was their right when in most cases, they themselves look six months pregnant and have hair coming out of every orifi. And then I tiled my head, smiled and said, "Midget?" He looked like I'd just kicked him in his one ball, the one that has actually descended. He stuttered out a weak, "Xena!" as a retort, but we both knew it was pointless. I beamed at him and his gang of Long Island high school Juniors and said, as a statement and not as a question, "Midget." And with a nod down to all 5'5" of the crown of his bald head, I was on my way past the filthy noodle shops, the Sock Man, and of course, the Astor Place McDonald's, a real hot spot of classy cuisine.

Later, I had my arm in the air and was trying to hail a cab and some chimp walked up and laid his hand on my ass. Didn't grab it, just put it on there. And then laughed maniacally. This is what I get for leaving the house.