|The Brooklyn Bridge (duh)|
Mouse on the sidewalk:
On Tuesday, while walking north on Broadway, I saw a brownish smear on the sidewalk. I paused to examine it. It wasn't (as I had thought at first) a squished, half-eaten 'hot pocket', but something nearly as disgusting: a mouse. An ex-mouse, that is. A very flat ex-mouse. A very, very flat ex-mouse. It had been steamrolled by thousands of feet belonging to thousands of people in thousands of hurries. I walked around it.
The Doughnut Plant:
I have wanted to go to this place ever since I read about it in a review of New York City doughnut shops. The Doughnut Plant features flavors such as salted peanut, peanut butter and jelly, and pistachio. I went with my friend Shirley. We ordered doughnuts for breakfast. Then we sat around talking. Then we ordered doughnuts for lunch. It was awesome.
Thoughts about eating food on the subway:
Avoid this at all costs. If you absolutely must eat because you are about to faint and your stomach is consuming neighboring organs for sustenance, then eat something with a wrapper (like a granola bar) so that you can put the food into your face without having to touch it with your hands. I would also recommend thoroughly 'Purell'-ing your hands and mouth before and after consuming said granola bar. Now, I am not normally a 'germaphobe', but after witnessing a (most likely homeless) man masturbating on the subway I can only assume that everything I touch on the subway has, at some point, been coated in semen, which does not happen to fit into my idea of a 'tasty snack'.
...all of which makes this next bit even more disgusting:
On Wednesday when day I when was riding the 'A' line, a woman eating a fried chicken drumstick boarded the train. All the seats had been taken, so she stood, grabbing onto a pole with one hand while continuing to gnaw on the greasy pile of deep-fried flesh in her other hand. As if this weren't revolting enough, five minutes later she decided that it would be a good idea to SWITCH HANDS. So she was now holding the chicken drumstick with the hand that had previously been grasping the (probably semen-covered) pole, and holding the pole with her greasy chicken hand. <involuntary shudder>
Conclusion: everything in the subway is covered in semen and fried chicken grease.
(Note: despite all this, I still love riding the subway. Great people watching.)
Coney Island restrooms:
It is almost as hard to find a public restroom on Coney Island as it is in Manhattan. There are some restroom/changing room facilities on the beach, but, it being October, they are closed. McDonalds turns out to be the most reliable option for relieving my bladder. The employees there are apathetic and/or depressed enough that they don't make any attempt to enforce the 'Restroom For Customers Only' sign.
On Friday, before setting my easel up on Coney Island Beach to paint the 'Wonder Wheel', I ducked into the McDonalds to pee. I pushed open the door to the Ladies' Room. A short, barrel-shaped woman waiting for the next stall turned to survey me. Her pursed lips curled downward as she took in my short hair and angular six-foot frame. She narrowed her eyes, and in a thick Russian accent, hissed, "Zees eez veemens rhestroom. For veemens! Not mens!" I stood, staring at her blankly, until it dawned on me what she had said. "Ohhhh," I thought, "she thinks I have a penis." Just then, a stall opened, and the Russian woman waddled toward it. Before she shut the stall door behind her, she looked back at me and snarled, "Dhon't luke".
|Painting the 'Wonder Wheel' on Coney Island|
|Painting the 'Dreamland Roller Rink' on Coney Island|
|Needless to say, I now have several more piercings...|
|Some of the many costumes to be seen at Comic Con|
On Wednesday I walked to Babeland, a sex toy shop in Soho. After sampling every single bottle of 'tester' lube (on my hands), I decided to buy a t-shirt. The t-shirt featured a drawing of a hand with two fingers extended. (If you don't get the reference, ask someone. I am not going to explain it here.) Delighted with my purchase, I walked out of the store and removed my phone from my pocket to text a friend about my awesome new t-shirt. The phone slid through my lube-covered fingers and onto the sidewalk.
The next day I wore the t-shirt. A woman came up to me on the sidewalk to ask, "is that a sign language symbol on your shirt?" "Uhhh," I stuttered, "kind of." Later I thought of a much better (and by better I mean tasteless) response involving Anne Sullivan teaching Helen Keller the word for 'fingering'.
|The t-shirt in question...|
Parting Shot: Sad Umbrellas:
Hope to see you all there!
I have thoroughly enjoyed my Rust Belt Ride project. Thank you all for your love and support.