Babushka Blues

Like the sad, drunk girls outside of Gypsy Bar, the sky was bawling erratically. As I'd take down my hood, which limits my hearing and peripheral vision to dangerous degrees, I’d be bitch-slapped by an onslaught of horizontal rain. Okay, I get it, maybe there is a God and he takes things VERY personally. I decided to fully commit myself to a sad single girl’s night in by going to the convenience store and picking up a frozen lasagna and Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea. Normally for ease of words I wouldn’t type out the full name of my beverage but I feel as if the Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea carries with it a certain “Bridget Jones” type quality that I fully embodied at that moment.

While the walk to the convenience store in the Little Building is a mere six buildings past my building it requires I traverse the area outside the Gypsy Bar, which exists solely to put on display the worst in mankind, but I’m sugarcoating it. Looking ahead I grew slightly optimistic at the sign of a clear sidewalk up ahead. Getting closer still I began to hear the shrill voice of a woman deep in an extended shriek. The sidewalk seemed empty because everyone was pushed to the side as to get a clearer view of the three to four person deep entanglement that was growing on the street. I felt as if I was walking across a stage during a play, the only visual recognition I got from the mass crowd was from those whose views I blocked. “Sorry folks, just getting some refreshments, couldn’t wait till intermission.” I gave a brief glance to the fight but couldn’t make one limb from another, the soaking rain made it seem even more primeval.

With lasagna and Bridget Jones approved beverage in tow I exited the Little Building and prepared to make my way past the primate spectacular but with a soaked rabbit-fur hood I wrapped my five foot long scarf around the top of my head and then around my neck, my cold and wet self suppressed any sort of even latent attempt at attractiveness. I was cold, wet, and I was crawling into bed with Stouffers in my stomach, trying to any extent to appear good looking would just be sad. The fight seemed to be exactly how I left it except now the lack of anyone official even attempting to break it up was a bit more alarming. The doorman to the club was standing guard over the still sadly long line. As I just crossed the spectators area a homeless man that is a fixture of the “outside-Gypsy-bar-weekends” scene turned his attention from entertaining the line of Guess clad thritysomethings to address me. Usually the remarks I overhear passing through this part of the sidewalk at these particular times range from “He look gay,” to just a succinct, “Fag,” but I figured the jester like homeless man would say something a little more creative in hopes of some coin. I should never “figure” on anything from homeless men who dress in Skittles colored clothing anymore.
“Watch out for the puddles there ma’am! Don’t slip now.”
One might be prepared to be mistaken for a woman; one MIGHT even be prepared to be mistaken for an old woman, but being mistaken for a klutzy old woman is just shocking. So mark the calendars folks, February 1st, 2008…Rodney Uhler’s life hits a peak. It’s all downhill from here. Watch out for the puddles, it could be a slippery year.