East Village FAIL

Saturday I thought I'd have a little solo picnic-in-the-park outing. So I walked over to Tompkins Square, where the breadline is sadly increasing, but the usual array of old bums was fairly chipper. What irritated the fuck out of me - just as it did 15-20 years ago - were the young bums, junkies and posers, wearing leather jackets and pricey tattoos, walking large fluffy dogs. They sat or stood around with large lumpy backpacks, asking for change. How hip! Right about then the weather changed from sunny, clear and dry to cloudy, chilly and damp. I passed a police car, the officers chatting with the bums while the new playground lay locked up and unplayed with. I stood by the Temperance statue, grousing like the neighborhood crank that I am, in search of a free bench. I parked myself next to an inoffensive couple, away from the glaring yet skittish elderly folk, and plugged in my ipod to drown out the blaring of lesbian beat poetry from the park's stage. Vagina, vagina, vagina, and limericks galore. Cranky limericks. Then, my battery died.

Today in the Key Food were three new-in-town models anxiously huddled over the self-checkout with three boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats, looking blankly at the employee trying to help them scan bar codes.

While this isn't a neighborhood FAIL, this made me severely embarrased - I was chatted up by a decent-looking gentleman caught staring at my 'got pierogies' shirt. He was highly complimentary and not at all creepy; however, I knew that I had crummy hair and not a small bit of Neutrogena zit cream left on my face, and I was mortified. More like my Fail.

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