No one gets out of here alive.
The re-entry from a fabulous weekend on Fire Island last night made me want to die. The ferry ride under the full moon came to a slow end in Sayville, New York, and everything went downhill from there.
The Long Island Railroad and the subway from Penn Station were crawling with sweaty cops in starchy uniforms with thirsty German Shepards. Trains took forever to pull into the platforms. Conductors eyed us suspiciously because we had bags with us. They went out of their way to tell us exactly where to go even though they didn't know where we were going. They must have thought we were "in town" for "the convention." Right. We are Young Republicans.
Walking through the underground tunnel to the F train one lone trumpet player stood to the side with his music stand playing the National Anthem and "America the Beautiful." The notes echoed throughout the passageway reminding me to cut in an up and down motion rather than side to side.
The West Village was eerily empty. A Sunday night and no cars were parked at their meters. Clearly everyone skipped town in the face of the RNC and didn't once look back. Bars and restaurants went dark, eerily reminsicent of days after 9/11.
I'd been lying on the beach just a few hours earlier, barely a care in the world. I'm staying out of Manhattan this whole week. In Brooklyn I can pretend that the Republicans aren't here.
The latest cover of Time Out New York shows a photo of the ass of an elephant and the pile of shit its left behind him. In the upper right hand corner there's a quote from Mayor Bloomberg: "The world's going to look at us and say we did or did not show the tolerance that we brag about."
Are you fucking kidding me, Bloomberg? Cram it up your cramhole. I'll drive the ferry out of town myself.
Editor's Note: Dude, I forget who took the fabulous photo above, but it wasn't me. It was someone in my boyfriend's office's boss's sister-in-law or something like that.
