Oi everyone, Glen Matthews reporting from Brasil. I’m laying in a bed in the mountains of Petropolis, Rio De Janeiro and letting my brain melt. I thought I would catch you up on the progress of my vacation: things are good.
But let’s take a step back, shall we?
On our way down to Brasil, we (myself and my lady-slave Kristin) had a 14 hour stop-over in New York City at JFK airport.
Allow me to take you on a photographular-spectacle-tour-of-NYC-of-photo-proportions!
Surviving on 3 hours of sleep, Kristin crashes at Halifax International Airport before the voyage begins and her “power-nap” quickly becomes an out-cold invitation for molestation.
We entered JFK, and passed by customs with not so much as a finger up either of our butts. Good start!
Shortly after, Kristin grabbed some coffee to make herself mildly tolerable, and a portly Cuban man convinced us that his shuttle service (titled Super Shuttle) was the way to go. We hopped in and were on our way to Times Square.
Upon arrival, it is discovered that New York City hates epileptics…
Me being disgusted by a man dressed in a duck-suit…
Being my first time in NYC, I handed the navigational duties over to Kristin who claimed to “know the city”.
She determined we would bypass Al Roker and his Good Morning America friends and head straight for Central Park.
Here is an excerpt of some dialogue between two New York City citizens that we observed…
Biker: On your right!
The Biker passes on his left.
Man: Wrong side, mother fucka!
“You’re gonna make some sort of sexual joke about that picture, aren’t you?” –Kristin Slaney referring to the bag of honey roasted nuts, with the tag-line “Nuts 4 Nuts” on it… What a slut.
Apparently, Central Park is the world’s largest man-made park; but with Harlem on the other end of it, who bothered to find out? Badum-pish!
Back to civilization…
And by civilization, I mean the giant 3-storey Disney Store. Magical!
Kristin getting molested again…
Me giving consent…
All this magic and wonder lead to the buildup of some mean hunger pains. It was onto the Café Edison (AKA The Polish Tea Room).
This was where most of Avenue Q & Neil Simon’s 45 Seconds From Broadway were written. I don’t know either of these shows, but there seemed to be some pretty good mojo working for the place, so I decided to haul out my notepad and continue writing my top-secret epic feature film.
Kristin decides it’s onto Chinatown where she promises I will have many opportunities to haggle with Chinamen (her terminology, not mine).
Here she is using her know-how, to figure out the subway route to Chinatown…
Unfortunately, one hour later I discover that she is full of shit when we are lost in (you guessed it) the mother-fuckin’ Bronx. For whatever reason, rather than getting off of the subway and switching tracks, she thought that staying on would get us to Chinatown eventually.
It didn’t. We ended up deep in the Bronx. The mother-fucking Bronx, man.
There are no photos from this 2-hour endeavor because I was busy playing the role of “Scared Whitey #1”.
After some friendly directions from a friendly man named Robbie, we were well on our way to [hopefully] friendly Chinatown…
None of the people appearing in the following photograph granted me permission to use their photograph. They were total assholes about it.
It’s sort of like the Bridgewater Exhibition, but instead of drunks, you have people who likely-are-concealing-weapons; and instead of cotton candy, there’s Chinamen (and women).
Here we are celebrating our haul: cheap sunglasses!
The sun began to set behind the buildings surrounding us, and our flight was scheduled to depart in a few hours, so we caught a subway back to JFK to get some soup and chill.
...NYC whooped my ass.
Tour of Brasil of-photo-proportions coming soon!
- ▼ May (3)