This week I decided to go to The Bronx for a couple hours.
Well ... "decided" may not be quite the right word.
I went to The Bronx, at 3:00 a.m., wearing a really, really gay shirt, which made me feel really out of place, really white and really ... well ... gay.
I do this about once a year, in the wee hours of the morning. These adventures are usually the result of alcohol combined with an iPod and Palm games. This deadly trio of distractors tends to cause me to not look at the train when it pulls into the station. Rather, I just blithely climb on board the first train that arrives and ride it for an hour or so until I notice out of the corner of my eye that the stations don't look familiar.
Usually what finally makes me realize I'm far, far, far from anywhere I want to be or should be is the color of the tiles on the walls. This triggers a sinking feeling as I calculate just how long it will take me to get my sorry ass home.
The adventure before this most recent one took me to Queens for about three hours in the middle of the night.
I'm going to have "Look at the fucking train, Dale!" tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
I am such a space cadet.
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