Cuz I'm From the Suburbs. And That's How We Roll.

Last night was a first for me. A dude actually told me that he didn't like me, as a person, and begged me to just stop talking.

Generally, people find me charming. They find me charming, because I do my best to make them find me charming. I ask considerate questions. I tell funny stories. I'll even do a little dance, if I think it will help. I am excellent at getting people to like me.

Provided that I'm trying. Because sometimes, y'see, I run into someone who's, well, maybe the merest bit silly. And then I feel honor-bound to expose him.

The evening started well enough. I met my pal Aaron for drinks at some bar that may or may not have a name, but did not have a sign. I was so pleased with myself for finding it based on Aaron's description that I bought the first round. Aaron was so pleased with that, that he bought the second. The bartender was so pleased with us, that she bought the third. We talked about all the important things: our careers, how fucking expensive this city is, how much we love it, boys, and the sort of girl I should be looking for, when I find Aaron a wife. All was well.

Then we went down the street to his friends' house, and all hell broke loose. There were two guys living there. One was a nice guy, with a mohawk and fiance and a charming cat. He took a picture of me to paste on his door, where he kept pictures of every guest who ever visited his home. It was all very cute.

The other dude had an attitude problem.

Dude with Attitude, first of all, was a white guy wearing a bandana as a hat. His name was not Little Stevie, and at no time was he playing with the E Street Band. He also had a thick, obviously cultivated, lower class New York accent. Every other statement he made ended in "...I'm from Queens!" As in, "Hey, don't tell me about the homeless problem. I'm from Queens!"

(As an aside, I told this to a coworker today, who is also from Queens, and she nearly wet herself laughing. "But I'm from Queens!" she said. "It's a suburb! Is he crazy? 'Yo, I'm from Forest Hills! I have lots of money, and so do my folks! My Dad plays golf! I own a lovely home! REPRESENT!")

D with A also exhibited one of my other least favorite personal characteristics, which is a need to tear people down in order to make himself feel big. For example, I was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a Russian woman with her finger to her lips. It's an old World War Two propaganda poster, and I bought it on Prince Street, as you do. D with A immediately busted me for buying a t-shirt on Prince Street, and further informed me that the guy who sold it to me was an asshole, and that he knew him.

"Actually, I bought this from a woman, and she was lovely."

"Well, then, she works for this asshole. I hate that asshole."

I smiled at him sweetly. "Heavens to Betsy, you're sort of a negative person, aren't you? My t-shirt sucks and the guy who sold it me is an asshole. Do you like to point things like this out to people, to throw them off balance a little bit?"

He looked at Aaron, who was grinning and holding his hands up in surrender. "She's definitely one of your friends," he said. "She's a smartass. I don't like that."

In retrospect, I should've left then, but no. I was out, and I was gonna stay out. So we left the apartment and went to another bar. On the way, Dude with Attitude got into a fight with a homeless man, informing him that he would not give him money, because he knew what it was like to be poor, because he grew up in Queens. The homeless guy asked, very intelligently, I thought, why he gotta be like that, and I steered us across the street and away from the situation.

"Jesus, dude," I said. "I thought I was gonna have to use my pepper spray."

"Don't be using that shit around me," he said. "You'll get me."

"Oh, I have great aim, don't worry," I said. "I'm from the suburbs, and that's how we roll."

At the bar, he made a big show of knowing the bartender and securing us crappy beers from a cooler on the bar, which, I was later informed, his roommate paid for. We then sat down at a table, and chatted together and in pairs, for an hour or so. Finally, Aaron was in the bathroom and the nice roommate was at the bar, and Dude with Attitude and I were alone.

I don't know what I was saying, but it must have been the last straw.

"I don't like you," Dude with A said.

"What?"

"I don't like you at all. Please stop talking."

At this point, Aaron came back and I told him that Dude didn't like me, and that I was leaving. I promise you I was very pleasant about it. Not that it would make a difference to that guy, who was pouting and refusing to look at me.

I tell you, kids, my powers are beyond compare. No one feels halfway about me!

Awesomeness in Advertising

Thanks to boss-man Avram for pointing this out:

http://www.8675309.com/

Definitely K-Mart

OK, I know I keep telling you all that such-and-such a thing is my Favorite Thing About New York City, but this time, I'm not kidding, I've figured out what my favorite thing is, for reals. It's all the fucking crazy people.

This morning on the subway, there was this guy who was sniffing his fingers and rocking back and forth in his seat. One at a time, he'd sniff them, in order from left to right. I watched him for three stops, and he made the circuit twice. There was clearly a whole system for finger-sniffing that I had been unaware of -- until today.

And then there's this story, courtesy of my pal Smyres:

i forgot to tell you about the other incident on the A train yesterday. there was this middle-aged jewish man on the train and he was about half way down from me in the car and i was facing his direction so i could see him really well. and he holds up this little plastic sandwich bag and goes really loud to the whole train: I HAVE A SPIDER IN THIS BAG. IS ANYONE GETTING OFF AT THE NEXT STOP SO YOU CAN LET HIM OUT? ANYONE? IS ANYONE GETTING OFF? I HAVE A SPIDER IN THIS BAG.

i started laughing right away. then a couple stops later these two little black kids got on with an older brother or something and they stood right next to him and i could tell he was gonna talk to them. and he goes: HEY! YOU KIDS LIKE BUGS? then the kids did this little break dancing routine and when they went around collecting money after the guy tried to give them a tube of Ritz crackers.

You must love a city in which merely riding to work provides so much fodder for conversation.

Let Us Now Praise Fresh Direct

Here is something I'm really enjoying about living in New York: Fresh Direct grocery delivery. I am a terribly impatient shopper, and yet I love eating. Historically, this means that I spend a lot of time being frustrated in grocery stores, trying to remember exactly what it was I wanted to buy. And then I get home, and I have no beans. It's very sad.

Now, however, if I forget something, I can just add it to my queue for next time. Or better yet, keep a list. I know that you can keep a list for the regular store, but work with me here, people. I'm an Internet person, and I just find this easier.

Also, a nice man comes and carries my items up the stairs for me, several boxes at a time. I give him five dollars, and he thinks I'm neat. Then he goes away and I unpack cheeses and fruit and crackers and sour cream and salsa and butter and bread and milk and juice and beer and cereal and peanut butter and soup and cereal and olive oil and handsoap and I feel like a rich person. It's fantastic.

I've decided that my little apartment is a ship, and I am stocking it for a voyage. I live in the LES, which is pretty loud, generally. But I am at the back of the building, so I don't get the street noise, and the nightclub below only seems to be busy on the weekend. So I climb out my window and sit on my teeny fire escape with a beer and it's nice and quiet. I look at the stars. And sometimes there are some.

More Black Table Fun

A week or so ago, I made a little trip to Coney Island to catch a Cyclones game and play Shoot the Freak. The Freak was retiring for the evening, sadly, so we decided to go on some rides. Or rather, my friends decided to go on some rides. As you all know, I am afraid of heights, motion, mechanical things, carnies, heights, being jostled around, the smell of gasoline, disenfranchised persons who might want to hurt me, carnies, heights, etc. So I held everyone's bags while they rode the rollercoaster. As I was doing so, my phone rang. It was my Mom, so I picked up.

"Hello, Sweetie," she said. "I just wanted to call to say hello and to tell you how much I loved your Black Table piece about getting stuffed."

D'oh.

Anyway, here's my latest contribution to the ol' BT:

Incoming! July 25, 2005

Meta

There are a few downsides to having a blog. People sometimes get mad at you for things you write about them, either because they don't think you got it right, or because they think you did. Sometimes people leave nasty little notes in the comments. And there's always the chance that your employer won't appreciate your candor and will give you the old heave-ho.

But this here's a new one on me: Last night, I went out with my cousin and had a couple of bottles of wine, as you do, and at one point, I tried to tell him a story. He interrupted me.

"I already know that. I KNOW THAT. You wrote about it on your blog," he said. "You're just quoting yourself from your blog."

Sisterly Advice

The following is a conversation I had with my sister this evening, over IM, about whether or not to have my mother stay with me when she comes to visit this weekend, or go to a hotel. My apartment, you see, is small, and despite the fact that I've told my mother this, I still fear that she doesn't understand what "small" means when it comes to Manhattan apartments. Further, I am afraid that once she sees my apartment, she will stuff me in a sack and haul me back to Boston. Here was Meg's advice.

Mrs. Piddlington: well if i were you, do you want to know what i'd do? or do you not? cause that's okay too
JennieSmash: yes! tell me
JennieSmash: tell me tell me
Mrs. Piddlington: i would have her stay with me
JennieSmash: ok
JennieSmash: maybe i will do that
Mrs. Piddlington: but you have to do what's right for you
JennieSmash: i hope the naked guy isn't buying drugs outside my apartment
Mrs. Piddlington: the who?!!!
JennieSmash: there's a naked guy who buys drugs outside my apartment
JennieSmash: i don't know where he keeps his wallet
Mrs. Piddlington: seriously? like totally naked?
Mrs. Piddlington: does he talk to you?
JennieSmash: well, teeny shorts
JennieSmash: no, he just looks twitchy
Mrs. Piddlington: oh phew!
JennieSmash: the drug people are scared
Mrs. Piddlington: you've seen him buy drugs?
JennieSmash: plus i have pepper spray
Mrs. Piddlington: that seems wrong, like where are the police
JennieSmash: and i will spray his eyes and then his dick
JennieSmash: it does seem wrong
JennieSmash: but no one else is surprised
JennieSmash: just little jennie hubley from the sticks
Mrs. Piddlington: hee hee
Mrs. Piddlington: and little meggy hubley
JennieSmash: yes
JennieSmash: and little mommy hubley who will be like, "i think that man had to pee! he looked very uncomfortable!"

Curses! Foiled Again!

So, my RSS feed is not working. Why? I don't know. But I suspect that the weather has something to do with it.

Yesterday, I was so hot that I was annoyed at the cellular level. I had a small nervous breakdown because of it. I got home from work, planning to eat something and turn on my AC and then go out and do errands. I sat down to pay some bills, and promptly realized that I had managed, somewhere in the move, to misplace my checks.

"OK, no big deal," I thought. "Meg helped me unpack. She probably put them somewhere."

I was already online, so I IMed my Mom.

Meglet is on her way back to the West Coast, she IMed. But I am here!

BUT WHERE ARE MY CHECKS! I typed back.

Are you having a hormonal episode? She replied.

Well, maybe, come to that. But whatever. I was in full freak-out now. I actually called my sister and left a message on her cell phone, knowing full well that she couldn't pick up. My voice, by this time, was a little unsteady. OK, I sounded like Crispin Glover.

"M-e-e-e-g ... hi. This is ... ahhhh. I'm wondering? If you've seen my checks? When you unpacked? I'm feeling a little crazy right now. Also, it's hot out. OK. Hope you had a good flight. Love you. Bye."

By this time, I was pacing. This is pretty hard to do when you live in a studio apartment. It was more like shifting from foot to foot. I decided to call my Mom.

"I've lost my checks and I can't find them anywhere and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, sweetie. Look. I'm sure they're there, and even if they're not, you can just order new ones."

"But I lost my checks!"

"And ... you can order new ones."

Whispering: "But I'm not the kind of person who loses checks."

Mom laughed. "Everyone is the kind of person who loses checks. One time? I lost my credit card. Everyone loses things. It's just a fact of life."

"Really?"

"Really."

"But someone could be out there right now, writing checks under my name! Buying drugs and porno and trips to Europe!"

"Well, since I'm sure they're in your drawer, and you'll find them just as soon as you get your new checks, I'm not too concerned."

We wound up talking for about two hours, and eventually, I stopped twitching. I'm not sure what people do who don't have nice Moms, but I'm pretty sure they need lots more therapy than even the average person. Moms are the best. (But mine is better than yours.)

So, It's Rather Warm Outside

How warm? I'm glad you asked. It is so warm that I need beer and I will not venture outside to get it. Instead, I will sit here under the airconditioner and drink water. Please bear in mind that I live over a bar. This is laziness, my friends. This is the heat wave, for reals.

Will Destroya

Cathy: So how'd it go?

Me: Really well.

Cathy: So?

Me: (Sigh.)

Cathy: What's the matter?

Me: He seems really nice.

Cathy: So?

Me: Really smart. He's read books I've never even heard of. I felt like a moron.

Cathy: Oh, you're not a moron.

Me: No?

Cathy: No.

Me: He was all, "Here is my series of artwork based upon the works of William Carlos Williams," and I was all, "I like to write little stories about my adventures on ... the subway."

Cathy: I'm sure it's fine.

Me: Really?

Cathy: Really.

Me: (Sigh.)

Cathy: What's the matter with you?

Me: Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to figure out what will be wrong with him. Like, is he married? Gay? Does he have, like, six illegitimate kids or dozens and dozens of other girlfriends?

Cathy: No, seriously. What is the matter with you?

Me: I'm betting on the dozens and dozens of other girlfriends.

Cathy: Dude.

Me: I bet they all play an instrument and are at least nine feet tall.

Cathy: Seriously.

Me: I bet they're all pole dancers and have 20/20 vision.

Cathy: 'Kay, know what? Pop a doll.

The JMZ Does Not Exist

Just thought you should know.

Time, Tide

Moving to New York is this whole process. First, you admit that you want to go. Then, you look at your bank account and weep. Then, you make plans.

During my process, Smyres took me to see the World Trade Center. We'd spent a day tooling around Brooklyn looking at neighborhoods and discussing options. We'd walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. She asked me where I wanted to go.

"I'm embarrassed to say this," I told her, "But I've never seen, er, Ground Zero. And I think I should."

She nodded. "OK, then. You should see it. We'll go."

A month ago, my friends Isaac and Cathy had a final going away party for me, and a bunch of people showed up. One of them, a good friend and also, coincidentally, an ex-boyfriend of mine, Rod, said, "Well, have a good time. You know, until they blow the place up again."

I thought about removing his eyes.

Smyres and I went to the former site of the World Trade Center on foot. We passed businesspeople and homeless people and tourists. We saw a million restaurants serving food I'd never eaten, and businesses I'd only heard about from the news. People carried shopping bags and briefcases and babies. Only a few people looked around, like I did, trained their noses to the air for whiff of asbestos and airplane fuel and death.

"This is it," Smyres said, gesturing through the fence. "The trains run right through it now. You can see where the foundation used to be. There's still a lot of construction, but it's further along even than it was a month ago."

When the World Trade Center blew up, I was 25 years old. I was working in Boston. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. New York was a place I'd been to a couple times, and frankly, I didn't like it. I wanted to live in a clean place that I knew, where things weren't strange to me.

Four years later, I looked into the hole the terrorists and workmen left and said to my friend, "It's like the city is healing itself. It looks like the rim of a scab."

And Smyres said, "Yes, it looks like that."

A thousand years from now, New York will be here, like Rome, like Paris, like monuments and literature. I looked into the hole and I wanted to fight. I wanted these people to be my neighbors. I wanted this place, these people, to be my home.

U-Haul, Part 2

I almost forgot the best part of the U-Haul story. When Isaac and I finally left, and started the long walk across town the F train, cursing and smoking and shaking our fists at the sky (OK, my fists; Isaac was mellow as usual), I decided to call my Mom to tell her I was OK. She has Mom radar, and I was afraid her spidey sense was tingling. So I called her up and told her that we had dropped off the U-Haul, no problem and that I might have called the manager a big fat ugly bitch. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Jennifer Lynn HUBLEY," she finally gasped. "What's HAPPENED to you in that city?"

Then she said: "You tell that Isaac that I'm going to knit him a sweater."

My mother, ladies and gentleman! Now and always the Nicest Woman in North America.

Hey guys!

I wrote another little ditty for the Black Table. Fair warning, though: It's, er, grownup humor. Sort of.

You hauled it here, U-can-Haul it right back out

One thing you might not know about me is that, although I prefer to be nice, I can be a big ol' bitch when I have to be. This weekend, for example, I nearly assaulted the manager of a U-Haul office in Chelsea.

Let me explain. My Dad and my pal Isaac had graciously agreed to drive my remaining stuff from Boston to my new apartment in New York. Miraculously, we even got a parking space right outside my building. My sister had come down on the train. For about twenty minutes, my Dad, my sister and I pretended to help while Isaac ran enormous loads of boxes and 400-pound shelving units up the stairs on his back. (This is the sort of gesture that you really can't repay, by the way. And I tried. I'm pretty much going to have to agree to be a surrogate Mom for his and his wife's child, should they decide that they don't want the bother of pregnancy.)

"It's OK!" He said. "Last week, I was mixing cement! This is nothing!" OK, buddy, if you say so. Take my advice, friends: Get yourselves a pal in construction.

After we unloaded the stuff, we decided that Isaac and I would take the truck back, while my Dad and Mrs. Piddlington played a game of three-dimensional Tetris with my boxes and furniture in my tiny new apartment.

I was all prepared. I had my little NFT book of maps, I had funny stories to entertain Isaac on the way over, should traffic make him nervous. I even had some water. What I did not have was any more patience to spare, when we arrived at the storage place, only to be told that we couldn't leave the truck there.

"You can't leave that here! We're full!" The woman said. She was standing in the driveway, next to the truck, hands on hips, shaking her head as if to shake our protests out of her ears like water.

"But I have a contract right here..." I said.

"I don't care about that. That's not my problem. You have to call the 800 number."

And she went inside.

We called the number. No one picked up. I looked at Isaac. Isaac looked at me.

"Are you ready to drop the keys and run?" He said.

"I would be, but this is on my Dad's credit card."

He nodded and got out of the truck. We made our way inside to the office, where the manager was still shaking her head like a labrador retriever and saying, "No! No! You can't leave that here! You have to go! Go somewhere else!"

"Look, I sympathize with your position. But the office isn't picking up. Can't you just call on your end and see what you can do?"

"No! It's not our problem. You have to leave. I'll call the cops."

"Jesus. Call the cops. Call the cops and tell them that I'm abusing you by holding you to the terms of the contract your company signed with me. See? It says right here: I have to pick up the truck at any location you say, but I get to leave it where you tell me. Also, it's 8:00. U-Haul closes at 9. I am not bringing this truck back down to the Lower East Side and leaving it on the street. It'll have been turned into a nightclub by the morning."

"I don't care. You can't leave it here. You have to get out."

"OK, is there any reason why you're being such a pain in the ass about this? I'm trying to work with you. Your problem is with your management, not me."

"Don't you call me a pain in the ass, you bitch!"

"Don't you call me a bitch, bitch!"

"I'm not a bitch, but you're a big bitch!"

I leaned over the counter and looked her in the eye. "I am not a big bitch. I am actually a rather small bitch. But you're a big ... fat ... bitch ... and you're also ugly."

She started shaking her head again. "How dare you. How dare you. You're an ugly person. How can you look in the mirror."

"I love looking in the mirror! I do it all the time. ALL DAY LONG. But I bet you don't like it, you big fat ugly bitch."

And so on. Eventually, Isaac figured out that we could get all the trucks in if we moved them around, and used his skills to charm the manager lady, who had stormed off to sharpen her knives. He reported back to me what she'd said:

"I'll do it for you, cuz you're a nice person! I don't like your wife, though. She's a bitch."

"She's not my wife, actually, she's just a friend. I'm just helping her move. I would not have handled it that way, and I sincerely apologize on her behalf."

Eventually, she let us leave the truck there and closed out the account. See what I mean about how I'm going to have to have Isaac and Cathy's baby?

When we were leaving, Isaac calmed my nerves and told me that it was all pretty funny, in a humiliating sort of way, and not to worry, that it was over, etc. I was shaking pretty bad, the way I do after I've let my temper get the better of me. I hate getting mad worse than anything.

"The funny thing is that Cathy would have done the same thing," he said.

Attention, please!

I have a site feed now, suckers! Check it out.

The next generation of turnstile jumpers

This morning I saw a woman coax her child into ducking under the turnstile in the subway station. Maybe kids are supposed to scoot under the bar, but it looked pretty suspicious to me. As usual, no one but me even seemed to notice. If I want to avoid looking like a bumpkin, I'm going to have to learn how to stop making facial expressions.

Also, when I was on the train, I heard someone puking, but every time I looked up, everyone was reading their paper or sleeping or nodding along with their iTunes. So I'd go back to spacing out, and then I'd hear the puking again. Maybe it was the conductor.

Friendship is about appreciating differences

I don't want you to think that I'm a little overtired, but I really thought I might throw up on the subway this morning. Then again, what does that prove? Nothing, except that the subway can induce vomiting.

I have many, many stories to tell you about my moving adventures this weekend, but that will have to wait until I finish a few things around the ol' office, so in the meantime, I leave you with the following conversation, which my friend Adrian had with himself, mostly, on Sunday morning, when my sister and I were trying to get him up and out of my apartment so that we could finish setting things up. (BTW, four people -- Meg, Adrian, my pal Isaac and me -- sleeping in a Manhattan studio resembles a row of sardines in a can more than you might think.)

Adrian: (Rubbing his eyes.) I was supposed to work today. Ah, fuck it.

Me: What? You have to work?

Adrian: Just a little work. I mean, I don't have a job or anything.

There you go, ladies and gentleman! There it is: An attitude of nonchalance that I will never ever have, even if I win the lottery and never "have" to work again.

Rec for NYC-area readers

You know what you should do right now? Go down to Canal Street and get knocked right the fuck over by an insane runaway tourist and her insane huge-ass motherfucking ginormous wheelie rollie suitcase. No, no: Listen. It's awesome. Do it. Do it NOW.

Bonus points if you happen to be wearing a skirt and manage to flash your lady parts to a couple of Chinese toddlers and their new-to-this-country-and-now-terrified Moms. You should also yell, "FUCK!" at the top of your lungs, like that will help anything.

DO IT.

Apologies, etc.

I'm sorry I've been so lazy this week, my cupcakes. I've been busy with the new job and exploring my neighborhood and so on. But I'll be back on track next week! You just wait and see.

In the meantime, I leave you with the following thoughts:

- Because of the terrorist attacks, and because I am crazy, I will need about half a bottle of Xanax in order to get on my train back to Boston this evening.

- I am tired of moving and would like it to be done already.

- A bar in my neighborhood has two-for-one beers for ladies from 7 to 10. I am a lady. This is great.

That's all for now.

Firecracker

If you'd told me last week that I'd be spending my Fourth of July drunk on the top of a barn, I'd have told you that you were crazy.

I am terrified of heights. I always have been. On the Big List of Dumb Things Jen is Afraid of, "heights" is right up there with "germs" and just above "being incarcerated for a crime I did not commit."

The barn is actually a workshop, for my friend Kate's family construction business. Its roof of the barn is three stories away from the ground, and accessible only by a ladder, which seemed rickety to me, but which everyone had assured me was actually very stable. I had climbed up the ladder once, only to freeze at the top. Those of you who aren't afraid of heights don't know this, but the problem most of us heights-phobic people have is that we're afraid that we'll forget NOT to throw ourselves off. It's not like we're suicidal or anything. It's just that we have no faith in ourselves that we'll remember that solid ground is only a good thing when you're standing on it, not plummeting toward it at 9.8 m/s/s.

Anyway, I got to the top of the ladder, looked at all my friends, shook my head, said, "Sorry, guys, I don't think so," and backed down -- only to find myself face to face with the quasi-drunken members of locally infamous metal band White Limo.

(As an aside, I would like to say that I would like to make a Monkees-style TV show about White Limo. In my mind, they would live in an abandoned concert venue, like a converted movie theatre or similar, and they would drive around in a battered limousine, solving crimes and breaking hearts. I think this would be huge.)

So, long story short, the guys made me climb back up the ladder and sit on the roof for the fireworks. Well, OK, specifically, their drummer insisted and he was very cute and I am a sucker. So there you go.

I didn't throw up or anything, either. Someone else did, though. After the last firecracker had faded away, I heard the most terrific retching behind me and turned around to find a guy who had given me a valentine in sixth grade -- and who now has an actual CHILD -- booting all down the side of the roof.

"You know, in retrospect," Adrian (a.k.a. White Limo's front man) said, "Maybe it wasn't the most awesome idea to bring everyone up to the roof and get them loaded."

I beg to differ, Adrian. It was a FANTASTIC idea.

I love Trillian

My new job uses Trillian messenger service, which basically allows you to use most of your IM accounts at the same time. Also, for some reason, it hyperlinks certain terms to their corresponding definitions on Wikipedia. So, for example, if your friend Christine were to IM you that she saw your mutual friend Rod at Foley's, and he was wearing an eyepatch, the following definition would pop up for mouseover:

An eyepatch is a small cloth patch, usually black, that is worn in front of one eye. It is worn by people who have lost an eye, and do not want the damaged area of their face to be seen or exposed. It is usually attached around the head by an elastic band or by a string.

In the years before advanced medicine and surgery, eyepatches were common. They were particularly prevalent among members of dangerous occupations, such as pirates and blacksmiths. Today, with prosthetic eyes increasingly accessible, eyepatches are no longer commonplace.

Eyepatches are also used in children as a treatment for lazy eye syndrome.

Famous eyepatch-wearers:
*Moshe Dayan
*John Ford (film director)
*James Joyce: he was known to wear one even though he never lost an eye

How great is that?