I Give Up: How Crazy Are You?

Here's how crazy.

Every time I have a good date, I become convinced that one of us will meet with a terrible fate directly after we kiss goodbye. Because of this, I nearly gave myself a heart attack while waiting for the F last night -- first, because there was no one on the platform, and my heels were making creepy clacking sounds, and then because a random teenager entered the platform, which meant that he was obviously a serial killer, come to get me at last.

I told you: Cuckoo!

FYI

The comedian Emmett Furrow has no collar bones. I'm not really sure what you'd all do if I weren't here to tell you these things -- but fortunately, you don't have to worry about it.

Why I'm Doomed

Sometimes I like to play a little game called "Why I'm Doomed." This is similar to the game "What's Wrong With Me?" which is when I scan my body for tumors and palpitations and phantom pains. It's a hysterical displacement activity, meant to explain anxiety I'm already feeling because I'm cuckoo. Understanding these things doesn't change them, people. G.I. Joe lied!

Previous games of "Why I'm Doomed" have revolved around popular topics such as "Maybe I'll Never Write Again," or "Secretly, I'm Getting Very Fat," or "It's Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me."

Today, however, I'm rocking "I Will Never Have a Boyfriend Again." This is an excellent version, and good for at least two weeks of solid boo-hooing, at which point, my friends will be sufficiently bored with my behavior that they'll stop returning my calls, and I can go back to "It's Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me."

I'm quite resourceful about my insanity. For example, today I informed Ma Smash that every time I see a woman with unfortunate body or facial hair, I wonder if she knows that she has this unfortunate hair. And then I wonder if I have unfortunate hair, and nobody has had the heart to tell me.

"By the time I'm done, I'm pretty much convinced that my entire face is totally covered with hair, just like those Wolf Boys in the Mexican Circus. Do you know what I mean?"

Ma Smash paused. "I can honestly say I never thought of it. But I will now. Every time I look at someone with extra hair. So ... thanks."

Do you think she was being sarcastic?

That's Service!

Me: I love my salon.

Coworker Dennis: Because they spoil you?

Me: Yes. For example, a beautiful italian man just massaged my scalp.

Coworker Dennis: That happens to me in the shower every morning.

People Should Not Live Anywhere Near Other People

My upstairs neighbor appears to be pounding something into the floor this morning. Is she tenderizing a steak? Installing a boot scraper? Expressing her rage at the current political climate? I have no idea.

Prior to this, I'm pretty sure she was tap dancing. She's really lucky she lives on the third floor, is all I can say, because our landlord lives below me, and he claims he can hear my stocking-clad feet on the rug-covered floor.

I would love to know what she's doing up there.

I Might Have Been Punked

Alert commenter Taupey claims that my opera-singing pal from the F train the other day is actually part of some evil marketing conspiracy:

Hah, that was a viral live live "street" ad for the follow up to "Borat." You are now another marketing tool. Congrats.

--Taupey, the Cynical Kangaroo

Anyone know anything about this? I like a good joke on me as much as the next person.

Motherless Brooklyn ... the Musical!

A guy on the train tonight started peeping and beeping and then launched into "Fever" in a weird high operatic falsetto. Then he sang "If I Only Had a Brain." Then he started imitating Moe Howard: "Why, I oughta..."

It was completely awesome. At first, as usual, I was the only fool who looked up from my book. To be honest, I've been a little overtired, and I was afraid that maybe I was having auditory hallucinations. I kept just missing my chance to catch him singing. And he looked so normal, I really wasn't sure it was him until he finally sang a whole verse of "If I Only Had a Brain." By the time he got to "I would not be just a nuthin', with my head all fulla stuffin'," I had definitely determined that he was the dude.

He was about 50 years old, heavyset, with gray curly hair and a pleasant face. He was dressed like most everyone on the train, i.e., business casual, and didn't seem to be drunk or homeless.

I rode the F with him all the way from 14th Street in Chelsea to 7th Ave in Park Slope and he sang the whole way. By East Broadway, people -- including one bemused Hasidic guy, a skinny red-headed fashionista a la old Stephanie Klein, a smattering of hipsters and yours truly -- were exchanging glances with one another. By Jay Street, we were laughing. By 7th Ave, there was outright guffawing. I was afraid the Hasidic guy would drop his prayer book.

You can think us cruel, but I promise you: I was laughing with him, not at him, and I'm pretty sure everyone else was, too. It was a fantastic train ride. Also? Our Tourettic pal got off at 7th Ave, with me and all the other Park Slope-ians. Which means that Park Slope is now the home of yuppies, lesbians, a few random hipsters ... and one mentally ill guy who does a mean Peggy Lee.

So awesome.