May 2009

I woke up last Saturday in a complete daze, my mind still in an alcohol fog from the night before. I had gone to a concert or something, then drank some more afterwards and ate a lot of pizza. Something like that, typical Friday night shit. Who cares? As I usually do I immediately thought of where the hell I was the night before, and if I had anything important or even worth my time that day. Nine times out of ten on a Saturday, that answer is no. But this day was different.

This day I had a gig. Three hours of filming and taking photographs at a wedding ceremony. How and why I got this job, I won't say, but I was happy to have it. But I was in a post-drunk funk and had a couple short hours to snap out of it. It was one of those days. I rolled out of bed at noon, left the house at 2 and I was swaying.

The people around me were suddenly big and imposing. I was seriously frightened to see yuppie meatheads in their Michigan or Penn State football gear walking around Murray Hill. What was going on? I couldn't explain it. These people SCARED me. I had to get food in my system tho, and had to get batteries and stuff from a pharmacy for my camera. But I couldn't get myself to do it, to walk like everybody else on this crowded block on a Saturday with all these people I suddenly could not even get myself to even look at. I looked at them as suits in disguise. And I hate suits.

So I broke into a full-on sprint. As I ran full-speed into Duane Reade, I accidentally brushed against this girl, but with my overwhelming momentum she mistook it for a full-on charge. It wasn't and I apologized. As I began to walk towards the camera section I heard the girl and her friend rampaging, chattering, running their mouths on me:

"This guy is a fucking jerk"

"Did he seriously just do that"

"I seriously want to kill this guy".

I came back and apologized again. The chatter continued. It turns out that the pharmacy did not have the parts and batteries I needed. They told me I needed to go to another store, 2 blocks away. Just great. So I leave the store and begin walking towards the other store. Midway there, who do I pass but those same two girls. The chatter was still going strong:

"Oh, this lunatic again"

"He should only die"

I couldn't listen to this chatter a second longer. So I turned around, looked them dead in the face, and said it:

"You don't like me? I said I was sorry. What are you gonna do, SUE ME?"

The chatter continued:

"Is this guy serious"

"Uh, I'm a fucking lawyer you jerk"

Oh yeah, sure she's a lawyer. As I reached the store, I turned around and gave these two a nice long shot at my middle finger. Goodbye. As I began to search around for these camera parts, these two girls stormed into the store, and the floodgates to hell opened. One of them, a portly twentysomething woman with brown hair, went right up to my face and began yelling:

"Um, I am a lawyer, don't you ever fucking say that to me. Give me your information NOW. Who are your people? GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING INFORMATION..."

This girl was a LUNATIC.

"I will sue you for every penny you have. You are a fucking idiot and I truly hope you die. Don't you EVER think for a moment that I will not sue you."

She continued like this, on and on for five full fiery minutes. I was truly terrified. All the store employees were riveted by this scene. Keep in mind that this was a small store on a not-so-busy day, and this girl was screaming.

The only words I could muster were a weak and sincere: "I'm sorry". I could kill this girl. I wanted to smash something. But somehow, I was the bigger man. I was put in my place and I stayed there and took it like a man.

I prayed it was over. It wasn't. I closed my eyes for ten seconds and prayed that this girl was done and out of the store. She wasn't.

Her final words: "If I ever see you again you are a dead man. Nada. Broke. File a Chapter 11. Who are your people? YOU ARE A DEAD MAN." I had never seen this girl in my life before. All this, and not a word from me. I keep thinking over and over: "It's gonna blow over. She has to realize she's wasting her breath at some point." She never did. Then, Lord have mercy, she left the store, finally realizing it was a lost cause.

It took me a full twenty seconds to even breathe after this. My blood was boiling, my hair was standing on end, and I began wishing that I was anywhere but here. Then I turned around to face the shocked store employees. Like, What do you say in this situation? Some girl just came into their store to yell at you for a good five minutes. Is there really anything you can say to restore order?

I gave it my best shot: "How is everybody today? Beautiful day we got"

The clerk's answer: "Better day than yours." I tried to crack a smile, but I just couldn't. My adrenaline was pumping, my heart rate was a mile a minute, and somehow I wanted revenge on whoever makes the universe this way for me. That nameless being who can turn any random minute of any day into a living hell.

It turns out after all that, they didn't even have the camera parts I needed. They were in a bag in my closet. After all that, I didn't even need to leave the house! I walked out of that store and delivered an earth-shaking roar. I screamed so loud that Zach De La Rocha may have to move over and let me be the new official singer of Rage. A primal scream of rage, of misunderstanding, of every emotion that was boiling through my body at the time. It was one of those days when the universe hated me, the city gods did not want me to exist. What should have been one of the greatest days of the year was ruined.

It took me a full six hours to crack another smile after that. It took a full half hour for the most primitive of rage to subside. I lifted weights, jumped up and down, literally could not sit still for the next 30 minutes. I thought of all the bad things I could possibly do to this girl. Then I had a thought. From Psych class, freshman year. She is a poor soul who probably got fired or dumped or something and projects rage on others. It took me five full hours to realize this possibility, that maybe, just maybe someone in this universe was pissed off for some reason besides my existence. But once I did, it was a beautiful day. Or so I thought

October 2008

As bad as some of my "Why Wasn't I Killed" stories can get, there is only one time in memory when I physically and hypothetically could have died. That happened last Thursday. As you already know from reading, only I have the super power to turn a quiet afternoon at a coffee shop into a Grade-A catastrophe. Well this one started innocently enough as well. How does a casual stroll on a Tuesday afternoon sound? What could possibly go wrong from a casual afternoon walk through the Lower East Side of NY? I'll tell you what.

It was late October of 08'. To get my mind off all the craziness that's been going on in my life lately, I decided to take a walk downtown to check out a showcase for the CMJ Music Festival, which I documented last year in my "Rock N Roll Lifestyle" section. I was walking with my Ipod on, listening to The Ramones or the Arctic Monkeys, something like that. Who cares. Then it happened.

As is usually the case with New York City walking, I decided to spring ahead to make a quickly changing light. This is common practice among walkers, especially in crowded areas of the city, with aggressive walkers slowly inching out into the street and waiting to jump at the first possible second they can get to the other side of the street without being killed. I was crossing a small two-way side street. The light was getting close to turning, so I decised to bolt and try to get it. I was a step too quick. I began to run into the street and reached the halfway mark, when mentally I forgot it was two-way. Then I felt a huge rush of air as a large white minivan sped by from my blind side, mere inches away from demolishing my helpless body. This was one time when I truly did not look both ways before I crossed, and almost paid the price with my life.

I jumped back to the curb as quick as feet could allow me, and startled by the imminent shock of almost being roadkill, and with nothing else I really could say, I unleashed a series of very loud rapid-fire curse words in the general direction of the car that almost hit me at the top of my lungs. Then I stopped to look around me. Traffic for blocks around had ground to a halt, and people for blocks had ceased their conversation, disturbed by my tortured screams. I was definitely the center of negative attention.

Then I heard it. "You gotta thank God man". I looked up, and it was a garbage truck driver on the other side of the street. He had seen everything. He continued: "You really are lucky to be alive right now kid. Sometimes, you just gotta count your blessings". Then with these words, it sunk in. Holy shit. Ho-ly shit. I really did almost fucking die. This guy was coming at me at easily 30-40 miles per hour, and for anyone who owns one you know that a minivan is a HUGE car. Aftr talking to a couple of my buddies who are experts in science and logistics, it was determined that yes indeed, I was inches away from death.

I spent the next few minutes sulking, with my head down and my hands folded, almost in a prayer. I was not praying though, just merely reflecting on what could have been, and just thinking that, no matter how bad things can get, and trust me right now they are, financially and hypothetically speaking, bad, that being alive is probably the most important thing.

This was indeed a moment of deep thought, but it was interrupted by a loud scream: "You fucking idiot! Why the fuck would you do that? You're a mother fucking idiot. Watch your damn self, fool!" I looked up to see that the same white minivan that had almost hit me had backed around the block and returned to give me a thrashing. I looked at the driver. He was a very large guy, almost like a linebacker. He looked ghetto as all hell. And he was pissed off. I froze. WHY would this guy be coming back to talk to a man who almost got him into an accident? I ignored his yelling and walked into the nearest restaurant/bar. The minivan backed up and followed my exact movements. I walked into the restaurant, and immediately feared the worst. I could see out the restaurant window that the same white van that almost took my life was staring me down, and its doors were opening. I panicked, immediately running to the back of the restaurant. It looked like this guy wanted to finish the job that his car couldn't.

As you know, I am no stranger to restaurant confrontations, but I was very concerned that this one could be potentially destructive. Who knows, this guy could very easily had been loaded with a gun, a knife, or something equally dangerous. This time I literally got down and prayed that I would get out of this one OK, as the driver of that white van and his twentysomething son entered the restaurant. The driver immediately bellowed: "What the fuck is wrong with you? You almost cost me thousands of dollars in damages, boy"

The four or five people in attendance all stared at me, scared for my life as much as they were startled. I apologized to the driver, told him I was in a hurry, made a mental error and would not cause any more problems. The manager of the restaurant intervened, as the driver complained to him that I was an awful person for almost getting hit by his car.

A hipster sitting into the restaurant's bar then promptly chimed in "But he's a passer-by man. Wouldn't he have the right of way, man? Am I wrong, man?." OK, this guy was on my side. But think about it, in this situation how can a Hipster be of any use? Their logic is most likely clouded by drugs, alcohol, and indifference, and every argument they make is most likely to end with some shitty band they have their panties in a wad over. 

I squared up the hipster and told him "Look man. This guy is pissed off, don't make this any worse. I hear MGMT is playing an exclusive free show at the Warsaw in Williamsburg in half an hour. Go there." (Of course there wasn't. But I have proven by scientific trial and error that the quickest way to get rid of an annoying Hipster is to tell them that one of their bands is playing an "exclusive free show" somewhere) He gave me the finger, got up and left. OK, now of course I'm the bad guy.

I regained my composure, went up to the front of the restaurant, and calmly assured the manager, driver, and his son that I was fully calmed down and was sorry for any inconvenience. The driver then stated that they were simply following me to check on my progress and see if I was gonna be OK after nearly getting annhilated. They then assured to the manager that they would not threaten any violence or legal action. Well OK, that's a relief. I guess.

Then, they finally just asked me to "look both ways next time" before leaving the restaurant. Very startled, I wasn't so sure this angry man was not gonna keep following me. I immediately left the restaurant, then did a few evasive maneuvers and walked into an out of the way bar I knew of in a narrow back alley, where this guy's van would have no chance of following me into. I watched the door for the next few minutes, and convinced that I had escaped death by the closest margin ever, I suddenly decided that I needed a drink. The bar, a hole in the wall, was having a happy hour special where you could get some PBR-quality horse piss beer, and a shot of straight Jack, for five bucks. I made a bee-line for the bar and ordered it. The bartender was puzzled:

"It's barely even 5PM. Are you sure you want such a large percentage of alcohol so early?

My response: "Don't tell me what I can and can't drink. Girl, I'm lucky to be alive. Now pour me a shot"

Without another word, she obliged.

February 2004

During the first two years of college, there was so much uncertainty. How long it would take for me to get arrested again and kicked out of school for good? How long it would take my naivete to get me sucked into a silly little pyramid scheme? In this case, obviously not very long. What stupid bullshit major I would end up studying? Would I ever discover that free Booze is god and no one gives a shit how much you study, because your life after college is most likely gonna suck? In this case, I was already almost 2 years too late. The only thing that was ever certain during these tumultuous years was that there was always a party to look forward to Saturday night at the Sigma Chi house on Ashford Street.

During my first two years of college, this was always the go-to house for a crazy freshman party where over half the people there would know me, mostly for some random drunken reason, there was always enough ghetto keg swill to go around several times until the cops broke it up. IF they broke it up, and stupid hip-hop music reigned supreme, much to my liking (I was still in the tail end of "The Rap Years").

These parties would pack with freshmen cum dumpsters, jocks, and frat boys and give me all the college fun I needed. Until one night when it all went horribly wrong. I was with the crew from my sophomore year floor: Sportskid, CollegeSuperHero, Nelly & J-Lew, and things were going swimmingly. Until I got a little chilly, and I decided I needed my jacket, which I had left down in the basement. This basement was absolutely packed, so much that you couldn't move without brushing against someone. And leaning right up against my jacket were three unbelievably homophobic guidos.

Yes, they fit the stereotype exactly. Meticulously tousled hair, thick Italian accents, and in the case of two of them, enormous, bulging muscles. In other words, the kind of kids you would not want to meet at a back alley in Jersey. To get to my jacket, I would have to make a very ackward grab for it, reaching between the leader and one of his big-muscled henchmen. I never was the one to think at all before I act, so I just went right in, got the jacket, and got the hell away. Or so I thought, until I felt a sharp tap in the back. It was the leader of the guidos, and he had a couple kind words for me:

"Excuse me, you oughta watch where you're pushin' your arms there, because my two paisans, they have a little problem with what you just did. So if I were you, I would kindly get the hell away from here before you cause any more problems".

I just walked away and gave them all a mean look. "Whatever. What the hell was up those guys' asses?" I got another beer from the keg, walked back upstairs to my friends, and just chilled for another while, forgetting about the incident completely. Then we left.

As we started the walk back to our dorm, I heard an awful lot of commotion behind us. Some guy was screaming at a kid, at the top of his lungs. I dismissed it as typical macho posturing. A brawl, about to break out in front of a frat house? Who would have ever thought?

But the screams kept getting louder and louder, until they were practically right behind my ear. CollegeSuperHero probably said at best: "Um, dude, I think they're yelling at you." I turn around, and sure enough, it's the same three guido guys from earlier, and they are very obviously screaming at me."YOU FUCKING FAGGOT. FUCK YOU, FUCKING HOMO. I"LL KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS"

Holy shit. These guys were so homophobic that they interpreted me reaching between them to get my jacket as a "gay gesture". And it's obvious that the guys on my floor would not be able to compete with these meatheads, and a couple might actually take enjoyment in seeing this beatdown, such as Nelly. Shit, it was me against the world, I figured. "I gotta run."

I ran track in high school, and although it seemed like a meaningless hobby at the time, it has saved my ass countless times, and now it was a necessity to run my best 400-meter sprint. Our dorm complex was in clear sight, directly down the street from the frat house. The setting couldn't have been better scripted.

Without any words to any of my crew, I just screamed "Oh, shit" and took off. I sprinted hard as I could for about 20 yards, looked back, and saw all three guidos running after me full sprint, their beatdown positions assumed.

About 20 yards later, I looked back. They were gaining ground on me. "Holy shit I am in trouble." I turned up the juice in my legs to the fastest they would possibly go. I did not have much more left.

20 yards later, I looked back. They were right behind me, literally a stone's throw away. Their fists could smell blood. I began to brace my body. "Holy shit, this is not gonna end well."

In the next 20 yards, my steps slowed. I could not make it. I anticipated the incoming thud to the pavement and pounding blows all across my body. For once, all my track experience and nice-guy excuses were gonna fail me.

But amazingly, that thud never came. I was panting, so out of breath, yet I kept on running, slower and slower. And still, the hard hit never came. I wondered why these guys were such pansies. They had been yelling at me so vehemently. Then, as I finally neared the parking lot of my dorm, I had the balls to turn around, half expecting all three of them to be right there, ready to pounce and yell "PSYCH!". But there was no one in sight. Not a soul.

Still convinced they were hiding somewhere, I turned out every single ounce of energy I had for the rest of the distance, until I practically collapsed inside the doors to my dorm. Sweating and panting heavily, I slammed my dorm door as I entered, and locked it. My roommate "Timbo", who was in the middle of sweet talk with his girlfriend, was scared half to death."They're coming to get me, help there's three guys chasing after me. They might be here", I practically screamed. It took Timbo about 20 minutes of slamming water down my throat and to calm me down. After about half an hour, the entire floor crew came back, also stunned in disbelief. I calmly filled in the blanks of the story to them, but they were not satisfied. J-Lew especially was puzzled: "OK, so they were chasing you down, and then they just quit? WHY did the guidos stop running?" I couldn't think of a substantial answer. Several months later, I would learn the truth.

In college, I usually liked to keep the fact that I was not normal on the hush hush and the down low. I didn't really think about it, but the kids on this floor were smart. From the day we all moved in, they noticed the obvious, that the volume of my voice was always way too loud for the social situation, an uncommon characteristic. And you know, being around a bunch of intellectuals, some of the kids started talking, you know, and slowly but surely, kids figured things out.

So back to the story. A few months later, out of the blue a floormate of mine, called "Bloomberg" came into my room and confessed. "You fucking owe me big time, man." I had barely ever spoke to this kid at all the entire year and had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I didn't even like the kid. Bloomberg was a raging drunk who loved to wrestle anyone who entered his path, and destroy the people who naysayed his popped collar and beloved Cali-cool sports teams. I had no idea what this asshole could possibly want from me. Then, he just came out and said it."I was the one who stopped the guidos from running".

It turns out that Bloomberg had witnessed the whole thing. The callout, the initial dash, everything. He was coming back from a different party with his buddies when he saw me zooming past, followed by the three large guidos. He had stopped them to ask kindly why they were chasing me. They responded, of course, that I was a fag and they were about to beat my ass. He started laughing. Then they got all in his grill about why he was stopping them. What he said: "Oh no. You don't wanna chase after him. That kid's like, autistic or something."

I do happen to possess is a very, very mild, barely noticible syndrome on the autism scale, so as much as I hate to say it, lucky guess Bloomberg! And why exactly did the guidos stop running? It's still beyond me to think that such homophobic, brawl-sniffing guidos can have the slightest drop of compassion. I never saw them again, so I guess we'll never know.

And yes Bloomberg, I still fucking owe you.

January 2008

"Dude. You know, you really gotta watch the things you say sometimes, because some day someone's gonna take it the wrong way and really mess you up"

If I could have a dime for every time in my life someone has said this, or some variation of the statement to me, I could buy an Olympic-size hot tub and fill it up with the finest brand of Champagne. I usually don't listen or think much about this statement. Because, of course, I don't give a shit about anyone or anything. They're all just normal anyway, fuck them. But on one prophetic night, this premonition came true.

Out of all of the millions of streets in New York City, there is one in particular that stands out in terms of my debauchery. Over the last two years, I have gone down this road thousands of times, each time daring Fate to fuck with me. Acting belligerent, acting stupid, and acting like I don't give a shit about anyone or anything in the world. That street is Ludlow. Well this one night in particular, Fate willingly decided to fuck back.

As I began my usual Saturday night stroll down Ludlow, something irritated me. And when I get irritated, especially when drunk, shit tends to hit the fan. I passed a guy who was with two chicks. He was the biggest douchebag I'd ever seen. Let's call him "Larry". And the chicks he was with were screaming for something. I mean if he was some rockstar or something, then I'd understand, but Larry was just some douche looking motherfucker, so I hated that they were screaming so loud because of this hack. And they were right behind me when the screaming started, which further got my blood boiling.

The first thing I screamed back at them was "Stupid buttlsuts"- a term I often use nowadays to describe such behavior. The shrill screaming would not stop. Then I just lost my cool. I turned around, and just yelled "Shuddup! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" as loud as I can. The two guys I was rolling with, "Panic" and "C-Town" just rolled their eyes and collectively braced themselves. "Oh-no here we go again" they shared in an exchange. They put up with so much of my drunken shit it's ridiculous.

Then, Larry began yelling something back at me. Presumably threatening words, I wasn't paying attention, because my NYC Mentality had long since kicked in. Let me explain. Having grown up in a city with more than 8 million people, it's so easy to think that you can give someone the finger on a subway one moment and never see them again, say "Fuck You" in a person's face on the street and never have to worry about them ever being near you again, spill a beer on someone in a crowded bar without having to worry about them retaliating, etc. The list goes on and on.

I had a bar to go to at that moment and Larry was just some assclown standing in my way. So I fucking let him have it. I raised my middle finger in the air and let it linger longer than reasonable or acceptable. At that moment, I just didn't give a shit. I began to walk very fast, my bird flipped high in the air. I heard someone running up from behind, expecting to see Panic or C-Town. But this is the one night when the laws of physics came around, for the Law of NYC Mentality did not serve its purpose.

Out of absolutely nowhere, BOOM! I was body slammed hard into a closed storefront. It was Larry. Unbeknownst to me, Larry was huge, and he delivered a hit that any WWE aficionado or NFL linebacker would be proud of. And against the steel storefront- DAMN! To those you who have not had the pleasure of receiving a hit like that, I would hope for your sake it stays that way. This is the one time in my life when the prophecy had come true- someone had taken my actions the wrong way and here I was.

Pinned against a storefront as Larry tried to grab me in a chokehold, much like the wrestler Kane used to do. He succeeded to some degree, as I began to lose my breath while I struggled mightily to break free. Miraculously, I escaped his grasp and had enough jets in my legs to reach the nearest bar and safety. "Yeah you better run, motherfucker" Larry screamed as I sprinted down Ludlow with a vitriol that can only come out with the threat of getting my ass whupped by a huge dude.

But as lucky as I was, Larry was not nearly done with me. Panic and C-Town, who were both lagging behind, had overheard his angered screams as I got away. He kept screaming that he was going to "kill that little blond bastard." OK, for one that for one gives me hope of never having to deal with his full wrath, because in fact I am not blonde, and I'm sure there are millions of dudes in NYC who look like me. Not that I would wish that wrath upon anyone else. Oh no, I'm not saying that.

Both Panic and C-Town got very worried at me, and subsequently lectured me about how I need to really watch what I say and that maybe someday someone's gonna do something far worse than he did and... whatever. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. IF I get to it.

The night ended rather peacefully, and I have yet to have another encounter with Larry. Will I? Will Larry finally get to finish the job he started, or will the Law of NYC Mentality play its part? Only time will tell. I'll keep you updated... That is if I live to write a Part 2.

Or maybe my friends' prophecy will come true and I will meet a tragic demise because of something I said. Who knows. What I do know is that my illusion of invincibility on Ludlow has been shattered, and a street that for so long served as a bastion of anything-goes has now tainted its reputation in my eyes. But does that mean I'm not going to keep going down there and torturing its weekend crowd? Hell no.

And does this mean I'm finally gonna learn my lesson and stop blurting out inappropriate, weird, awkward, insulting, and random comments? In all likelihood, eh probably not. Unfortunately for the Larrys of the world, some things may never change.

April 2008

Sometimes I wonder what kind of curse I have that I find myself in such crazy situations. It's the most random thing when these stories happen, I can never predict it. There are too many people out there who just don't fucking like me. Like that time from just the other day...

It starts like this. It's the middle of the day and I am sitting at a Manhattan Internet cafe, zoned out on my computer while various Manhattanites consume lattes and discuss their recent moves from Cali, their annoying tax brokers, etc, around me. Just typical New York conversation on a typical New York afternoon. Then, it hits me.

4:20: I need to piss. And this is not just any piss. This is a fucking waterfall piss. This is 10 hours' worth of consumed seltzer and orange juice all coming out at once. And it is just my luck that the cafe does not have a rest room. And I can't leave my laptop unattended, because I do not trust the thuggish looking old man in the corner. And losing my laptop would, at this financially bad point in my life, pretty much be suicide. So I pack up the laptop and start a desperate search for the nearest hole to place my piss.

4:21: There is a bar about half a block down from the internet cafe. I have been there several times before- it is upscale and has pretty strict laws against noise, dress code, and any characters that deviate from the working class douchebag norm. But hey, at that point I would have barged into a fucking police station if it had a working toilet. I stride in there like I own the place. I do not ask for the bathroom, nor do I say a word to any of the bar staff on the way in, and down a flight of stairs to potty central. There is no bouncer on duty, and the bar is essentially empty. So I figure there is nothing to lose. Why would anyone care about me taking a piss in a bar on a weekday afternoon?

4:22: Just as I am unzipping my fly to let loose, another man enters the restroom. The only thought going through my head is "Hmm, hope he's not a wee-wee starer". But before a single drop comes out, BOOM! I am slammed hard into the wall behind the stall. It is a very jacked bartender with a tough-as-nails tone and strong Brooklyn accent. "What the fuck is your problem? You fucking barge right in here, how would you like it if someone fucking barged into your house like that heh?"

4:23: Shell-shocked by the sudden assault, I zip up my fly and step away from this beast of a man, and just tremble in terror for a few seconds before sputtering out a fearful "OK. Sorry about any problems, but I am leaving." But judging from the tone in this man's following speech, he was more than just an arrogant employee enforcing restaurant law. He was the living embodiment of my worst nightmare, prepared by Satan himself: a no-nonsense Brahma Bull whose hatred for me, and any character like me, any sort of weirdness or deviation, boils deep in the blood. By the way he released his next sentence: "Fucking listen to me when I'm fuckin talking to you, you're the one causing the problems" I can tell he was doing more than just straight talk. He wanted to beat me to a fucking pulp.

4:24: I hold a "Talk To The Hand" symbol up to his face, and repeat several times "Sorry for any problems, I am outta here". as I brush past him and begin my dash up the stairs and out of that bar. You see, this is where my sense of adrenaline kicked in at the wrong time, nearly resulting in my demise. I was just like "Fuck You, and Fuck This bar", so on my way out I slammed the front door against its hinges as hard as I could. I had just dug my own grave.

4:25: The Demon Bartender follows me out onto the street. But this time, he really, REALLY wants to beat the shit out of me. I break into a dead sprint. He sprints faster. I know I am a dead man. I know he's gonna catch me, so my strategy at this point is to get into a restaurant or supermarket or any place where people can see him beating the shit out of me, so he could potentially be busted for assault and battery and I'll come out a winner. Amazingly, I make it to the front of a diner, before he slams me, HARD.

4:26: I am tackled to the pavement. I struggle hard to escape- he has me in his grasp by my bookbag. I push with all my might. Miraculously, I break free, and stumble hard into the adjacent diner, stunning a group of customers enjoying a quiet meal. The Demon Bartender stumbles in after me, his fists still smelling my blood. Luckily, at this point the restaurant manager intervenes and tries to restrain him. The manager asks him to refrain from beating me up, giving me enough time to sneak to the back of the restaurant, trembling for dear life as the Bartender from Hell goes on a loud, angry rant about me.

4:27: "Get this fucking kid out of your restaurant. He's fucking weird and disrespectful, he just barged into my establishment. He's a fucking lunatic psycho. Get him the fuck outta here." All the customers stare at me in shock. I hide from them, still trembling. Once the manager has calmed Demon Bartender down and told him they would "take care of me", he finally goes back down to hell. After a few very ackward seconds, I summon the courage to come out from the back. Only to be met by two very stern older men. One of them has a badge. They are undercover detectives who had witnessed the full chase and sprint, followed by the Demon Bartender's frustrated rant from not being able to beat me up. Just my luck. This is where things automatically go from bad to worse. They pull me aside for questioning on potential criminal charges of property damage and public disturbance. I stutter a bit. "L-l-look, gentlemen there is no problem here, everything is under control. Sorry for any problems, but I gotta go." They tell me there is indeed, a problem and I am lying, having busted two doors nearly off their hinges, running like i had just stole something, and causing a scene in a diner. After all this, I am the bad guy.

4:28: When they ask for my ID, I slip up and give them my real identification, rather than my student ID that expired 2 years ago. THey take that anyway. But because I had changed addresses since the issuance of that ID and I did not remember which was on it (actually a blessing in disguise), they interpreted it as false identification, which led to a whole new round of questioning. C'mon- I was piss-my-pants nervous, so give me a fucking break.

4:29: They take down all my information, and Demon Bartender got away looking like a fucking angel for protecting his bar from "scum" like me. I just hang my head in my hands in disbelief that such a small event can turn into a monumental catastrophe. Which, of course, they interpret as a sign of nervousness and possible lying under oath, leading to even more questioning. I respond nervously: "Listen, just please let me go. I just don't wanna get beat up." They think I am changing stories on them. Not good.

4:30: With the promise that I will "stay out of trouble", the detectives finally let me go, to the relief of me and all the unfortunate diners who had witnessed this scene.

4:31: I finally escape to a small Chinese restaurant next door, where I "politely" ask to use the restroom, and slam the door to the world's biggest sigh of relief. The moment of dread is over and I can finally piss in peace.

4:35: After walking several blocks out of the way to avoid coming anywhere near Demon Bartender again, I return to the Internet cafe, where I resume exactly what I had been working on before. But, I open up a new tab to begin writing about the undescribable terror of the event that had just unfolded.