Open Notes to the Springtime Revelers in the Park

Preface: This is the second installment in my Open Notes series, where I talk to people around me but on my blog because I lack the guts/interest/pickup lines necessary to actually conversate with other people.

Today I thought I would take advantage of the 73-degree weather (that's Fahrenheit, for those of you who identify as Eurotrash) and grade some papers in scenic Washington Square Park.  Given its location, WSP is a nexus of every population subset imaginable.  Where else could hippies, musicians, NYU students, yuppies, tourists, dogs, communists, druggies, protestors, pretzels, Sesame Street Muppets, film crews, artists, and squirrel enthusiasts gather in one place?  Well okay, Brooklyn, yeah.  You're right.  Happy?

Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted by an anticipated argument, I was about to announce that it was time once again to make fun of people on the internets while hiding behind the enclosure of my craptop screen.

To the indie artist next to me: I had no idea that stringing together a long list of words that end in "-ation" constituted a deep, meaningful song.  Bravisimo! I can tell by your softly plucked chords and clever use of juxtaposition and free association that you are a douche.  There are more chords in the world besides G and C.  Please learn some of them.  Any of them, really.  Also, thanks for calling your girlfriend/incredibly patient sister over to play the egg shaker--it really adds to the ambiance of your composition.

To the undergrad girls stopping to listen: No, girls, he sucks.  Move along.

To the ladies walking the small lapdog: Does your dog know that he is an accessory?  How does he feel about this?  Does he have the will to live at all?  Was his father a hat?  Was his grandfather a cotton ball? What kind of metaphor does he think his leash is?  Is he a she?  I have so many questions.

To the fellow with the crazy hair, ridiculous hat, and Nike shirt which reads "SLICE IT UP":  When your track jacket covered the "S" of "SLICE IT UP", your headwear suddenly made so much more sense.

To the girl on the phone to my right:  You seem like you'd be really annoying, but you're hot so I'll let it slide.

To the dude that walked by and said "Wrong shirt, buddy": First off, I'm not your buddy.  Secondly, making fun of my Mike Lowell shirt is not fair unless you are properly marked yourself.  Yankees or Mets?  It makes a difference, yes.  I don't know how to respond to you without that pertinent information.  I guess I could take the high road and yell "Suck in the gut!". Maybe next time.

To several male friends via text message:  SKIRTS!  YES!!

To my iPod: Thank you for being here.  Now I can pretend that the John Lennon wannabe next to me actually is John Lennon.

To the dude walking through in a Wu-Tang Clan shirt and actually blasting Wu-Tang Clan on his boombox:  Holy 1993!

To the barefoot girl sitting across from me who also laughed and then shared a knowing look with me:  My roommate is gone for the weekend.  I'm just saying.

To the guy feeding the pigeons:  Wow. I think Mary Poppins sings a song about you. Also if you've got that many pigeons on you, I imagine you do a lot of laundry.  Why aren't you wearing white?

To the folks stolling by with the weiner dog:  If I put relish and mustard on your dog, would you laugh too?  I would laugh.

To the girl clearly not wearing a bra: Usually I'd be okay with this, but... how can I put this tactfully?  I support you even less than your clothes do.

To the folks that asked me to slide down so they could fit their whole group and then decided to leave once I had moved all of my stuff because they wanted to go sit on the grass instead: It was great meeting you today.

To the Communists handing out fliers: Okay first, communism has never worked well anywhere in the history of time.  So give me a break. I'd love to help out with the Rebellion, but I have to do some laundry.

To the LaRouche fringe group handing out fliers of a Hitler mustache on President Obama, ostensibly to protest the health care plan:  Hitler wasn't socialist.  He was fascist.  Sorry no one told you before you printed 2,000 of these things.

To the really large retriever dog passing by:  Eat a pigeon! Eat a pigeon! Eat a pigeon!

To the backside of the really large retriever dog passing by: Wuss.

To the hippie walking from the other direction:  You bear a passing resemblance to the backside of the really large retriever dog passing by.

To me: You've sat here for an hour and graded 3 papers. You suck.

To the indie artist next to me as he gets ready to leave: I know you came out here this morning with big dreams of being the next Bob Dylan.  You were so excited that in your haste you forgot to shower this week.  At any rate, I'm sorry no one took you seriously today.  I suppose you could write a song about it.