Open Notes to Persons in and around a Park Slope Coffee Shop

Preface: This is the third 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 converse with other people.

"Art of Unknown Origin Stolen for Blog"; Anonymous, Oil on Canvas, 1997

This evening, after a particularly erratic day of substitute teaching in Manhattan, I returned to lovely Brooklyn and strolled over to a distinctive coffee joint in the quaint yet eminently mockable neighborhood of Park Slope.  People here are known for being liberal, wealthy(ish), and trendy, and most residents struggle to hide their often overwhelming whiteness.  My neighborhood is no slouch, but this part of town is most certainly out of my price bracket.  Thus, while it may be a perfectly pleasant place to reside, it's easier and more self-assuring to ruthlessly rend it asunder with smug keystrokes while chuckling about how intellectually superior and more worldly I am.

To my roommate: Spot me a few bucks?  Cool.

To the chipper barista girl: You're adorable, but I really do think that your hat falls under the "trying too hard" category.  It probably looked stylish on the wooden rack at the second-hand store next to the other second-hand store where that better second-hand store used to be, but you don't need a hat indoors.  However, I have a long history of falling for waitresses and female bar staff, so I'm going to let it slide.

To Customer #7: Whoever told you that beard looked good was lying through their java-stained teeth.  When you trim the edges every morning for that perfectly symmetrical look, do you use a ruler?  A protractor, maybe?  Also, this morning routine must give you ample time to consider your beard at length.  Apparently, you still think it's worth it.

To the freeloading suit who walked in, sat down, went to work on his laptop, and didn't buy anything:  Don't worry about it. Wi-fi should be free. Hey, I'm sure you voted for universal public health care, too.

To literally four other customers who have entered since I started:  Please explain to me the appeal of offbeat hats and poor facial hair decisions.  Please.  I'm so lost.

To Customer #15:  You are cute.  Please look at me again now that I'm sitting up straight.

To Customer #15's boyfriend:  I will fight you right in the face.

To Rota Fortunae:  Why do girls go out with clowns like him?  What is it?  I see more girls hanging off the shoulder of slouchy, half-awake, vacant looking dudes who kind of just stand there consuming oxygen.  What are you contributing to the relationship, guy?  You look like the kind of person who hopes McDonald's makes home deliveries.  It's very perplexing.

To Wikipedia:  Whoa. "Rota Fortunae"?  Thanks, Wikipedia! I sound so cultured and smart.

To the insufferable mouthpiece behind me:  Keep talking.  I find it fascinating that you could "know" so much about so many things and yet state everything in the simplest terms possible. Call me crazy, but does it occur to you that most political issues and social science-related events are just a little bit more on the complex side? Listening to you explain it all--with scoffs to spare--is nauseating.  The groans!  The sighs!  If eye rolling made a sound, I'm pretty sure that I just heard it.  Were you planning on giving a chance to either of the ladies accompanying you?  They may want to speak at some point.  I know that you think that you're intelligent and sophisticated and miles ahead of the other lemmings you are forced to associate with, but there's a reason that some individuals become famous talk show hosts or essay writers while others sit in coffee shops pontificating.  You suck.

To the girl blogging two tables away: I have no idea what you're writing about, but I will preemptively propose a truce.

To whoever wrote this "How to Piss Off a Park Slope Resident" viral blog post:  Good show!

To the bro who almost walked in with his acoustic guitar:  No! Get out!! NO ONE LIKES YOU!! WHATEVER ARTIST YOU ASPIRE TO BE LIKE SUCKS, TOO!  Sorry about the caps.  Typed too hard again.

To management: Please play something other than Adele.  It's been like an hour and forty five minutes.  C'mon.

To the Mac user next to me:  You have literally nine applications running and you're flipping through them seamlessly; meanwhile, I attempted to open iTunes and my laptop reacted like I jammed a butter knife into the USB port.  This is stupid.  PCs are stupid.  Any computer I ever buy is stupid.

To my snarkier readers:  Not stupid by association.  Just stupid.

To the lower-middle-class, blue-collar local making a modest wage who came in and ordered a... nah, just kidding. He's not allowed to live here.

To the cafe business at large:  Why is decaf iced coffee impossible to find?  No one has it and I don't understand that.  If I wanted a decaf hot coffee, I would have made it at home. Decaf iced coffee isn't even hard to stock--just double brew a pot and refrigerate it.  It stays good for days!  There's no excuse, service industry.  Step it up.

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.

Open Notes to my Fellow Students in the 2nd Floor Student Lounge

Preface: Being a new grad student, I moved in a week early and have been enjoying the Welcome Week activities. Of the many odd scenarios I had anticipated, one that caught me by surprise was the simultaneous arrival of the freshman undergrads. I am now placed in the odd position of socializing with people who are either around my age (early- to mid-twenties) or definitely 18. I haven't faced this exact scenario since... well, our summer camp staff banquet two weeks ago.

Since I lack the fortitude to simply walk up to strangers and give it to them straight (hey oh!), I will now address the fine scholars sitting near me via my blog, which they undoubtedly love and read daily.

To the fellow asleep on the couch: Sir, you are occupying some prime real estate and you're not even conscious of it. Or conscious of anything. I think you're taking the "Lounge" a bit too literally. Go sleep on the floor and leave the furniture to those who have work to do. Like bloggers and stuff.

To the vocal fellow leading the org meeting to my right: You, sir, are loud. Hot damn. While it appears that the gaggle of girls around you are hanging on your every word, they're probably just laughing at your jokes to be polite. I'm sure each and every one of them is a bright and articulate club member, but they've all demurred to your boisterous anecdotes and one-liners. None of these ladies will sleep with you tonight, but--much like you--I digress. Please continue holding court.

To the org group as a whole: Thank you for using all the chairs. No, it's fine, I'll just sit 10 feet away from an electrical outlet in these armchairs that are oddly facing each other. These armchairs would be ideal for like a meeting or something.

To Girl #2 in aforementioned org group: I love you. Marry me. Unless you're 18, in which case, please have an older sister.

To Poindexter across the way: From one new kid to another, you're a dork. Hang out with me so I can look cooler.

To the indie looking chick in the trendy jeans by the window: I have no idea if you can sing, but I want you in my band which I just thought of and named The Intrepid Magnolias. You can front it and be in all the photographs and do most of the talking when we get interviewed by Paste. That iPod that you occasionally look up from is probably loaded with hip bands that haven't been signed yet. Also, did that tattoo hurt? It looks like it hurt.

To the unseen music programmer for the student lounge: Thank you. The chorus of Pat Benatar's "Black Velvet" will be stuck in my head for the rest of the week. Just awesome. That won't get annoying.

To the girl that just walked by way too quickly: Okay, forget Girl #2. Come back. Please. I love you. Or at least walk by slower next time.

To Girl #2: I'm sorry, there's someone else.

To the girl eating Pad Thai in the adjacent commuter lounge: Wanna commute over this way and share? Sharing is caring.

To the dude walking around with his clearly stuffed wallet in his hands: Are you serious? Have you ever been in a city before? Or even in public?? You're definitely 18. Save some time and just hand off that wad of cash to me. You're going to lose it anyway. Actually, keep $20 and get a haircut. You look like you grew up in a barn.

To the indie chick still by the window: Is that a Nintendo Gameboy? I can't decide if that makes you impossibly cool or seriously uncool. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt cause we're in the same band (which I have now re-named The Denim Hobo Collective), but I suppose it would depend on what game you are playing. "Retro" is a very big gray area to me.

To the pack of new bestest friends that just arrived and took over the lounge: Okay I get it. I'm moving on. You all stink. Secretly I'm jealous of the awesome four years that you still have ahead of you, but on the surface I will now make my über-cool and bored grad student face and head back to my apartment.