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Monday, March 7, 2011


I walked through the East Village on Saturday night wondering why so many people were willing to wait in lines to get into tiny, crowded, grungy bars so they could drink while attempting to have conversations over deafeningly loud music. I wonder this every time I walk by such a bar, but I'm particularly fascinated with people's fascination with bars in this part of town. People flock to them on weekends like the East Village is Mecca during the Hajj and Mohammed himself is sitting shit-faced at the bar next to some guy in skinny jeans and a bow-tie. To me, any neighborhood where you can almost step in piss, shit, spit, vomit and cum all on the same block, is a neighborhood I'll visit on the rare occasion (next time in gollashes), but it's not one I'd wanna live in - and certainly not at East Village prices. I felt bad for the poor souls, especially the guys, who had to wait outside in the cold, the heat, the rain, the snow, running the risk of potentially getting pissed, shitted, spitted, vomited and cumed on, all to get into a bar in the cool part of town in the hope of maybe meeting a woman.

As the Colombian and I walked Southwest through the obstacle course of human excretions on our way to see a play in the West Village, we stopped in at Whole Foods. My exercise kick has forced me to eat healthier, and the Colombian has now gotten me into taking vitamins and supplements. She had gotten it into my head that I needed to take probiotics, so I darted past the overpriced produce and ran up the stairs to the vitamin/supplement section, eager to get started on eliminating the bad bacteria that lurks inside me. What I found in searching for the right probiotics was a wealth of choices - too many, in fact - and a lot of women - too many, in fact - with digestive issues. Next to the non-refrigerated probiotics there sat at least 5 shelves worth of products with words such as "Colon Cleanse," and "For Gas, Cramping & Constipation" written on the packaging. I witnessed at least ten young, attractive women checking out the various shitting aids in the fifteen minutes I stood there trying to make sense of CFUs and Lactobacillus strains. I wanted to run back to where I'd seen the desperate men waiting in line to tell them that they could be meeting women at that very moment at Whole Foods, or wherever else Gas X and stool softeners were sold. There was no need to humiliate themselves by hoping to be deemed worthy by some bouncer with an attitude and a clipboard in the East Village when so many available, gassy women awaited them at Duane Reades and Rite-Aids all over town. They needed to know that cover charges, dress codes and $10 beers didn't need to be part of their mating rituals, just an open mind and a poor sense of smell were required to meet the one. If I could have gotten to the roof, I would have shouted it from it, if had a Twitter account, I'd have tweeted it, if I were on Facebook, I'd have made it my status: "Run, don't walk, all you single, horny men to the personal care sections of your local drug stores and supermarkets. The women you seek are there!"

The Colombian laughed when I told her my idea to open a lounge with a probiotic section, but she said that if men were nearby, most women would shy away from publicly displaying that they have gastrointestinal issues; a notion I later challenged as the woman I sat next to during the play unsuccessfully attempted to fan her silent but deadly away with the play's program.



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