Bald Punk Crosses The Hudson!
(I’m the shark! Are you scared? You know she is! – uncredited photo)
Before I get all nutty, this is the situation. I’m supposed to be going to the New Jersey beaches with my lady friend(LF). The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are also coming because that’s what they do. They follow Bald Punk.
I’d rather have a swarm of bees following me, but I won’t digress.
I’ll tell you how this little vacation came about. Remember that BBQ we went to on Staten Island two weeks ago??? The one where I worked a little Bald Punk Magic? Well, the pizza guy’s bro, whose life I saved at the BBQ, invited us to his house. The bastard said come anytime. He’s got an estate. It’s in Jersey. It’s huge! And I’m excited.
And I’m going!!!
I’m definitely going even though the pizza delivery guy broke his ankle. I swear he did it on purpose. So he should stay home and rest. RIGHT??? The Chinese delivery guy shouldn’t come either because he’s whacked. He needs to stay home and work on that.
But “no,” my LF says, “We shouldn’t leave him home all alone. How’s he gonna eat? He can’t walk up and down four flights with crutches . . . Blah, blah, blah . . .“
So here’s what I’m up to—
You know that guy on your block, the guy who never seems to work, always has money, a nice car, and a super-hot girlfriend. You know him, every block has one. Well, I chat with mine, here and there. I look him in the eye, make him think we’re mofos.
Before I go any further, I don’t want you thinking that I’m giving the bastard respect. My LF has to pass him everyday. I want him to know, which he does by the look in my eye to respect my LF or else. (You know the look I give him, right?)
Plus, he sees num and nuts on my tail—and those bastards are batty-eyed. They know not to look at him but still do. They haven’t a clue that you have to look differently at such people. They’re whacked.
So I want you to understand that I’m doing it for them, too. I’ll be honest with you like I always am. I look out for num and nuts only for my LF’s sake. They are like toy dogs nipping on your ankles that you wanna flick out the window when your woman’s not around. I almost don’t care a lick about them. That’s the truth.
Anyway, the seedy bastard on my block said anytime I ever need anything to ask him. So on my way to work this morning, I saw him in the bodega and said I need a wheelchair.
Now don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not gonna go on the wrong side of the law or anything. I already gave him twenty bucks for it. So I don’t owe him any favors.
The problem is that my LF loathes him. She says he’s a dealer, sucking the life out of the neighborhood. She’s probably right, but I mind my own business. I might see the cars pull up and the handshake-exchange of packages and money, but I don’t notice. (Unfortunately, num and nuts have to notice everything! Ah!!!)
So I saw him before, and he got me a nice wheelchair. There was some writing on it that said, “Do Not Remove . . .” But he graffitied over it so you can’t tell where it came from. Now don’t be getting all high and mighty with me, because I didn’t think in the morning that he was going to steal it. I mean, the bastard doesn’t work. How hard is it to find an unused wheelchair? I swear, I didn’t think he would lift it.
But I’m planning on just borrowing it. I read what’s below the graffiti and know where to return it. I told you, I’m a Saint. I don’t steal anything. It’s going back. And don’t give me a hard time on this one.
You have me hyperventilating. Okay. I’m better.
The first thing I have to do is come up with a lie to tell my LF about where I got a graffitied wheelchair. That’s not hard. Plus I figure I’ll look at num and nuts when I say it so if she detects anything on my face, I can say they caused it.
The next thing I have to figure out is how we can get to the beach house. It’s in Belmar, New Jersey. I don’t want to take a cab, because it would be more than $100 bucks.
What I’m going to do is once I’m finished posting this message, I’ll call the hotline that my friend Mayor Bloomberg runs. (We are friends. We shook on it. I’ll tell you another time, but I’m in a rush. Remind me later.) It’s for people in NYC who need shit. No, I don’t think it will work from outside NYC. Sorry.
So I’m gonna call the number. It’s 311 and I’m going to ask those mofos how to get to Belmar, New Jersey. Maybe a ship or a train is best???
Did I tell you the pizza guy’s bro’s house has a pool? I’m so excited.
The only thing is we don’t know the address. But his bro’s got this hot, candy-apple red Mustang. I figure if we can find the car then we got the right house. If it takes a while, we’re all good at walking and not complaining about having to walk. So that’s not a problem.
Oh yeah, before the knucklehead broke his ankle, my LF told me to make sure I got the address. I said I would take care of it. But I didn’t because if I call the pizza guy’s bro, he might make up an excuse to disinvite us. I don’t blame him. His brother is whacked. I might do the same. Plus he might not even remember he invited us, he was pretty hammered at the time.
I figure when we get to Belmar, if we can’t find his car, then I’ll call.
Okay. Wish me luck. If all goes well my next post will be from my new vacation getaway.
P.S. Maybe if I become rich I can write about vacationing all the time. I’ll have to get my own catchphrase like: “40 ounce wishes and Katz’s Delicatessen dreams!”
Here are all the posts in this series: Eighth Episode – May/June 2009 (Bald Punk Goes to New Jersey)