Crotchling Caper: Take Back the Night
Or (to be semantically correct): mothers who bear fruit from being fucked.
My husband and I found this delightfully misanthropic bit ‘o’ vandalism Saturday night on the Brooklyn bound platform of the G at Metropolitan Avenue. After working overtime two days in a row I was beyond being tired; I was fucking exhausted. But mere fatigue was not about to keep me from attending my (insanely talented and very sweet) buddy Mark’s opening at Gitana Rosa this particular evening and having dinner with a(nother) friend afterward. Unfortunately my dining experience was blighted by:
- my husband throwing a tantrum because his cocktail was not up to his satisfaction and (ironically enough)…
- my having the misfortune of sitting next to a(nother) screaming baby.
To the parents’ credit, they did take the child outside to quiet him (in hindsight, perhaps I should have done the same thing with mine?). But I cannot help wondering why a baby should be at Black Betty at 8:30-9:30 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT in the first place. Seriously.
Unlike most people I actually enjoy my job. A lot. But it can be a very physically and mentally demanding one on occasion. This was the case yesterday and I did not appreciate spending my (long anticipated and much needed) ‘down time’ listening to some crotchling scream like banshee. I shit you not, at one point that little bastard’s bellowing made my ears ring.
Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to propose a revised “Take Back the Night” campaign. One whose purpose is not to deter sexual offenders (though this is very laudable and necessary thing), but rather, to retake the evening on behalf of the big kids, e.g.; you must be this tall to ride this ride, snot-monger! And if all you ‘hip’ parents out there don’t like it, too fucking bad! You should have thought about that before you decided to unleash your little busted rubbers on the rest of us (who would just as well not have them).
The way I see it, being a disruptive noisy fuck on a Saturday night is the one (and perhaps only) solace we adults have. This is not just our prerogative, it is OUR RIGHT— and I am not about to let some simpering little shit partake of it prematurely. Little Cooper or Kaitlin will have to wait until they are 21— and their (grand)parents buy them their own goddamn condos— before their entitled caterwauls can/will reach my (hopefully deaf) ears. If I’m not deaf by then I’ll just drink myself into a stupor so as to render the sob stories about some McCarren Park Princess’s mommy forcing her to buy a new couch (to match her one million dollar condo) incomprehensible.
In the meantime I have made it a point to channel my assholic behavior at venues that encourage (or don’t discourage) the presence of screaming little houseapes. This isn’t a threat; it’s a promise. After carefully cultivating 30-odd years of bottled-up rage, I have near endless supply of sordid grist for my mill. Just ask one of my fellow diners at Cafe Mexicano II about the time I feigned crying and wailed:
I lost my virginity to this song!
…when the management (unwisely) chose to play “Rosanna” by Toto one Friday night*. You could hear a pin drop after I dropped that turd— but what really creeped them out was my husband laughing his ass off immediately afterwards. Go figure.
*This is not true, by the way. Although my personal life is my own business, I will point out that if this had happened I would have been in elementary school at the time— and that kind of shit doesn’t fly where I grew up: Texas. We always left that kind of sick shit to our neighbors to the east (READ: the ‘deep south’).