Shoot the freak

Last weekend I went to the Siren Music Festival at Coney Island with my buddy Dan from work. I’ve been wanting to go to Coney Island since before I even arrived in NYC so I was pretty excited to get out there and see what all the hype was about.

Wow. Coney Island sure is a sight to see. The diversity of people that lined the boardwalk and crowded the lines at Nathan’s Famous really were quite the sight. Fans of people-watching can rejoice, for I have found their Mecca.

The amusement rides and attractions themselves are a mix of dilapidated structures and relics from Coney Island past. The people running them were all local scam artists literally offering “Big Ass Prizes” to all who dared enter:

I saw so many people get ripped off by rigged games and broken machines, it was unbelievable. I even paid to use the restroom! Who knew they charged for restrooms outside of Europe?

As Dan and I were walking down the boardwalk admiring all the pretty people, we could hear someone on a loud speaker yelling “Live human target! We have a freak right here, he runs around and you shoot him! Shoot him in the face, shoot him in the eye, shoot him in the nuts!”. Obviously we had to check it out. After we pushed through the crowd we were able to see the source of the commotion: a seemingly very popular ‘game’ called “Shoot the Freak”. The premise was simple, you pay $3 and you get 5 shots with a paintball gun to shoot some poor sap running around in an alley. Sure he had enough protective gear on that he wouldn’t feel anything, but seriously? Shoot the Freak?

I can see the thought process now: ‘Well, we have this open lot next to the shop right on the boardwalk. Too expensive to build something… and I do have a can of paint, some plywood, and an old paintball gun. I know! We’ll hire some kid to run around and charge people to shoot at him!”

I also managed to have 3 Nathan’s chili-cheese dogs at over 500 calories a pop. Delicious.

Jacques

If anyone has ever seen Along Came Polly, then you can imagine perfectly what this guy looks like:

Just a few days after I moved into my apartment, Tim, the guy I’m subletting from called me to tell me his boyfriend would be coming over to pick up a few things that he left in my room. I told him it was fine and was eagerly awaiting meeting this guy.

When he walked in (he has keys to the apartment), he introduced himself as Jacques. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an accent – but he did have long untamed hair and dirty hands. Immediately I was reminded back to one pathetic night that I accidentally watched Along Came Polly by myself last term. I was convinced that Jacques was Claude – the scuba guy that stole Ruben’s girl.

In hindsight, the only real reason for the connection was likely the shared foreign name/persona and the long hair. Whatever, they were the same person in my book.

So fast forward a couple weeks and I get another call from Tim. This time his EX boyfriend, Jacques, needs to come by and pick some things up from the room. Of course, I obliged as though I had a say. He had keys to the apartment still, after all.

So when Jacques arrived I shook his hand and greeted him again (this time his hands were clean) and helped him get his things from the room. Apparently what he was looking for was hidden way above the closet behind a bunch of other junk. So Jacques balanced on a stool and handed me things to uncover his items.

I stood there numbly taking items from Jacques and placed them on the ground, wondering what the hell he could be looking for. Finally, after several minutes, he exclaimed with gleeful excitement as he finally starts to hand me the subjects of his search. So what was it that he was looking for?

SNORKELING GEAR!

He is Claude from Along Came Polly after all!

But that begs the question: why the hell would anyone ever need snorkel gear in NYC? And why was it stored in Jacques’ boyfriend’s room?

I pondered these questions as Jacques took his gear and left the apartment. Although he is now referred to as the ex, something tells me I haven’t seen the last of my new friend, Jacques…

Apparently, I’m not from around here

I was told by a complete stranger that “I must not be from the city”. What the hell? I wonder what it was about me that gave it away.

Perhaps I said “please”, or “thank you”. Or maybe I greeted someone on accident instead of ignoring them and shoving through.

Whatever. I’m glad I don’t seem like I’m from the city.

At least I’m not this guy: