The Port Authority: A History Of
The other night (Sunday) I went bowling with a bunch of people at the Port Authority. I have a story to share regarding that experience, but first some background information on the Port Authority (which as best as I can tell isn’t controlled by the UAE yet). Pictured to the left, the Port Authority doesn’t usually have those 3 ugly kids singing. Lets hope they were put to sleep shortly thereafter. In the veterinarian sense of the word.
HISTORY
Port Authority is on West 42nd street between 8th and 9th avenues and has been there as long as I can remember. It’s made out of bricks and shit, from what I can tell. It is waaaaaay too heavy to lift.
There was a period in the past (we’ll say the mid-70’s through the mid-90’s) when the Port Authority was a disgusting and dangerous place filled with enough homeless people to make FEMA take action salivate.
As New York City began undergoing sex-change surgery while Jewlee was in office, the entire city became more and more feminine. As such, Port Authority came to be viewed as some national example of how to clean up a public place; a shining vagina of sorts.
I know this because while I was becoming a Bachelor of Arts at Tulane, my professors would assign these articles, which had ridiculous titles (and arguments to match) like "Port Authority: Where Jesus Goes On Vacation" and "The South Bronx Is Made Out Of Rainbows."
I tried in vain to be a voice of reason in these classes, but my attendance was spotty at best and my love affair with reading (no homo) never did extend to books assigned for class. I remember once, while taking a class called "Investigating The Urban Neighborhood," which could have been called "Lies About New York City" I upset a few of my (southern) female classmates by describing a mans sexual philosophy as "hit it and bounce."
In retrospect I should have said "get head and bounce." Zing!
Anyway, my comments about the state of my city would always be overlooked by the teacher because they were a) anecdotal and b) coming from someone who was clearly high and c) rambling and tangential, even by my standards.
Actually, I don’t even think "Investigating The Urban Neighborhood" was a sociology class, but they did make me and Cyph go to "Diversity Training" where we were asked to leave for drinking (and being drunk) and openly mocking the process, which was clearly intended for children with developmental disabilities and not college students. Pictured to the left (get yo’ click on) is a small sample of their unrestrained idiocy. "Diversity Training" was one of those moments where you really expected the hidden cameras to come out and someone to say "just kidding, here is your tuition money back"
Anyway, after that long and detailed "case study" of me and the Port Authority, I will offer some anecdotal evidence about the P-Auth (its rapper name) to refute an argument made in an article I didn’t read four or so years ago about how the Port Authority was Americas answer to Buckingham Palace or whatever.
SUMMARY
So, as you probably recall, I’m in the P-Auth on Sunday night getting my drink on with Cyph and a couple of other homies, waiting to start bowling. The bar by the bowling alley, for reasons unknown, didn’t have a bathroom (they were also out of all draft beers. Seems to me that they could have killed two birds with one stone and allowed people to piss into draft beer cups and then served the urine to unwitting patrons). Therefore it was necessary to venture out into the public bathroom in the larger P-Auth, which I knew from the start was a bad idea.
As I walk in to the bathroom, I’m greeted by a wide-eyed man who is watching the urinals (and the men urinating in them) with great interest. "Hey guy" the crazy-looking man says to me. Obviously I ignore him. "Hey guy, hows it going?" he offers again, to no avail. At this point I’m just praying he doesn’t touch me while I’m still pissing, as it is rather hard to defend yourself while in the process of using the bathroom. As I curse myself for having already drank about 10 beers and realize that there is no end in sight to my urination, I hear a series of knocks on one of the stall doors. "what do you want?" a woman’s voice asks the wide-eyed man from a stall in the (mens) bathroom.
The wide-eyed man, who has never seen Kindergarten Cop and is seemingly unaware that "boys have penises and girls have vaginas" responds "I want some dick." The woman, who I guess must have been some sort of prostitute or perhaps even a fancy combination prostitute/drug dealer tells the man "I don’t have any of that." The man, undeterred says "can I come in?" to which the woman, again asks: "what do you want?" And the man answers, "I want to come in, can I come in later?" And the woman, obviously broken down by his top level debate game, responds "yes, you can come by later. I know you. See you later." I completed my business as fast as I could and got the hell out of that bathroom.
CONCLUSION
As always, I was right all along.
The Port Authority isn’t the nicest place in the world, and removing all the peep-shows from the surrounding area and executing most of the homeless people didn’t change that FUN FACT.
So there!
