Who Was THAT Asshole? or -- My Life Isn't a Situation Comedy, Sometimes It Just Feels That Way.

So, there's this guy.

I met him through Roni -- he's a friend of Michael's from way, way back. The first time we met, back in June or so, outside Jamaica Hospital, he stepped right into my face and did a street thing. "Who are YOU? What's YOUR story?"

I think that's Brooklynese for "Hello. I don't believe we've been introduced. What is your name and how do you know Veronica?"

"You look like a country girl. Are you a country girl?"

Despite what most people believe about me, there are certain times when I shrink into myself. This is because I am afraid. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been afraid of aggressive people. When a strange dog approaches me with its teeth bared, I back away slowly and without sudden moves. When my experience of a new person is that he is stepping into my space, I back waaaay the fuck up. Mentally, I'm going, "Easy, boy. Easy."

I'm from the "I spend my mornings and evenings rubbing asses with complete strangers, please don't come any closer than 24 inches, please" school of meeting new people. And what the heck, I'm Japanese. We don't push, intrude, or force. We insinuate, step lightly, and try not to step on people's toes. (By the way, don't even get me started on people who kiss you the first time they meet you. Hello????? Have you Eurotrash motherfuckers ever heard of a handshake? Keep your Gauloise-stinking mouth away from my face, you Frog Bastard, I haven't even worked out how to pronounce your name!)

But I digress.

So, for the entire hour or so we remained at the hospital, this guy just wouldn't. let. up. "Country Girl. Country Girl. Country Girl." Gawd-dayum. He was TAUNTING me. It was like I was in the eighth grade all over again, a chubby, bespectacled clarinet player, and Doug Morrell decided to make himself my Prime Tormentor. Suddenly he was everywhere I was, it seemed, around every corner, outside every class, always with that evil shit-eating grin on his face. "Hi Muttley. Muuuuuttttttley. Muttley. *bark!* *bark!*" The guy would seek me out, just to yell, "muttley!" at me.

Doug Morrell, whereever you are, you ruined the 8th Grade for me. I hope you are fat, that all your hair has fallen out and that you have an unreliable penis.

So. Back to Jamaica Hospital. We left the hospital, and I believe my quotable quote to Roni was, "Who was THAT asshole?"

It's kinda like a really bad sitcom, because you know that when your initial reaction to someone is "Who was THAT asshole?" you will inevitably end up, at some point, in a compromising position with that person which results in you losing a nights' sleep and counting the hickeys on your boobs.

Art imitates life, baby, art imitates life.

COMPLETE SIDE NOTE: I'm in this internet cafe in midtown, right? And the guy next to me has a voice that sounds EXACTLY like the EVG's. I was so absorbed right here, that when he answered his cell phone, and I heard that basso-profundo rumble, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I remembered that the EVG is NOT a midtown kinda guy.

ANOTHER SIDE NOTE, BUT RELATED TO THE FIRST SIDE NOTE: I also have it on good authority that the EVG and his girlfriend are on the outs and that she is moving out. I have to admit, with some shame, to feeling a small, avaricious twinge. It passed, it passed, I swear. But now I can offer this apology: Dear granddaughter of famous Brooklyn baseball player, I am very sorry I slept with your boyfriend.