So last night I was using my laptop in Aroma coffee shop (since the asshole that I used to steal wireless from had the audacity to move or die or some other lame excuse for not providing me with free internet any longer), minding my own business, when a whole bunch of police cars started parking on Greene Street.
Now, although the flashing lights were an annoyance and a general indication of something gone terribly wrong, I decided to pay no mind.
Like any true American hero, I generally make it my policy to ignore whatever is going on until it directly affects me or my personal space.
So I continued with my imperative Facebook Profile updating until even more cop cars showed up, now accompanied by what looked to be hoards of very agitated people.
The thin Asian man on the laptop next to me turned away from his Jonathan Rhys Myers background and touched my arm. (Now affecting my personal space, I was forced to address the situation.)
“What is going on?” he quivered.
I sighed dramatically. “I don’t know, I don’t know! Alright, let’s find out.”
“Oh yes,” he nodded, happy enough to be the Joe to my Frank Hardy.
Hopping off of our stools we made our way to the front of the shop, shoving open the glass doors with some difficulty as the street was now teaming with what was, upon closer inspection, about a hundred teenaged girls. Strong-arming a few in the face I paved a path for my companion and myself, only to be stopped dead in our tracks about five feet through the unruly crowd. A piercing scream came from my left side as I realized that the world was ending; the monster from Cloverfield was finally as real as I had told everyone he was, and he was already dining on Yuppies in the West Village.
More screams rose all around as the crowd surged forward, knocking me to the floor. Asian Joe Hardy grabbed my arm and shouted into my ear…
“It’s the Jonas Brothers!”
My mind raced. I knew the name from somewhere, perhaps Americas Most Wanted? Terrorists? Criminal masterminds? Evil scientists? A thirteen year old sobbed into her cell phone as she ran by. Dear God.
“They are a boy band, from Disney. They are sworn virgins!” he shouted, rushing head first into the crowd of girls who were now chasing a black Chevy Suburban down the block, tearing their hair in madness.
I remained on the floor as the crowd thinned around me, all rushing down West Houston in a mass of maniacal passion. Two girls on the street corner furiously waved a cardboard sign that read “We love you Nick” and did not read “Recovering prostitutes and meth-addicts please spare some change” as I had previously assumed.
“They are the Beatles of this generation,” a plump mother explained to a terrified looking father as their daughter ran into the street while grabbing at her chest.
Virgins? Sweet lord, I thought, this town is going straight to hell.