the joe head theory

ex·cur·sion {eks kur' zhen} n. | Lex-, out + currere, to run | a short trip, as for pleasure 2 a round trip at reduced rates 3 a digression - adj. for an excursion - ex ·cur' sion…ist {-ist} n.

   I can run pretty damn fast.
   I may not be adept at long division. I can't cook, I have no musical talent to speak of, and I most certainly cannot speak German. But, man, for a white boy from the suburbs whose idea of "exercise" is a quick game of NBA 2K on the old Dreamcast, I sure can run.
   Good thing, too.
   Three Sundays ago, I decided to do something impulsive. I had taken an early morning flight from my hometown of Pittsburgh, and arrived in Manhattan at around nine in the morning. After napping a large chunk of the day away, I found myself itching to get out of the apartment. I left at around eight, intent on exploring what both my city-cynical friend Eric-Yo and washed-up rapper (Nasty) Nas (Escobar, -tradaumus) refer to as "the rotten apple."
   I walked down Seventh Avenue and into the West Village. As I walked, I decided that I would enter the most unassuming and sketchy coffee shop/lounge that I ran into. Once inside, I would order two or three hot chocolates, people-watch for about an hour, and then leave for home.
   Although the Village is certainly not the most dangerous of places in the world, it seemed like a fairly risky endeavor, and I must admit that I was a bit unnerved about what would transpire.
   I took the same route that I always take when going to the Village-7th Ave. to Bleeker (because the street name reminds me of that eraser-headed muppet), then left onto Bleeker. I really liked the idea of a street being called Leroy, so I made a right and began looking for a place where I could pass some time.
   By now, two things should be clear: 1) Matthew is not from New York, and; 2) If your street name is reminiscent of some pop culture reference, it's safe to bet the farm that Matthew's gonna turn down it-Both fans of the faux kung-fu classic "The Last Dragon" and Sho-nuff the Shogun of Harlem know why I turned down Leroy Street.

   A few blocks over on Leroy, I happened upon just the type of place I had set out to find. I know the place had a chalkboard sign, but for the life of me I cannot remember the establishment's name. The only things I remember from the sign are the words "music" and "coffee," and a large blue arrow pointing to a set of poorly maintained steps leading downward.
   At the base of the steps there was a short, unoccupied hallway leading to a door with no windows. We all know that no windows equals more mystery. So, as I walked toward the door I became more and more pleased with my decision to enter this particular establishment.
   When I opened the door, I was greeted by a skinny, carpeted staircase which I assumed led to the lounge where all the voices came from-only in New York must one go down a flight of steps in order to reach the steps that s/he must climb to reach his/her destination.
   The place was no dump, but it wasn't a four star coffee house either. More importantly, it wasn't a Starbucks.
   I sat down at an extremely small table wedged into the corner closest to the stairs, and took a look around. Frankly, at first I was a bit disappointed. It was a typical Village dive: young people; freaks; purple hair; wire rimmed glasses; a small dog; gorgeous women playing footsies; basically, John Rocker's conception of the Seven Train to Flushing. Ho-hum.
   My boredom with the scene would not last long.
   Upon reaching the top of the steps on my way in, I noticed a large fish tank which sat against the far wall of the lounge. Midway through my first, and only, hot chocolate I glanced at the tank and noticed something out of the ordinary. This tall, but slightly overweight man, had placed his hand in the tank and seemed to be trying to grab one of the many goldfish swimming inside. The man was clearly trying not to alert anyone to his efforts, and his three companions were crowded in front of him so as to shield him from onlookers like myself. After just a few seconds the man had caught a goldfish-one of the most notoriously slow fish on the planet-and quickly put the fish in his mouth. He then swallowed the fish.
   I couldn't believe my eyes.
   The guy just flat-out ate one of the goldfish from the tank. I don't want to wear out the saying "only in New York," but, I mean, come on.
   I figured it was just a silly dare, and the fun was now over. But after a few minutes the guy was back at it. The room was situated in a manner that was amenable to this man's endeavors, because his friends-either by standing up or leaning in a certain direction-could cover him from nearly all of the other patrons. And, because the place was so noisy and hectic, no one else had discovered what was going on.
   As the man was going for his second catch, he looked in my direction and noticed me staring right at him. He immediately pulled his hand from the tank and gave me a nasty glare, which caused me to look away.
   I eventually had to look back, and when I did, the man was conversing with the two men and one woman at his table. As he spoke, he pointed at me and continued his scowl.
   After a series of additional look-aways on my part, I noticed that he had gone back to trying to catch another fish. This time he was having far less luck because he was intent on keeping an eye on me.
   "Ridiculous," I said to myself, wishing some friends were around to experience this absurd confrontation.
   Without really thinking it through, I got up and walked over to the cash register to notify whomever was in charge that they may soon have a fish-less tank over against the wall. As I walked over, I made sure not to look at the guy or his posse.

   My fatal mistake was the pointing.
   If I had simply informed the person behind the register of what was going on, and then calmly walked out, everything would've been fine. But, it just didn't work out that way.
   "Who," She had to ask after hearing my utterly far-fetched allegation.
   "Them," I said, pointing to the table near the tank.
   Next thing I knew, I was running down the steps.
   The guy who was eating the fish had jumped from his table. He was screaming at the top of his lungs in a language that sounded to me like German, and he was coming for me.
   I'd rather be able to run fast than speak German any day-and especially on that day three Sundays ago.

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