A few days ago, my friend (and current roomate) Kellyn, asked me if I wanted to go to a free concert, Josh Ritter on Governor's Island, which caused a little bit of an internal debate. Pros: I like spending time with Kellyn, I like GI and I've always liked John Ritter, so I was excited to see his son in concert. Cons: Free in New York means crowds, lines and frustration. And Josh Ritter isn't actually related to the late, great John. Bummer. Still, it was something to do on a Sunday night, and I said oh-kay.
The evening began with a short subway ride, where we saw a man, around 22, who had bright red hair and a sparkle top to match. I thought he looked like Ronald McDonald's gay nephew. Kellyn agreed. I was so focused on this dude, that I wasn't paying attention as a pack of subway performers, who nearly killed me with their kamikaze-style flips and rolls. Thankfully, Kellyn pulled me out of the way before they could rupture my internal organs, and I was so angry I screamed, "You...are not getting a dollar!," much to the appreciation of two burly construction workers standing next to me.
We arrived at the ferry terminal and as expected there was a line of people, but we were there in enough time to ensure entry into the concert. Pheeww, wouldn't want to miss someone like Joshua Radin. "RITTER," yelled one of the people in line.
After waiting over an hour for a three minute Ferry ride, during which Eastern Europeans nearly knocked me off the boat to capture photos of downtown Manhattan, we arrived on the island and headed to Water Taxi Beach. Didn't quite have the allure of a Cayman Island resort, or even the Jersey Shore, but sitting on imported sand next to Manhattan wasn't a bad way to spend the night.
Everyone at the concert was a crazy d-bag. There was the lady at the concession stand who fucked up Kellyn's order, then accused Kellyn of ordering the wrong thing, and the drunken frat boys who kicked sand in our faces, the tweenager who wouldn't stop hula-hooping, and the man who insisted on doing an Irish Jig. He also ran sand through his hands and pointed to the sky, so maybe he thought he was Jesus. Later, after we get back to Manhattan, we overheard his drunk girlfriend telling her friend that the Mr. Jig had gone missing. "Maybe he danced himself off the pier?" we suggested.
And as if all of this wasn't entertaining enough, we sat on a ferry that didn't move for a half an hour, which felt like way longer thanks to screaming children and a man playing a yukolale. Seriously, unless you live in Hawaii, or are Kermit the Frog, lay off the yukolale.
Ah, Kermit. When I got home, I realized how much I've missed the Muppets, so I watched the Muppets Take Manhattan. There were no yukolale's or drunken men doing the Jig. And I slept soundly knowing that the world was safe again.
Mark Jason Williams
I find trouble wherever I go