Mean Streets of LIC

I've watched After Hours, The Warriors, the Scorsese ouevre. I know that you have to be tough, and lucky, to survive in these gritty New York City streets. But never had I seen with my own eyes that dark underbelly, the menace lurking beneath. Until now. But now I too have suffered.

Okay, so getting my purse snatched by a couple of Vietnamese kids on a moped doesn't quite equal being stabbed 32 times or having Harvey Keitel force me to suck his cock, but I think I will claim my New York moment anyway.

Actually, I don't know that they were Vietnamese, that's just my racist assumption. Actually, it's my husband's racist assumption. My racist assumption was that the two kids in motorcycle helmets who raced by me on their twattish little bike and yanked my purse off my shoulder, pulling me down to the sidewalk and bruising the shit out of my arm in the process, were Hispanic. I based that on the only body parts of theirs that I managed to retain a memory of while screaming "Fuck you, assholes, Fuck YOU!!!!" and shooting them the finger with both hands. Their calves, beneath baggy cargo shorts, seemed somewhat brownish.

But then Eric said, "Hispanics don't ride mopeds."

I wonder if I ought to go into the police station and amend my statement. "I said they were Hispanic, but then I realized they must be Asian because no Mexican would be caught dead on a moped."

That'd probably go over pretty well.

Anyway, the dumb fuckers got two bucks plus $12 on a metrocard. They missed entirely my new white-girl mini blackberry and new white-girl video iPod. So the joke's on them, I guess.