"Never shout movie in a crowded firehouse."

I'm not sure when I crossed the invisible divide that separates the different tribes of women, but I found myself in an Avenue A bar full of identical women in their Going Out Clothes. They had low cut tops, long hair, perfect cleavage, spaghetti straps, and Crest White Stripped smiles. They squawked drunkenly, clutching their light beers as their male counterparts leered in hopes of going home with them.

These were not my people -- I don't think they ever were -- but the divide had never been more apparent. No great loss really. I went back to finishing my Brooklyn lager and thought of nothing more than going home.

* * *

If there is a hell, surely it involves getting stuck on a G train to nowhere. I had every intention yesterday of making use of the gorgeous weather and going to Prospect Park. The G train is my vital north-south link to that Other part of Brooklyn -- the Other part that's such a pain in the ass to get to because the G train is a cruel mistress.

The gist of this story is that I never made it to Prospect Park. Instead I languished somewhere underground on a G train running in two sections and finally terminating at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, three stops short of where I really wanted to get off. I ended up on a train that spit me out in Washington Square Park. Wrong borough, wrong park. Oh well. I walked around, enjoyed the sunshine, had some schwarma, and waited for Holly to come meet me so we could see Corpse Bride.