I am not a fighter. I’m not exactly a lover either. I’m more of a flee-r, an eye-contact-avoider.

A weenie. I’m a weenie.

It’s not often I yell at a stranger and I’ve never once thrown a punch, but it’s something I fantasize about with increasing regularity. I mean, to the point that I am psychically willing bitches on the street to push me, just so I can see what it’s like to sock someone in the jaw. Of course, if the chance ever does present itself, I’ll be far too busy muttering insults under my breath and thinking about how best to write about the incident on the internet than actually landing punches on her skull.

Like I said—weenie to the core.

But there is something curious occurring on Spring and Greenwich, possibly some electromagnetic or atmospheric phenomenon, that is making my Saturday nights far more pugilistic than they have ever been. I’m not sure what’s happening in the air around Don Hill’s, but it’s like the Bermuda Triangle got a new PR person and a Myspace and decided a Misshapes white wall photo was just the thing to spice up its image.

Last week, for example, Sophia Lamar rolled up with a baby carriage. Haha, we all thought, fun prop. She walked her invisible baby around like it really was the fruit of her invisible womb. That in itself isn’t particularly weird to me, which probably says a great deal about my life, but the part that surprised me was that the general crowd response to the appearance of the baby carriage was, “Let’s push this in front of a speeding cab and see what happens!” So this is where my night is going, I remember thinking. I am going to have to explain to the police, over a twisted, smoking hunk of yellow Buick, why Sophia’s invisible baby had a real stroller and how it caused the death of a cab driver and half the patrons of Ear Inn. Sam and Thomas and I watched in horror as the invisible infanticide unfolded in front of us, and thankfully killed nothing but our invisible hope that the world is not entirely insane.

And then this week it just got even more belligerent. I witnessed the seedlings of a race riot. A girl out on the corner bludgeoned her friend with a purse (This isn’t you! he kept yelling, which is such a Lifetime: Television for Women thing to yell I can’t even handle it).

The night came to a fitting end when a drunk guido in a polo asked me, Brad, Michael and Brian if we were trannies, then wandered off, then came back again and stumbled around being a total fucking dickhead, to which we responded by yelling at him like this was therapy and he was the finger puppet on which you imagine your grade school bully’s face, to which he responded, surprisingly, by taking off down the block like he was kind of scared, to which we suggested that he should GO HOME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, to which he responded by continuing his retreat past a falafel stand, at which time we noted that he might want to EAT SOME FUCKING FALAFEL, YOU ASSHOLE, to which he responded by actually getting some falafel, and then disappearing into a cab.

The thing about being a weenie is that when you finally, finally yell at a stranger, it is probably the most exciting thing that happens to you all year. Guido Battle 2K7 didn’t come to blows, and it wasn’t even a solo effort, but the adrenaline euphoria which lasted me through the entire cab ride home was the same as if I’d pummeled a puppy-stealing baby killer. Whatever black cloud/Indian burial ground curse/radon leak is possessing Don Hill’s clubgoers suits me just fine.

(Though, if a pattern is indeed emerging, I do fear next Saturday just a bit. I’m wearing flats and a full set of Lee Press-Ons just in case.)