The Comfort in Schadenfreude

by Ivan Vargas

I'm rarely at a loss of words for anything. So imagine my silent gape as I saw the kid puking his guts out in front of Fuse TV last night as I made my way towards the PATH train station which would whisk me home. It wasn't a little bit of puke - this was 13 year-old Linda Blair-possessed-by-the-Devil puke. I'd rate it not as thick, split pea but more of a combination of ham, minestrone, with a hint of pumpkin and chicken pot pie. Let's say I didn't get too close to make an assessment so I decided in my mind this was what he barfed out, what became his contribution to the City.



And thank God for wide sidewalks and the lack of rush-hour people traffic. I was able to observe from a safe distance while never venturing too close into the line of liquid fire. Wouldn't you? Of course you would, you self-involved city-dweller decked in designer labels and living in over-priced apartments, contemplating your fate as you look disdainfully at the Occupy Wall Street people from the safety of your own computer and think, "That poor woman at Citibank getting arrested just for closing her account. Oh well, better her than me!" That was the thought racing through my mind as I saw him regurgitating profusely onto the pavement: "Better him than me."

No, you wouldn't come close to him the same way you wouldn't dare place your fat-ass on top of a piss-drenched subway seat for fear of, well, the horror. And let's face it: no one wants a pissy bottom. Especially being a single gay New Yorker in times of crisis, which to me means finding an adequate husband whilst looking good in the process. Not good if you then spoil the ensemble you are wearing because some overeager Long Island native had the poor judgment to choose booze over sanity and wound up a hot mess in the Middle of it All. A hot mess that morphed into a raging fire-hose packed in nasty. Nasty flying at you at 90 miles an hour. Pee-you.

And would you think his friends, all pretty young things, helped? But of course they didn't. There they stood in a tight little circle around him, detached, desensitized, some with phones, filming the event, and not a single one saying, "Dude. You sure you're all right? You sure we don't need to call an ambulance?" Oh, well. Good for them. It's one of the things I love about New York. People can be so helpful for all the wrong reasons. To think: by tomorrow Spilled His Guts will be on YouTube, a viral sensation, the short clip getting over a million views and counting. And all he had to do was have a few too many drinks by midnight when the night was young and semi-pass out on 33rd and 7th. Sometimes I feel life in the city can't get any better....