For 8-Hours My Life Became an Episode of SpongeBob
And not one of the happy and uplifting ones…
Patrick: “Where is “Leaving Bikini Bottom?”
SpongeBob: “Where did you see that?”
Patrick: “We just passed a sign: “You are now in ‘Leaving Bikini Bottom.”
SpongeBob: “What?”
Patrick: “What’s wrong, SpongeBob?”
SpongeBob: “Patrick, I think we’re on the wrong — bus!!”
The more I grow up the more my life becomes an episode of SpongeBob.
No, not the ones where the main characters play in an imaginary box or spend the afternoon jellyfishing. My life is becoming one of the tragic episodes of Spongebob.
Thankfully, tragedy can be hilarious if it isn’t happening to you.
Don’t believe me? Well, if tragedy weren’t funny “America’s Funniest Home Videos” wouldn’t have run for 31 seasons and the guys from the show “Jackass” would likely stop punching Steve-O in the balls so many times.
As adults, sharing our tragedies is how we cope and subsequently laugh at them. And this is why SpongeBob works for all ages.
One second you’re watching a sponge and his aquatic friends go on a silly adventure, and the next, that same sponge is giving his best friend a cake that says: “Sorry About the Scabies.”
So, at my own expense here’s a great story of how I ended up in Rock Bottom — *ahem* I mean Queens, New York at 2 AM.
My Adventure in “Rock Bottom”
I love these kinds of moments: You’re walking away from a group of friends after a badass night and even though they’re insisting to drive you home, you say “Nah, I got this.”
This is a reoccurring theme in my life. Pride before the fall as they say.
But I never learn from my haughty mistakes. Call it stubborn independence or habitual ignorance (probably a mixture of both).
Either way, I got on the wrong train assuming they were all heading uptown. And while my train was heading towards 175 St., my destination; it headed towards 175 St. Queens, 17 miles away from where I wanted to be.
I got off the train sporting a Cheshire cat grin as I’d be home in 15 minutes. Also, I planned to sneak in an episode of “The Wire” before bed.
Then, everything started to look confusing.
This wasn’t Manhattan. It was abandoned. Bleak.
It looked like if I stood on the corner for five minutes or so I’d get mugged. Moreover, as my one friend always says, if there’s a Church’s Fried Chicken in the area, that means that someone likely was shot within two blocks or so of your location.
In 15 minutes I found two Church’s.
No, this wasn’t uptown Manhattan I soon realized. This was Queens at 2 AM — my “Rock Bottom.”
Turning Tragedy Into Comedy
Plato believed that great tragedy writers should also be able to write great comedy; and vice versa.
I agree.
Those who can consistently experience tragedy and live to tell about it usually have a great sense of humor to boot. Tragedy and comedy are two sides of the same coin. The quicker you can turn your misery into humor, the better off you’ll be.
Conversely, this is shit advice if you’re in the middle of a tragedy.
So, you can imagine I wasn’t laughing as I scrambled around to find the bus schedule on my dying phone… in Queens at 2 AM.
I only had one percent left. That meant all I had to rely on was two years of cub scouts navigation training and blind luck. So, my plan became to chase any bus that came my way.
Unfortunately, this is when my life became peak SpongeBob.
Every time a bus came they sped right by me as if they were in on the joke of my miserable night. Granted, it probably had something to do with me running down the street like a maniac and not waiting at a bus stop like a normal person (I didn’t want to get mugged after all).
A taxi driver saw me and asked if I needed a ride. I said “YES!” Then he said it would be $60 to get where I needed to go.
So I said “no.”
Finally, I got a bus driver to stop and a series of fortunate events transpired afterward.
A Series of Fortunate(ish) Events
That nice bus driver directed me to the Long Island Railroad — a hub station in Queens. Finally some hope. But I still had to make up 17-miles to get to my destination.
I took the train to Penn Station, now having to overcome 15-miles roughly speaking.
But at least I was in Manhattan, not having to worry (too much) about being mugged. So I got on my skateboard (oh did I forget to mention I had a skateboard?) and skated like a mad man.
I went about five miles hard at 3 AM and finally managed to catch a bus. The bus driver was a bit of an asshole, but it was 3 AM to be fair. And asshole or not, this ride took me 3/4 of the way I needed to go.
He dropped me off and now all I needed to do was skate for three more miles over the George Washington Bridge, where my rustic 2001 Toyota Corolla waited.
When I arrived at the George Washington Bridge walkway I took a moment to stop.
It was 4 AM, but first, I needed to give thanks for my fortunate (ish) events that took place.
I’m not a religious person but I thanked God for protecting me. I thought of the kind strangers who gave me the opportunities to make it this far. And I thanked the most important person in this whole ordeal — I thanked myself.
Just kidding I suck.
But I did attribute my mindset of turning tragedy into comedy for making this situation far better than it could’ve been…
So, I pulled on the gated door for the George Washington Bridge, and — it was locked. And it wouldn’t open for another two hours at 6 AM.
Goddamnit.
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