Monday, September 14, 2009


Sophia Petrillo (cheesecake in hand-never eating it though...{don't you hate when they do that on tv?}): Picture it. 2009. A damp, misty September noontime in Manhattan with Floridian humidity. Kinda chunky guy gets off the Staten Island Ferry at 11:30 to get to his interview @ 12 noon. All seems good. With the possible exceptions of the self-loathing, the lack of cool clothes, etc. He's got money on his Metro Card and the subway is right downstairs. Ha! This is a Bravo docu-reality show. We have to set him up for some type of embarrassment, right? It seems that while NYC is topping out at what seems an extra million people due to ALL THE FRIGGIN Tourists(!), the MTA thinks it's a good idea to work on all the lines of the lower Manhattan subway line. And I use the word workin' on loosely. So this kind of awkward man who is already perspiring is forced to use his instincts that he had as a messenger in this same area more than 25 years ago and find another line to take him to West 23rd. Buses are out of the question. No shameal New Yorker takes a bus unless you are just starting to read 'War and Peace' and hope to finish it when you get to your location. With a plan set in motion he heads to another line. 10 minutes until he has to interview. He gets off @ 14th and Lex and hopes, HOPES to hoof it 9 blocks over and 6 long ones down. What did he not remember? Newly shaved heads and lotion, along with a long sleeve black linen shirt, boots (for height) and like 15 blocks to go in 9 minutes.
This guy hates to run. Use to cross the track in gym and all when the class had to do laps. Would never make it 2 minutes in a soccer game.
Passing the Chelsea Hotel he stops to gather his breath as he nears his destination. He enters and as the construction workers are putting their finishing touches on the place. Shakes hands with both Karen and Mike, owners and GM, and just then it starts.
The Fountain Of Trevi spews less H2O. In rivulets, down his head. Discovery Channel will make a show out of this. Ayn Rand rolls over in the grave. "The real Fountainhead".
It just didn't stop. They were horrified. The mortification also took hold of our Jenny Craig candidate. He stumbled on questions and answers even though he read every food blog about this place, and really did his homework on this company. The shirtsleeves were now dripping as well since he was using them to wipe his once stubble free dome, now turned into some oddly constructed water park ride. Defeated, our protagonist walks around searching for an open subway heading downtown.

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