Hello Mr. Manson, I'm Reality. Nice to meet you.

It's midnight. The walkways are crowded with Batman-thirsty fans, anticipating the release of the new comic book hit. Place yourself and breathe in the crisp air of the scattered Friday night, casting occasional glances at your trusty cell phone, as the minutes tick by. There are three things you're sure of. One, Batman could possibly be one of the only superhero stories you can cling to without feeling like a washed-up Star Wars fanatic. Two, if you actually find the urge to resort to the bathroom after sitting there for so long, exactly how will you escape the angry mob after you grace the screen with your shadow when you stand up to leave, covering about 2 feet of the huge screen for a milisecond of the premire. Three, who the hell are all these people?

Well, well, well, most of us know the crazy anticipation that bursts inside our normally contained composures when we find out a movie we're dying to see is hitting the theatres within only a few brief days. Midnight showings can seem like the only plausible way to fulfill this frantic need to see the movie the second it comes out. (After all, who wants to wait until the normal daily hours to see the new film like some chump? Instead of basking in the glory of staring at a screen for two and a half hours into the wee hours of the morning seems like the appropriate choice for most of us.) Each group of people that go to these premieres find some way to entertain themselves as they wait in a line, just to grab those perfect viewing seats. Some may play cards, some may quietly mock the 'weirdos' who got there several hours ahead of time (when really the mockers are just jealous they don't get first pick when the crowd's released into the theatre). Others? Others may dress up like Spiderman.

Oh yes, it's true. As a frequent movie-goer myself, I witnessed a dude in a Spiderman suit..did I happen to mention the movie I was seeing was Batman. Crazy how that works...

Not only did I get to see a lovely canvas of comic book creatures (including serveral Batman-clad people and a few painted-faced Joker's..which considering the movie made a little more sense then our neighborhood Spiderman) waiting outside in line for The Dark Knight, I also saw something that I must say creeped me out in a way I can't even put into words. This creeper can only be decribed as a Marilyn Manson impersonator...but worse (if that's possible?).

The black (Batman-color-friendly) boots were a mix between those crazy tall bulky shoes the cooky Spice Girls used to wear and an angry punk-rocker lady trying to pull of her own style of "high heels". Adding to this beautiful spectacle was a pale-white face seen through coal-black makeup-ed eyes with a black cape & pants and barely visible white dress shirt underneath. I'm sorry, but I was unaware that midnight showings were another chance at Halloween. Man, I guess I wasted so many nights dressing in my boring, normal clothing.

After the night winds down, and you're driving home, the best part of the evening arrives at last. Silence paired with deserted streets. I'll admit that after watching a movie splotted with very scary moments, all I want to do is drive home with almost no one around and every convenience store (and place of safety) closed. How comforting it felt to know I was alone. But all things considered, at least I saw Christian Bale bare his amazing body, even though it was almost completely covered in a suit, (oh, his acting was good too..). That's what really counts...right?

Bagel Without the Cream Cheese

Some things just don't go together. We all know this. Peanut butter and jelly. Forrest Gump and Jenny. Those are just pairs we're familiar with, but there's just some things that we never want to blend, like Richard Simmons and small spandex shorts or super tall girls walking around with boyfriends half their size-some things are just plain wrong. Today I witnessed one of these instances on my way back to my dorm here in New York City, steps away from the intimidating upper east side streets.

I walked out of the college, taking my normal trek back to my seemingly distant dorm room. Sixteen blocks wasn't as comforting on this brisk Monday morning, however, since I was interrupted by light rain. Now, don't get me wrong here, I love the rain, but when I have to walk back to my humble abode wearing a heavy coat and my little ballet flats, the subway seemed like a great escape.

A few blocks later, I finally made it to the 6 subway station at 68th. Avoiding the glares of a few annoyingly wet people, I found shelter beneath the subway pass. Sliding my card into the slot, I scooted pass the metal bar walking to wait for the subway. Usually my iPod is off by this point since I find myself interested in the strange subway people around me. This time, though, I didn't want to quiet Ron Burgundy just yet. Oh, Anchorman- it's pretty much the cheese to my macaroni, the Juno to my Bleaker.

Weeks earlier I actually bought the song Afternoon Delight, not by the original, no, but by the wonderful Will Ferrell and the rest of the Anchorman cast. But as the subway pulled away from the station, I found the song's title to be far from what surrounded me. A creepy, few-toothed person faced me, laying on the once-empty subway seat. In front of me, a pair of dark eyes bore into mine, reminding me how pissed off someone can show with one look. Oh, and I forgot to mention the overall ambiance of beyond tired/depressed people surrounding me. Sorrow-filled the subway train while an amazingly retarded song of joy filled my ears.

So much for Afternoon Delight.

I'll Take Psychos for $500, Alex

Sometimes people make me wonder. How can you live in this crazy, materialistic, confusing world without going a little insane? Well, I witnessed insanity at its finest a few nights ago, and I'm sad to say, it wasn't as amusing as it may sound.

Let me explain where I live before I get into this. New York City, the Big Apple, Tourist Trap..whatever you want to call it-its the city that moves too fast. There are nannies, barely regarding the children they care for, business people weaving in and out of each other at the speed of the Bionic Woman on prozac...and then there's my crowd: iPod-distracted teenagers. Pulling our lazy asses out of our half-made beds in the morning, we finally cross the threshold into the city's buzz. Why? Just to go to classes that we're probably too tired to tolerate in the first place. But we all secretly love it. I mean, its New York City, how much better can it get right? That is, until we have to return to those very same dorms. It's then that we cross a new threshold: suitemate hell.

There's four of us in my dorm: the singer, the dancer, the sarcastic, and the bitch (my favorite). The singer grants us the gift of her beautiful voice in exactly 30 songs she composed AND sings. If only all the songs didnt sound EXACTLY the same, maybe it would be great fun to deal with, but she's tolerable. The dancer is the girl in my actual room and probably one of the people I feel most comfortable around. I could talk about the amazement of her random nature, but let's skip straight to the good stuff.

Oh, the bitch. The Long Island Bitch. How I love her so. There's the constant music thumping against my wall, interrupting my sleep and keeping me from procrastinated homework on my crowded desk. I admire dearly the graceful way she slips into the bathroom after I unlock it when I'm in my shower just to tell me to "be afraid of her". Above all, I love the way she openly expresses her need to go home every weekend just to smoke pot, to avoid past trouble of smoking in the dorm room. Now, I was pretty much taught that pot isn't the most important part of life. If I'm wrong, please care to correct me. I enjoy much less thrilling things like going to the movies, laughing as my roomate regails me with stories of falling on her ass due to the wet snow, and every female's embracing or hidden passion: shopping.

I'll leave my Citibank tucked into my proud Target-branded wallet for now, and carry on my week with the bitch at my side. Bitch and sarcastic sister, we could fight crime. But, give her an eviction and me a spring break, and no spandex stories will be created.