Phil and I have recently been creeped out by How I Met Your Mother‘s depiction of Marshal and Lily’s move to Long Island. The writers are obviously spying on us, and I don’t like it.
Quotes like, “Are Marshal and Lily in the hospital?” “No, somewhere much worse… Long Island,” are eerily accurate, and then there are episodes completely based on scenes from our lives. We were on “Drunk Train” last month. Drunk Trains are all the LIRR locomotives out of Penn Station between the hours of midnight and 6 am. Phil and I were surrounded by intoxicated Italian Americans whose hair was sharpened by an alloy of gel and sweat. A college-aged couple argued from Jamaica to Baldwin about whether the boyfriend was wrong for giving a water bottle meant for his lady to a girl throwing up back in the station.
He said, “She was with my boy, Paulie. I’d never seen Paulie look so defeated. I had to help the kid out.”
“Why is Paulie with that slut anyway? You can’t turn a whore into a housewife.”
“He was so defeated.”
“I wanted that water.”
“The guy was defeated!”
After this couple left the train, a remaining group mocked them, saying, “He was just so depressed. I had to help him out.”
I wanted to scream, “Defeated! He said defeated. Like fifteen times. How could you get that wrong??” They proceeded to comment on how annoying the couple was, and Phil and I looked at each other, both knowing that the annoying couple was them, just five years younger.
People stumbled down the aisles, and the cars were PACKED. Then a fight broke out and the train had to be held at a station until the police arrived. The trip was hell, and when we finally got back to our apartment, I needed to lock Long Island out.
This past week’s HIMYM featured Marshal and Lily virtually imprisoning Robin at their house while trying to appease her with pitiful activities, all so that they wouldn’t be alone on the island. This was difficult to watch, as I have many times over tried to tempt people to visit with lame itineraries, the worst of which included watching crabs race in a kiddie pool, the best of which was wine tasting in a garage. And when they are ready to leave, I scramble for an alternative to keep them entertained. It’s pathetic.
In the show, Robin journaled her experiences as a captive. The contents didn’t really ring true for Phil and I, so I’ve decided to record my own version:
We’ve managed to resist the ways of the island so far, but I pray a rescue boat is sent soon; I’m not sure how much longer we can hold on.
I still haven’t determined if the natives are aware of life outside the island. They consider “going away” commuting from south to north shore, and when I mention the bridges, they hiss.
The most profound difference between this tribe and my own is evident in dialect. From their witness alone, one would think they’ve named their home Lawn Guyland, but from prior knowledge, I know this to be a bastardization of two English words: Long and Island. This name is quite accurate; days on the island are the longest I’ve ever experienced. (Additional note on dialect: no word here ends in “er”. For example, “explorer” and “loser” become “explorah” and “losah.”)
The mating behaviors of females are peculiar. Every partial thought is punctuated by “like” and “oh my gawd.” They attach colored plastic claws to their hands, wear a second skin of velour fabric, and totter about on spiked footwear. The males are just as attentive in their grooming. It seems that the amount of hair product an individual uses is in direct correlation with his desire to procreate.
I must assume that the locals have an inherently poor sense of direction because why else would all of the streets, from tip to tip and shore to shore, be straight. I wonder if their aversion to turns is socially or genetically induced.
The straight, flat roads are lined with shopping plazas, and each is equipped with a pizza place, nail salon, bagel shop, and tattoo parlor, leading me to believe that they are sustained primarily by dough and culturally motivated by artificial body coloring. The implications of these observations are, as yet, inconclusive.
I have not yet established what occupies their days. There are many cars on the streets–traffic as far as the eye can see. But because I’ve noted from previous research that they are not leaving the island, I cannot imagine where they are so eager to travel. Tangah Outlets? New York City? No, it can’t be the city, because although the natives refer to themselves as New Yahwkers, they only go to New York City on rare occasions to see the Knicks play.