The pillow fight this past Saturday welcomingly unleashed the surplus of energy I had stocked while dreaming about smashing my new boss with a heavy duty frying pan. Dreaming is one thing but it doesn’t quite require the amount of energy fulfilling the dream would. So off I went with my roommate’s pillow (hitting strangers with a pillow is fun, sleeping on a concoction of 600 people’s drool unwillingly left while being attacked in the mouth is probably less fun, I thought.)
Union Square, 1.40pm. Who are these people? Don’t you guys have a life? The amount of strangers getting ready to beat each other up doubled from last year, and we hadn’t been given the start off signal yet. 1400 military time. I hear a faint whistle, immediately followed by a ringing in my ear: the first noise indicated the fight had started; the 2nd that someone had followed the order and celebrated with me. Note to organizers for next year: participant need to please use DOWN pillows. “As Seen on TV” memory foam pillows that remember the shape of your body while sleeping suddenly feels like a 2-volume encyclopedia when thrown form a distance before your head finally rests on it.
Well into the fight, I spotted what from afar seemed to be a horde of female Eastern-European swimmers, and to what from up close turned out to only be a bunch of frat boys with women’s underwear. Convinced that this was screaming for action, I decided to team up with Vanessa, Nalielli and Yasmina and clean the plaza from the Alpha-Epsilon vision. You might think it was stupid for 3 women to challenge 20 something guys with more powdered hormones in their body than a shelf of Creatine, but I was confident: like the Ninja Turtles we were fighters with a strategy, and just like them, we were sissies with specialty moves.
First there was Nalielli, the one with the memory foam pillow (see above.) Then there was Yasmina, a real Ninja per se in the sense that although her weapon was the size of a big Kleenex she still managed to confuse people by the speed at which she would attack them with it. Then we had Vanessa, the Splinter of the group: the wise Master who barely moved or attacked, but saved your life every time with her right-on-time comments. And then there was me, distracting the opponent with tricks and juggling bits that would keep them entertained until Nalielli would sneak behind and demolish them one by one. We were rocking the place, people in circle around us to cheer whatever side they saw fit. I kept fighting, boosted by the fact that my friends were busy somewhere close doing the same. For a second I stopped to catch my breath and overheard someone yelling in a cell “you should see that. This one girl is fighting 3 guys at once, she’s nuts!” I barely had the time to realize she was pitting me when I looked up and saw a pack of three muscular pinkish shirts with bras on top run for me at once, no allies in sight.
After a full hour of brave fighting, I collapsed to the ground, happy. Had I been a smoker, I would have burnt one down of fulfillment.
I picked up the pillow and left for the Containers, a Video Art show spread throughout Chelsea streets. 8pm, pillow back on the roommate’s bed, shower, an hour to rest, and I was ready to head back into the city. It’s was Saturday night after all.
Union Square, 1.40pm. Who are these people? Don’t you guys have a life? The amount of strangers getting ready to beat each other up doubled from last year, and we hadn’t been given the start off signal yet. 1400 military time. I hear a faint whistle, immediately followed by a ringing in my ear: the first noise indicated the fight had started; the 2nd that someone had followed the order and celebrated with me. Note to organizers for next year: participant need to please use DOWN pillows. “As Seen on TV” memory foam pillows that remember the shape of your body while sleeping suddenly feels like a 2-volume encyclopedia when thrown form a distance before your head finally rests on it.
Well into the fight, I spotted what from afar seemed to be a horde of female Eastern-European swimmers, and to what from up close turned out to only be a bunch of frat boys with women’s underwear. Convinced that this was screaming for action, I decided to team up with Vanessa, Nalielli and Yasmina and clean the plaza from the Alpha-Epsilon vision. You might think it was stupid for 3 women to challenge 20 something guys with more powdered hormones in their body than a shelf of Creatine, but I was confident: like the Ninja Turtles we were fighters with a strategy, and just like them, we were sissies with specialty moves.
First there was Nalielli, the one with the memory foam pillow (see above.) Then there was Yasmina, a real Ninja per se in the sense that although her weapon was the size of a big Kleenex she still managed to confuse people by the speed at which she would attack them with it. Then we had Vanessa, the Splinter of the group: the wise Master who barely moved or attacked, but saved your life every time with her right-on-time comments. And then there was me, distracting the opponent with tricks and juggling bits that would keep them entertained until Nalielli would sneak behind and demolish them one by one. We were rocking the place, people in circle around us to cheer whatever side they saw fit. I kept fighting, boosted by the fact that my friends were busy somewhere close doing the same. For a second I stopped to catch my breath and overheard someone yelling in a cell “you should see that. This one girl is fighting 3 guys at once, she’s nuts!” I barely had the time to realize she was pitting me when I looked up and saw a pack of three muscular pinkish shirts with bras on top run for me at once, no allies in sight.
After a full hour of brave fighting, I collapsed to the ground, happy. Had I been a smoker, I would have burnt one down of fulfillment.
I picked up the pillow and left for the Containers, a Video Art show spread throughout Chelsea streets. 8pm, pillow back on the roommate’s bed, shower, an hour to rest, and I was ready to head back into the city. It’s was Saturday night after all.
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