Someday we won’t look back on this; subsequently, we won’t laugh.

Posted on July 12, 2010
Filed Under Coverage, May I Interject?, New York |

Welcome to Meatopia– NYC’s BBQ of 2010 on Governors Island.

You might be wondering why I <places palm flat on chest> would go to such an event. I blush when I admit it was an attempt at irony in action. But it failed. Note: by “it” I mean the attempt and Meatopia. My witness is a carnivore (Norman).

Let’s start the adventure of complaints.

1. The event required that you print out a ticket to enter. Apparently Meatopia has checkpoint technology comparable to that of an airport. Also, we can deduce from this that all meat-eating humans own printers (classism GOAAAAAAAAAAAAL).

2. The aesthetically-sound printed ticket listed the location where the ferry would pick us up from Brooklyn and take us to Governors Island. When we got there (after already traveling quite a bit), they told us the actual free ferry location was a 30-minute walk elsewhere. Or we could pay $6. No.

3. At this point, I’d like to mention that the cheapest ticket price for the event was $26.50. With that kind of ticket you were allowed to taste a dish from three different booths (so three dishes). Each booth represented some kind of meat company, or whatevz obvz. Everything looked/sounded fantastic… But then.

4. Beer was not included in the ticket price. You had to buy a wristband for beer which was $6. Then you had to buy beer tickets. That’s right. <points to self> Sober non-carnivore at a meat conference.

But it looks fun right–The music, the trees, the echo of burly bald men chomping . . .

5. Yet the beauty of moving time can never fully be depicted in a still photo. For, the wait for each line was about an hour or more. The bass of joy was throbbing and booming along inside my little sweaty (STILL SOBER) head.

6. It was hot and it also rained. Twice. OH AND YOU BEST BELIEVE AT&T DIDN’T GET RECEPTION THERE.

7. After waiting in the first line for 45 minutes, we reached the very front. A random girl who knew the people in front of us cut in with them and got her pretzel roll. And then I got to the table. “We’re all out,” the guy says.

I could go further, but I just want to say there is a constant in my life guaranteeing I always get screwed over by some moron who cuts in line. myStupidLife = x + y(lineCutter). Sing it.

The rest of the event progressed in the same fashion. We waited in so many lines for so long but never ended up getting our three meals guaranteed by our stupid print-out tickets.

Norman and I silently retreated to a pub in the financial district. We wanted to quietly drink and finally eat (we were starving). My iPhone pointed us in the direction of the pub, “Fraunces Tavern.” We walked a bit to get there only to find–tadah!-it’s a museum. Apparently George Washington drank there after the Revolutionary War. And apparently that means that we can’t drink there in 2010.

But shortly thereafter we fell upon the Dubliner, which worked out nicely when we got a table outside on the cobblestone street (complete with an umbrella, so no rain was felt). Naturally, the World Cup was full force inside the pub. I would describe that meal as: Wine, wine, lobster salad, (pointless) CHEER!, lobster salad, so forth.


Then Spain won. This bald guy clapped at us. Norman turned his head to look. (See last photo)

And that was our day. Summed up: Veggietopia woulda had their shit together.

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