Jailhouse Rock

Every week Time Out New York magazine sends their Etiquette Police out onto the streets of New York to write faux tickets to people who offend their sensibilities. Usually they're on track, with their targets chastized for spitting, littering, or wearing pastels.

Last week, though, these "police" -- a writer named Laura Leu -- proved themselves as reliable as real police, with this startling Sean Bell moment:

CRIME: Obstruction by height

If you're over six feet tall, then fee-fi-fo-fum those giant femurs to the back of the crowd!

VIOLATOR: Nate from Brooklyn

From 50 yards away, I could see Nate's noggin bobbing heads above a sea of short people at Williamsburg's McCarren Park Pool. Hell, people in Queens could have spotted the 6'10" titan. Know what they couldn't see? Headlining band the Hold Steady. "I'm more of a passive jerk, because I shift every now and then to not totally block people," explained Nate, who went on to make excuses for his view-hogging agenda. "It's hard for me to find jeans that fit, so I should be allowed to stand in front for concerts." Or you could just wear shorts and not be a band-blocking behemoth!

Let's paint a picture. Roman is a huge El Guincho fan. He gets to the concert hours early so he can be close to the stage. He trowels on the sunscreen and bakes patiently, waiting in the hot sun for them to appear. Finally, the time comes. One by one the band members straggle onstage, and Roman yells his delight.

Just then, though, six girls with bleached blonde hair and halter tops come sidling up. "Excuse me," says the one with the Jon Bon Jovi tattoo as she cracks her gum. "We just got here, and we can't see. We think you should move."

Polite by nature, Roman slides back and lets the girls move in front. Now he's standing directly in front of another short person. Whereas before he was blocking a quarter of the man's view, now he's blocking one hundred percent. He feels a sharp tap on his shoulder. "ARE YOU SHITTING ME?" the muscular, tattooed guy asks.

So Roman continues walking through the "sea of short people" behind him. Obviously they've all arrived after he did, but he's reluctant to press his "view-hogging agenda" so he keeps going until he either spots a large crowd of other folks who are SIX FOOT EIGHT or he hits the back wall, whichever comes first.

Today, it's the back wall. And now, instead of being close enough to see his idol sweat and smile and play his favorite tunes, Roman is next to four drunken white women the doorman let in because they're hot and three fat guys in cheap suits who are apparently in the music industry. "I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCK IS PLAYING TONIGHT," one of them screams to be heard over the music. "MY BOSS MADE ME COME. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T SPEND THE ENTIRE CONCERT TALKING ON THE PHONE!" Even though he can't see the band or hear the music, Roman counts his blessings. I mean, if the joint had windows and curious people were looking in, he'd have to move outside, right?

Obviously intelligent thought is evading Ms. Leu, so I'll offer it here. If you don't want to stand behind a tall guy, DON'T STAND BEHIND HIM.

And a side note: Quoting fairy-tale giants to tall people is like cracking munchkin jokes to midgets. Ms. Leu, go fee-fi-fuck yourself.

Being freakishly tall.

I’m not six foot six. You may be under that impression if you were one of the twelve million people who asked me today exactly how tall I am, because that's what I told you. But there’s an upper limit that divides "really tall" from "freakishly tall," and call me crazy for occasionally wanting to pretend I’m under it.

Really, I’m six foot eight. If you’ve got a tall brother or a knack at estimating length you might have suspected that. But what are you going to do, call me a liar?

Nobody ever shuts up with just that question. “When did you get so tall?” they ask next. “Are your parents tall?” “Are you the tallest one in your family?” Their need for information confuses me. “Are you conducting a study?” I ask.

My parents always told me I should be proud to be tall. I didn’t believe them for a second, because they also said that one day I’d be happy I saved myself, and that everybody secretly envies guys who play the banjo. I never understood their rationale. Like it’s nice going to the doctor and hearing him wonder if I’ve got the disease that killed Lurch. Like being able to reach the canned okra in stores makes up for the fact that I’ll never have nice clothes, or coordination, or shoulders.

And it’s a little hard to be optimistic when the tallest man on record died at the age of 22. Nobody’d be proud to be Irish if Gaelic spines collapsed when they passed their teens.

Dating is hard for tall guys. People actually ask me if I date guys who are shorter than I am. “I’d better,” I tell them. “Because Wilt Chamberlain’s the only guy who’s taller, and he doesn’t want to go out.”

Men assume that because I’m tall I’m big and butch and dangerous. This causes a lot of disappointment among my dates. Like they'd bought a dalmatian, then discovered it got sick whenever it rode in the car.

But the good news is, times are changing. The stereotypes are loosening. It used to be, everybody automatically assumed I played basketball. Now it’s different.

Now a lot of people think I’m a drag queen.

Yeah, you better work.