Stunned in the City here, Miss MB's little sis. I just moved to New York, but with MB showing me the ropes, I think I'll get by. She's graciously given me standing room on her soapbox, and I'm just the beginning. MB wants her entourage of girls to join her, because we all have more than a few things to say about life in NYC. So watch out for a potential redesign (!), though for now it's just a family affair.

But enough about that. Let's move on to something less family-oriented.


So I went to this place on St. Marks that was, you know, fine. Nothing really special about it. In fact, the next day I couldn’t even remember its name until I looked at the picture I’d taken of the front of the building: Hop Devil.

Such a weak first impression may be due, at least in part, to the two bottles of Pinot Grigio I shared with a friend prior to arrival at the bar. Still, though I thought Hop Devil seemed nice enough, it lacked any distinctive qualities. There were no hilarious accidental art installations, no mysterious obstructions in the bathroom, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It felt as though it was simply the bare minimum.

However, I confess my opinion of the bar has been unfairly clouded due to events of the evening unrelated to the bar itself. Specifically, I found myself to be a victim of PHH.

PHH is not a feminine syndrome, nor a sexually transmitted disease, but rather a situation of verbal abuse caused by cold, hard ignorance. This is not the first time I’ve encountered PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment--and certainly not the last, but each time it is a personal struggle. That night, I happened to be wearing a gold lamé headband around my head as a garnish to the rest of my outfit. Throughout the evening several people had things to say about it, none of them particularly positive.


Prior to the onslaught of PHH, I had a good enough time at the bar. I ordered a vodka cranberry that tasted heavy on the cranberry. Very heavy. Then I noticed the music that the bar was playing: namely nineties rock-pop groups like Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls.

This was the stuff I’d listen to while my mom drove me to the mall in our Ford Taurus station wagon. Incidentally, Ford no longer makes the Taurus and Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls no longer make music.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with listening to these relics of the 90s, but it’s not the kind of music that promotes hedonistic misbehavior, and when a bar named Hop Devil promises “a Hell-uva time,” I expect the music to be in accordance with that kind of attitude.

As I sit at the bar, nursing my vodka mostly-cranberry and contemplating the music choice that persistently chips away at my energy level, I'm addressed by a guy standing to my right: “Why are you wearing that headband?”

“Because I feel like it,” I reply with a shrug. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering why you chose to wear it.”

That’s polite for: I think you look like an idiot. Whatever. What does he know?

Fifteen minutes later, a boy that claims to be twenty-six but appears to be sixteen asks, “What is that headband’s functional purpose?” as though he had raised his hand in science class. This time I respond with a mute shrug. Now I'm a little irritated. I want to ask, What’s the purpose of the collar on your shirt? Is it protecting the hairs unattractively filling in on the back of your neck since your last bad haircut?

Finally, as I leave the bar, walking down St. Marks, I’m suddenly surrounded, literally encircled, by a hoard of young men that couldn’t have possibly been older than 21, if that.

“Nice headband!” is the only jeer from the group as I physically elbow my way out of their drunken, perspiring circle. Gross.

Fashion isn’t always functional, but it’s not as though my headband was dysfunctional. What was it about my little band of gold that elicited so much negative commentary? How is it really any different from wearing a necklace or a bracelet?

It didn’t impede my walking, like a pair of excessively uncomfortable heels or a tight skirt that tends to ride up. It didn’t threaten to expose me in any way, at least not physically, though I have to say, I was feeling a little emotionally vulnerable after being repeatedly interrogated about what exactly it was doing around my head.

Perpetual Headband Harassment strikes again and, as usual, stems from unrest amongst the male population. In my personal experience, girls don’t question it. Still, I felt encouraged the next night when, drunkenly gallivanting around the Union Square, I saw a portly Asian man standing outside a bar, smoking a cigarette and wearing the exact same headband. I walked on, contemplating whether it looked better on him, half sorry that I hadn’t stopped to ask him if he had any personal experience with PHH.

As for Hop Devil, well, like I said, nothing wrong with the place, but my hell-uva time was nowhere in sight. If my headband became more of a circle of hell than the bar itself, that just goes to show how exciting I found the scene there.