Entering Old Ladyhood: or, kids on the subway

Well, it's finally happened. After years of bottling up my annoyance, I've finally let off the steam by screaming at a group of high school students on the subway. Those of you who know me well will not be at all surprised by this. Kids are annoying. And for some reason, kids in groups on the subway are about fifty thousand times more annoying than normal kids. I think it's because generally when there's a group of them together (especially on a morning train during the school year, like today), they're on a school-related trip of some kind. Freed from the enclosures and strictures of the school environment, they feel as if they've been let loose upon the city and they get all hyper and full of themselves and feel the need to:
-talk very fast,
-pack as many of themselves into as small a space as possible,
-scream to each other from opposite sides of this small space as if it were a football field,
-laugh hysterically at small jokes, say things like "snap," high five each other, and go "Oooooooohhhhh" when "snap" isn't good enough, all in unison,
-make fun of each other really loudly,
-try to flirt in really stupid and transparent ways, also really loudly,
-generally do everything at about thirty decibels more than it needs to be done at.

I hate them.

Well today when I got to the train platform, I could see a group of them--probably middle schoolers--about twenty strong standing where I usually stand, with a few chaperone-y people hovering around. I assiduously avoided this area of the platform while waiting for the train.

When a 5 finally came along, about ten minutes late, I was already annoyed because I was going to be late for work and because it was raining and I was soaked, and because it was morning, and so on and so forth. And then, just as the train was bearing down upon me, ANOTHER group of students showed up in the station and positioned themselves right behind me.

I couldn't run, I couldn't move to a different car. There was no time and I was running late. So I just shoved into the car as fast as possible to try to distance myself from the mob of shrieking, "snap"ing, obnoxious children. Instead of escaping them, however, I ended up merely plowed into by their solid-group formation moving into the train car at maximum velocity. Pushed forward by the group, I reached out to grab onto an overhead bar to stop the flow and brace myself because the train was so full there was literally nowhere else to go. I couldn't move in any farther--everyone had already moved in as far as they could. I had to stand my ground.

But the young bastards behind me didn't care or notice and continued to push into the car. I strained against them, pushing back with my shoulders while holding my arm as straight as possible to avoid being pushed forward onto the people sitting down in front of me. They kept pushing, kept pushing, kept pushing, all laughing maniacally, shrieking, yelling, completely ignoring the fact that they were almost knocking people down. The strain on my arm became so great that I was actually afraid it would break; it was getting painful. My one hand had been hurting all morning anyway and now the strain being put on it that it was white-hot with pain. They were soooo loud. They were CRUSHING me. I could feel the anger and annoyance of years of dealing with stupid kids on the train welling up, like in those cartoons where the person's face gets redder, like a thermometer, before finally...

I burst. I whirled around on them and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Oh MY GOD, STOP IT!!!"

Immediately the pressure building from behind me eased up. A young lady behind me looked at me with big eyes and said, "I'm sorry," then looked away. The group went silent.

I turned around, seething, and stared at my reflection in the window. I looked crazy. But the kids were quiet. I could stand up.

At the next stop, the lady who had been sitting in front of me got off the train and I sat down to examine the kids. They were still in their tight group, standing closer together than necessary now that the train was a little less packed. And they were all standing as far away from me as they could get without moving to a new spot in the car.

They stayed that way for the rest of the trip.

I have successfully entered Grumpy Old Ladyhood. It feels ok. I'm gonna go ahead and start shopping for creepy old houses with gigantic porches and yards with the potential for spooky overgrowth.

Awkward moments in NYC: or, the Blue Guy

Ok. It's lunch time, kind of, and it just took me 45 minutes to eat a salad because the phone would not stop ringing, people's ordered lunches would not stop arriving at my desk, and other random people kept showing up and asking dumb questions... You'd think on a 65 degree, windy, rainy, Friday, maybe people would want to lay low and chill out, but apparently they prefer bugging me when I'm trying to eat.

And don't give me any of that "They're not really out to bug YOU" crap, because I know they are. Everyone is out to get me, people, and if that means calling and bothering me to such a degree that my brains actually explode out of my ears from the pressure, they'll do it. They're out to GET me. Remember that. Especially the slime molds.

Anyway, so I'm in the midst of my frantic running about/answering phones/signing for packages/smiling at whoever comes in/arranging messenger packages/blah blah blah, when in comes The Blue Guy. He's been in here a bunch of times, and I think I've even blogged about him before. Now, when I'm in the midst of my frantic trying-to-stuff-my-face-between-calls mode, it's easier to take things in stride because I already look frazzled and a moment of blank "Oh my god" staring might not be taken as rude. But, it's really hard not to stare at this guy. He's bluish grey ALL over. He's like the color of "steel blue" crayons. It's weird to see someone who looks like that. It makes you step back for a second and stare, then pretend not to stare.

I find myself doing that a lot in the city, where strange looking people abound. Sometimes staring is kind of warranted, like when you see a girl dressed in an insanely slutty outfit at ten on a Tuesday morning for no apparent reason, or a hardcore punked out kid on the Upper East side or something--people like that obviously WANT to be stared at in some way or another. But then there are people you're not supposed to really stare at, ever, but who it's hard NOT to want to examine. Especially "little people" or those in wheelchairs, disabled people who are making a fine display of themselves as they go down the sidewalk, flamboyant people (there are LOTS of ways of being flamboyant), and even really ugly people sometimes. And Blue Guy, of course. You want to stare, but you can't. So you look away and walk on by.

But then, when I'm walking by, I always think, "What if that person is offended that I DIDN'T look? What if he thinks I'm ignoring him and thus his condition, which he represents to the world?" So I try to look for a second, maybe do a short nod of acknowledgment, and move on. But then I feel really awkard cause I hate making eye contact with ANYONE on the street...

Ah, whatever. Blue Guy just left and I'm already bored with this topic.

Anyway, I'm off to PA for a day and a half, then back to the city to grind out a few more days. SO busy at the moment - deadlines looming, casting to be done, promos to put together for our promo PARTY next weekend, columns to write, agent queries to work on, books to read, homework to do, and general madness to try to kepe at bay.

Till next time.

Quick update: or, kind of unimportant ramblings after vacation...

Well, it's my first day back to work in the Big Apple after almost a week at my parents' house in the country. I hesitate to call it an actual vacation, since I spent my time there alternately running around between friends' houses, doing research for my book, working on some copy due this week, corresponding with editors, trying to track down a certain adult performer who forgot about our scheduled interview, attending a 1 year birthday party, and planning, preparing for, and executing a gigantic surprise birthday party for my parents. It was, to put it mildly, not exactly relaxing.

But, you know, when I came back to the city yesterday afternoon and was immediately pissed off by a woman in the subway who barked at me to move into the car even though I had literally no room to do so, then returned to a laundry-ridden apartment and a noisy street outside that made it difficult to sleep, I realized that even when I'm busy and stressed at my parents' house, having those crickets chirping outside sure does get one relaxed at the end of a long day. I don't know if it's just because I grew up with cicadas, crickets, frogs, owls, and all other manner of night-time fauna singing me to sleep, or if there's something inherently soothing abou their song, but I slept like a ROCK every night I was there, and last night could hardly keep my eyes shut for more than an hour.

Maybe I'll get one of those noise machines I've always scoffed at people for having in the past. My block is really very quiet, comparative to some others I've walked down at night, but there are always cars going by with their music too loud, alarms going off somewhere, and the inevitable late night mron who thinks that doorbells and cell phones are too high-tech and that screaming somebody's name outside their building is the best way to get their attention. A nice white-noise machine with some crickets might help me keep my city tension under control...

But, in other news, I have a fun, kind-of-NYC story to relate. It's only fun now that it's over, but you might find it interesting. On my journey back to the big city yesterday, my train stopped for 35 minutes in Philadelphia while the engine was switched. Before we got going again, a friendly middle-aged guy came and sat down next to me. He was a bit fidgety, but was reading a book called "The Poet's Handbook" or somesuch, so I decided he was pretty cool, and drifted off to sleep for a bit. When I woke back up ten or fifteen minutes later, I heard the oddest sound. It sounded like a muffled, high-pitched, conversational murmur, and it seemed to be coming from the guy next to me. As if he were having a closed-mouth conversation with himself. I pretended to be asleep for a while, listening, then made a pretty big show of waking up, hoping that it would shush him, since the sound was decidedly creepy. It occurred to me that perhaps the murmuring was his poetic process; maybe he was reciting a developing poem in his head, or working through the cadence of a new piece. But to me, it sounded as if he was talking to someone with his mouth closed.

My movement did shush him, but only for a few minutes. He fidgeted madly for a bit, half-standing and then sitting again, clutching his book against his chest, waving it in front of his face and thumbing the pages distractedly, before starting in on his murmuring. I ignored it, opened my own book, and tried to lose myself in its pages, but within a few minutes, his agitation had grown, and from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of him slapping himself lightly on the cheek repeatedly, murmuring all the while.

This was getting a bit scary. The overall impression I was getting was that he was talking to a voice in his head, and was trying to slap it into submission, or to shut it up. Either way, I was not exactly comfortable sitting next to him. His fidgeting looked frantic, almost desperate, and the slapping was a bit over the line of what I'd like to call acceptable behavior on an Amtrak train. I briefly considered trying to talk to him, in hopes that it would distract him, but I was afraid that if I said the wrong thing or startled him too much, I'd send him right over the edge.

As it turned out, I just ignored him as well as I could for the hour and a half back to New York. It was not easy. When the train stopped, I waited until he'd already gotten in line to get off, placed a few people between him and myself, and waited until he'd already gotten to the escalator to get on it. All things considered, I suppose that if he
was hearing voices, he handled himself pretty darn well, but I was still just about as uncomfortable as I've ever been on a train. Poor guy. I hope he at least gets a poem out of it.

Why I hate Abercrombie: or, gagging and coughing on my way to work.

I have about had it with the goddamn Abercrombie and Fitch flagship store, guys. It's bad enough that people--excuse me, not just people, but midtown tourists, on whom I love to lavish contempt because I'm a New Yorker and they're not, and because they clog up the sidewalk with their slow-ass walking and sudden stops in the middle of a crowded corner and cause me to almost lose my balance as I swerve out around them daily on my hurried route to and from work--line up literally around the block to get in all day every day. And it's obnoxious enough that the reason they line up for the overpriced and not-all-that-cool merchandise inside is because they post a shirtless beefcake in the store to chat with the ladies and get his picture taken. Seriously. See the above picture. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to beefcakes, and I certainly don't want to give the impression that the sight of a hot piece of manflesh doesn't get me excited, but when it's being blatantly used as a ploy to get me into a store, that kind of makes me angry. From the perspective of someone who hates to see anyone's sexuality being blatantly abused to sell stuff, it's just kind of gross.

But if those were the only obnoxious things about the store I probably wouldn't mind so much. It's the fact that apparently the lines that beefcake draws are not enough for them. Whoring out a man's body is not enough for them. Oh no. They can't stop there: they also pump the scent of their godawful cologne out of all their doors in clouds so thick that I literally cannot walk through them without gagging. It makes the entire corner of 56th and 5th reek at all hours of the day. I can't figure out how the tourists can sit/stand/lounge around for the hours they typically do waiting to get in without passing out from lack of oxygen. No, I am not exaggerating. It is really that bad. And the cologne in question is AWFUL. It's like Preferred Stock mixed with lead or something. It smells like metal and fakery and is completely unsexy. And they pump it out into the already-polluted Manhattan air like it's a tonic for what ails people.

I guess maybe the idea is that the scent of the collogne, when combined with the lure of the hunk of man-meat inside the store, will inspire in women an overwhelming pseudo-sexual urge to go inside the store and buy things. On a social acceptability level, I guess this works. There are people lined up out there all the time. But, really, it's a bad plan: researchers in Chicago have found that the smell of men's cologne actually reduces blood flow to the vagina (no blood flow, no arousal).

Take that, Abercrombie.

Some Dudes are A-Holes: Exhibit C

The other day I went to the grocery store on my way home and then proceeded to walk down Melrose avenue, weighed down by my purse and several bags, hot and sticky and feeling full of malicious contempt for everything around me, when I walked by two guys in the middle of a conversation on the corner near my house.

They were young and, one would think, had stuff to do or at least to talk about. But when I walkd by, one of them stopped talking in the middle of the conversation and made a kissy face at me, complete with lip-smacking noises.

Dumbfounded by this audacious display of uncouthe stupidity, I ignored him and kept walking. He paused for a moment, then turned to follow me with his face, and started up again with the kissy face and noises. This continued until I had crossed the street and turned the corner.

I just... I can't imagine in what world that seemed like a good idea to him. Did he think I would throw myself into his arms shouting "I love it when men make ridiculous faces at me and demean me publicly!"? Or was he just trying to be an A-hole? Cause he sure succeeded in that endeavor. But the issue I have with this idea is that as far as I can tell, the point of making fun of or otherwise demeaning another person is to make oneself look comparatively better. But this guy was standing on a street corner puffing up his face like a fish and making stupid noises. I fail to see how that gives him the upper hand, or, alternately, sex appeal.

I'm befuddled.

But also, dude was being an A-hole.

Some Dudes are A-Holes: exhibit B

So on Tuesday I was sitting here, as I am now, at the desk at the gallery, no doubt working on something VERY important. (That's how I roll. I look like I'm just surfing the internet but I'm actually almost always working on one project or another of my own. And they're important. Top secret stuff. You wouldn't understand.) It was mid-afternoon, the time of day when my mood invariably takes a sudden turn. Sometimes it's into the realm of indiscriminate randiness, when I can't stop thinking about sex for an hour at a time. Sometimes it's laziness, which in turn inspires drool-inducing, mind-numbing, ripping-my-own-hair out boredom so profound I can't even come up with any ideas for things to do. And sometimes, particularly this week when I've had a bunch of deadlines and projects to work on and lots of things on the agenda, it's hysterical, headache-causing stress, which in its turn morphs into annoyance and very near explosive bouts of temper every time the phone rings.

On Tuesday, it was stress/anger. I was trying to keep myself under control to avoid head-explody (nobody wants brains on the artwork, after all), when a middle aged gentleman in khakis, a very very bright orange polo shirt, and black suspenders walked in. The outfit in itself was warning of a really annoyingly unselfconscious geek of a human being, but to add insult to injury he was carrying a gigantic camera in a case strapped around his neck.

He walked right up to me, blinking behind his thick glasses, and said, in a nasal and wheezing voice, "Excuse me, I hate to bother you," --PS, when people come into a retail establishment and say this to the person at the desk, they ALWAYS, very definitely DO mean to bother you-- "but could I ask if I have permission to take some flash photographs of the beautiful sculptures downstairs in the entryway to the building? The flash isn't very bright, but there is a flash on it, but I just thought those sculptures were so beautiful, and..."

"Yes," I cut him off. "Those sculptures are open to public view and as such they can be photographed. People take pictures of them all the time."

"Oh, well that's good," he started up again. "I always like to get permission before I take photographs of any artwork because sometimes, if you don't and you start to take pictures, then the man at the desk in the lobby will come and tap you and say, 'You can't do that.' So I always come in to ask permission first, and I was just out to lunch nearby and saw a way to get from 56th to 57th near your building so I walked through and there were these beautiful sculptures and I thought, 'I should ask if I have permission to photograph these wonderful artworks'..."

He just kind of kept going like that for a while. He talked as if everything were one long sentence, jam-packed with fuckery. While he was going through his laundry list of inane prattle, the phone ran several times, a few other people walked by and spoke to me, and he just kept going. I went back to whatever I'd been doing on my computer, even, and he kept right on. Eventually he did seem to pick up on the fact that I wasn't listening, and then leaned in: "May I have permission to take a look around this lovely gallery, then, before I leave?"

I'm sure I shot him a "please go fuck yourself and/or die" look, but I said as politely as possible, "Yes, go ahead. We don't permit any photographs in the gallery, however."

"Oh, no, of course not, I wouldn't want to..." he started talking as he walked away. For all I know, or care, he could have been talking to himself the entire time he spent walking around the gallery.

He was admiring the lovely artworks for a good 20 minutes before meandering back my way, at which point he IMMEDIATELY started up with the boring chatter. I was astounded. This happens from time to time at my job, it's nothing new that somebody decided I was to be their next victim in a long line of serial attacks of drivel, but I'm always amazed by them. I mean, are these people really just lonely and possessed of a smidgen of acumen which tells them that above all other people in the universe, gallery receptionists are helpless to get away from them? Or do they do this to everyone? I get images of them sitting in busy restaurants, telling the waitstaff in great detail about the spices they uses on their own tilapia at home, while food goes cold at the order-up window and other customers wait impatiently for service.

This time, dude was telling me about how he comes from a family of artists; his sister is an artist and his aunts are artists; his daughters are artists; except the one daughter who started out in a program for studio art in college but then switched to English; but she produced some really great pieces that friends are constantly praising; he thinks someday she'll go back to art; because there is no reason to do just one thing; we can choose what we do...

In the middle of his slowly unspooling yarn of crap, the phone rang several times in a row and I was able to stay on the phone just long enough for him to lose interest. He thanked me and then walked away. I heard him press the button for the elevator, and in a spirit of profound thankfulness, I finished my calls and hung up.

Well, he HEARD me hang up. And to him that meant I was fair game for a lecture on mental handicapped-ness, from someone afflicted by it. And that bastard turned right around, just as the elevator was opening for him, and walked BACK to my desk!! He immediately launched into a story about how his English major daughter had made a painting when she was 2 and 1/2 and they'd framed it and given it to his parents, and those parents invited some art experts over for dinner, and the art experts thought that the painting was very good, and it was just so funny because it had been done by a 2 and 1/2 year old. And he just always really resonds viscerally to art even though he's no expert; he just sees things and likes them; and he's kind of an artist too; he's from an artistic family, you know; he takes photographs of art, flash photographs, with not a very bright flash, and his relatives have all said that his photographs are very good...

Seriously, this went on for a good ten minutes more. My co-workers kept walking past the desk and just leaving me out to dry for this ass-hattery. He wouldn't go away. Let me tell you, when I'm in the depths of a stressed-and-angry bout, this kind of situation makes me virtually shake with suppressed rage. I was ready to knock his block off but had to keep myself in check because I was, after all, at work.

I suppose he either lost interest, or I just began so blatantly ignoring him that he got bored, and wandered off, out into the July heat, to wear the nerves of more helpless gallery workers down to their very thinnest and last wire.

Dude was an A-hole.

Summer morning rain in the big city...

This morning it rained. Really hard, for a long time, without letting up. I don't really mind rain, but it does a number on the city and the people in it, who all seem to freak out and assume the end is nigh, even though it rains here pretty frequently. Also, it does make my commute to and from work much more diffficult than usual for several reasons:

1) Everyone in this city with an umbrella seems to think that he or she is Hot Stuff and can weild his or her umbrella like a deadly weapon. Apparently umbrellas exempt them from any moral culpability for poking people in the eye with their weapon's spokes, running into people because they 'didn't see them,' dumping huge amounts of water onto others, and any number of other inconceivably rude things that would NOT be ok to do if umbrellas weren't present.

2) There are about 500 of these ubmrella-toting bastards on every block.

3) It's very easy to become one of these bastards.

4) When I suppress the urge to be a bastard, I tend to get very grumpy.

5) No matter what the umbrella situation, I always end up wet from the knee down at least, because cars go by and splash me, umbrellas, bags, and awnings drip on me, and the sidewalks are never, EVER, even, leading to unexpected puddles.

So, when I got to the train this morning, I was already cheesed because my sandals were filled with water, my hems were soaked, and I had been poked and annoyed by at least 2,500 umbrellas already. But I was willing to try out a good mood. I was giving it the old college try.

And then, at 125th Street, this lady got into my car, which was not particularly crowded. I was standing in the little nook and leaning on the door, minding my business and listening to my iPod. This lady, I must admit, looked a little old and a little white to be getting on the train at 125th and Lex, and I assumed at first that she was just frazzled by the rain and all the people and the fact that she wasn't in her comfortable upper west side 3 bedroom rent controlled apartment. So I tried to give her a little slack when she walked directly up to me, then pivoted to stand facing away with her back literally less than 6 inches from me.

I let it slide for a few seconds, thinking maybe she'd assumed the car was way more crowded than it was and overcompensated, but would soon move out of my personal space when she realized her mistake. But she didn't. She just stood there, her hair practically in my mouth, not seeming to notice that the other people in the car all had a good foot of personal bubble surrounding them while I had virtually none. Even though I could have breathed on the back of her weird neck.

As the train continued hurtling through the tunnels, this woman swayed back and forth with its motion, her upper body in general getting closer and closer to me. I was getting extremely uncomfortable, and she seemed oblivious to my discomfort--to my presence entirely. I cleared my throat loudly. Nothing. I moved around, shuffling and moving my arms sufficiently to be certain she could see me in her peripheral vision. No response. I allowed my dripping umbrella, which was dangling from my hand and thus will tell you how close she was to me, to touch the back of her leg so that it dripped down into her pink galosh. No movement whatsoever. When we went around a turn and her hair literally touched my face as she swayed backward, I let a "Jesus CHRIST!" slip from my mouth. I didn't yell it, but I sure said it loud enough for her to hear me and move away. But she didn't. Just stood right there, being in my way, being way too close to me, and being oblivious or willfully ignorant.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don't like my personal space being invaded by strangers, much less in situations where it's completely unecessary. I wanted to take my drippy umbrella and smack her, hard, in the back of the knees with it. Or scream "Get away from me you creepy bitch!" But I kept it under control. Almost. I noticed a lot of people nearby watching me intently and realized I was giving her the Level 10 Death Look. Let me tell you - this is not a look you ever want to see coming from me. It means doom is coming for YOU.

Anyway, she moved away from me - far away - at the next stop, so maybe she got the vibes of pure unadulterated hatred I was sending her way from ~4 inches behind her head.

I made it to work on time and with little more in the way of incidents, still kind of wet and annoyed, but figuring I had a pretty good "Rainy-Day-Weirdo" story to share with the coworkers.

...until two of those coworkers got of the elevator and said they'd just been in there with a woman who was wearing a WWII style, two-oxygen filters, full-on gas mask.

Ah well, you can't win them all.

Unibrows, low-lifes, and garbage compacting...

Ah, more New York happenings. Today feels like Friday. It's not Friday, but I've asked several of my co-workers and they all agree that it feels as if it should be Friday today. I wonder what tomorrow will be like. Perhaps we'll all just sleep in and forget to come to the office... Oh, that would be delightful.

I'm a little pooped because last night I was at the gallery until 9:15, manning the front desk for a benefit party and auction for Pure Vision Arts, an advocacy/representation group for artists with developmental disabilities. While I totally support the idea, and think it's really great that there are people dedicating themselves to helping artists who might have trouble getting representation otherwise, the evening in reality was really, really, really awkward. It was me, a bunch of caterers and organizers, two other people who work for the gallery (one of whom, who lives upstate, had just contracted Lyme disease a few days ago and we were basically trying to make sure she didn't pass out the whole time), and 200 guests. About a third of the guests had developmental handicaps ranging from Downs Syndrome to autism. It was... well... awkward. But the event was catered, I got paid overtime for doing very little, AND they had Perseco. So it's all good. I'm just a little tired today.

But, nevertheless, I've seen and heard some fun things in the past two days so I thought I'd post them for your entertainment!

1) Last night, during the event, I was in the lobby of the building talking to the night front desk man, George. He's great. While we were discussing home prices in New York versus Puerto Rico, a delivery man came in with a late dinner for someone on one of the upper floors. I don't know where this guy was from - he was white, spoke very good English, but had a heavy accent of some sort I couldn't quite identify. He was mostly bald on top, with salt and pepper hair around the sides, and the most AMAZING Unibrow I have ever seen. The thing was utterly glorious. I can hardly do it justice with words, people. Now, I am not exactly a fan of the Unibrow look, but when something is done right, you have to give credit where credit's due, and let me tell you - this Unibrow was the Platonic Ideal of Unibrows. It was thick, dark, and made a perfect V on this guy's forehad right between his eyes. Perfectly symmetrical. If Spok had a Unibrow, it would look like this man's. I was in awe. I didn't say anything to him about it, because I have a feeling he hasn't cultivated it purposely and he might be offended if I said anything. But, wow, I really wanted to shake his hand.

2) On my tired, several-Perseco-ed way home, I just got on the first train to come to 59th and Lex, without looking to see if it was a 4 or a 5. Turns out it was a 4, and I ended up at Yankee Stadium, really pissed off and tired and waiting for the downtown train along with every idiotic Yankee fan ever. Usually I identify with Yankees fans and try to appreciate their zeal, but last night I was NOT in the mood. I ended up getting on a train next to this dorky older guy and his 13 year old son, who was asking kind of annoying questions to his dad, who was then mumbling the answers unintelligibly. But I did catch this little gem of conversation:

13 year old boy: Dad, how long is this train ride going to take?
Dad: Well, it's about 10:15 now, and we're at 161st street, so I'd say, depending on the low-lifes, we'll get home around 10:45.

...I can't fathom what low-lifes would have to do with the length of a train ride. Maybe he meant the MTA? But then you'd think he'd say "The low-lifes at the MTA." Certainly there were lots of low-lifes among the people leaving the stadium, but they were all already on the train and couldn't hinder it from going whatever speed it wanted. I'm stumped.

3) This morning on the 5 on the way to work, two very tall guys got on at 125th Street and stood in the doorways of my car. They were being kind of loud and annoying, almost as if drunk, but it was 9:15 in the morning. Not that I'm judging anyone who's durnk at 9:15 in the morning. But... seriously. Anyway, at some point I looked toward the one guy and noticed a giant streak of SPIT runnng down the door and onto the floor in front of him, where it was forming a big frothy puddle. DUDE! If you have to spit THAT bad while you're on the train, go OUTSIDE and spit BETWEEN the cars! Don't f-ing spit on the FLOOR! God! The subway is filthy enough with all kinds of mysterious grime and dirt - the last thing we need is somebody spitting on the door AND the floor at 9:15 in the goddamn morning! I was so angry. Sometimes I really want to just get up in people's faces and yell at them about common decency and respect for one's fellow man, but... eh... I'd probably lose the fight. This IS New York.

4) I had to run to the post office at Rockefeller Center today to drop off a package. On my walk down 6th Ave, I passed a bunch of guys who were bringing large metal grates of some sort out of a back door of a building and across the sidewalk to a truck. I just tried to get past them without getting knocked down by one of the grates, but as I went by I heard this horrible crunching, grating, squealing noise, and turned to see tha the truck they were loading was a GARBAGE truck! There were a bunch of guys around it, loading the metal grates into it one by one and watching them get crushed by the giant compactor in the back of the truck. Funnest thing ever!!


And, lastly, from our friends at OverheardInNewYork.com:

Texting teenager: Is there two "L"s in "Fordham"?
Teenager's friend: Uhh...just one, I think.

A New Yorker? Whining? No way.

In an attempt to stick to the ideals behind this blog (namely getting some of my bitching out in a productive and thoughtful way), and to lend it an air of authentic New York-ness, I shall commence complaining about people in the city.... now:

1) I was slightly disappointed in Halloween this year, as I am every year, by people's lack of excitement about the possibilities of the holiday, but all around I think it was a good Halloween. I'm almost always disappointed by reality, because versions of events in my head are generally much more interesting, layered, full of mystery, and overall more sparkly than they are in real life. Halloween bothers me sometimes because I see no reason why there shouldn't be all-out dancing in the strets, sparkles and confetti falling from the sky, and ghosts haunting every dark corner everywhere. But I can't really blame the holiday or people's lack of enthusiasm, because honestly, Halloween in New York is pretty close to an orgy of insanity. I just tend to miss out on the good stuff. This year it was my shoes that ruined the potential fabulousness, as I've mentioned before.

But this year I was disappointed by another phenomenon, which is where the bitching about New York life will really begin. On my way home on the 4 train at about 3:00 am (I think?), surrounded by half the cast of Alice In Wonderland (who were, sadly, not nearly as cool as I wished they were), the shoes on my feet cut off blood circulation to my head and I almost passed out. We had to get off the train so I could sit down, then catch the next one. When we got onto the next train, we were greeted by a boisterous crowd of about six or seven guys who immediately started making fun of Connor's costume. He was Roger Rabbit, and they started singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo" loudly and obnoxiously. Ugh. At 3:00 am with my feet killing me, this was the last thing I wanted to deal with. I glared at them for a while, then eventually stopped because they had moved on to somebody else to make fun of.

This "somebody else" was a guy who was in a costume or bizarre outfit of some sort that consisted of a vest and extremely short green shorts. I don't know what he was supposed to be or if it was even a costume, but kudos to him for not having frozen to death before he got on the train. Anyway, the group of annoying guys began loudly calling Green Shorts Guy a faggot, then proceeded to make their way slowly through the car toward him, asking onlookers if they liked faggots. Of course most people just ignored them, and I'm not even sure that Green Shorts Guy realized they were talking about him because he seemed oblivious, but eventually an onlooker said something to the trash-talkers. I didn't hear what he said, but within seconds, the entire group of them had surrounded the speaker-upper in a wall of thick leather and puffy down jackets. I really thought they were going to start beating him up.

I had been in a reverie most of this time and only tuned in when I noticed the wall of intimidation building up midway down the car. When I asked Connor what had happened, he told me they were ganging up on someone who had said something to them when they were being hateful toward homosexuals based solely on a man in short shorts who may or may not have been homosexual himself. I found myself passionately and furiously yelling:
"Are you serious? Are people still doing that? How stupid can you be?!" In retrospect, I shouldn't have yelled it that loudly, but luckily the intimidating guys were all too busy saying who-knows-what to the man who had stood up for freedom of sexuality to bother with my outburst. And, thankfully, the situation eventually diffused itself - I'm not sure how, but the guys started laughing and saying they were just having a good time. Then they sat down and started talking very loudly about how much heterosexual sex they have all the time, and so on and so forth.

Holy leaping Christ on a cross, what a load of horse shit. Now, I realize that in many ways my views on the world are not the same as other people's, and after all it's differences of opinion that keep the world as interesting a place as it is. But I simply cannot get over the optimistic idea that at the end of the year of our Lord 2008, in America, where equal legal rights have been granted to minorities and women, and where homosexuals may not have perfectly equal rights but are nonetheless a firmly established and culturally enriching part of our society, people should not think it's ok to be so... what's the word?... mind-boggling-ly moronic. I mean, how on earth does one manage to live in New York City and hold any type of prejudice against anybody? Particularly on Halloween, at 3 in the morning, in a subway car filled with people dressed as cartoon characters, ironic stereotypes, ridiculous celebrities, inanimate objects, and animals, how can one possibly take oneself and one's own insecurities so seriously that it would seem acceptable to physically intimidate someone for being an advocate of freedom of sexual preference or expression?

How is it possible that in this day and age, after so much work has been done by so many for so long to bring the idea of equality and acceptance and freedom to the masses, that people can be so absurdly closed-minded? How can people look upon each other at this moment in time and be bothered to discriminate, with the world economy breaking down around their ears, the natural world screeching full-tilt into disaster, and wars raging all around us? It scrambles my brains to think of it. Particularly this group of young men, who were mostly minorities and who were on a train to the Bronx, whose lives have probably all been affected in some way by the lingering traces of racism and prejudice, seemed to have no basis upon which to build a case for continuing the wholly idiotic attitude of intolerance.

I'm sure the argument could be made that they were just drunk guys hopped up on testosterone, a group of weak-minded individuals looking to pick on a more weak-bodied or weakly-represented individual to make themselves feel more like men. Sure. But that's no excuse and it's hardly an explanation. I have no way to wrap this up neatly, nor an argument to make, or even a suggestion to offer. I know the chorus: it's just human nature. The strong preying upon the weak. Fear of the unknown. Yadda yadda yadda. But understanding those arguments doesn't make them ok or make me ok with them. And neither does my anger about it. Education is the only route, I suppose, but who has the time to deal with raging dickheads?

2) Or, for that matter, who has the time to deal with vapid, hair-tossing, fake-ID wielding, drunk teenagers? NOBODY! And yet I, with all my temper issues and intense need for personal space, seem to be a magnet for them. Last night I went to see the Felice Brothers (http://www.myspace.com/thefelicebrothers) with a group of friends. The Felice Brothers are like hillbilly Catskill Mountain gospel music on hard-rock and they are f-ing AMAZING live, and you should go see them. They attract down-to-earth and beard-wearing crowds, at least to the degree than any New York City crowd can be down-to-earth or beardy. A very laid-back group ready and willing to have a fun time without stepping on anyone's toes. During the opening band, Deer Tick (who, by the way, I also recommend strongly), as I did my best to stand patiently behind some much-taller people who had no business being near the front, I suddenly found myself being pushed aside by the furious dancing of a girl on my left.

I swear I DID try to be polite for a minute or two. But about the third time I was hit in the face by her hair, I turned and glared at her. And there I was, face to face with an 18 year old girl wearing an outfit far too skimpy for a somewhat-outdoor concert in early November, drinking a beer and texting madly while the young man with her stared longingly at her profile. I almost vomited. But things were just getting started.

Keep in mind that the crowd at this show was very calm and pretty evenly spaced. There wasn't a whole lot of room to move around, but there was enough that being able to dance a bit or hold a conversation with your friends certainly didn't require you to bother the people around you at all. Not so for this girl. I have a feeling that when the bands were performing, she was actually very confused as to why people were looking at the stage and not at her. I'm not kidding.

She was dancing unecessarily energetically and provocatively, and literally flipping her hair every few seconds, hitting me with her elbows, legs, hands, and hair, texting almost constantly, and having one of the most inane conversations I have literally ever heard with the boy she was with. As she drained a beer I heard him ask, with stars in his eyes, if she had a fake ID. Her verbatim answer? "Yeah, a really good one. And I smoke pot, too!" Then she went back to flipping her hair at me and gyrating in a wholly inappropriate manner for mountain church music.

Like, OMG, that's tots groundbreaking! A fake ID and illegal drug use? Why, in the history of all "bad" things ever done, this girl was obviously setting new records. And ohmigod she was like so totally hot, too! Obviously like everyone wanted her.

Thank goodness she eventually moved away, since I was very, very, very close to punching her in the head or telling her male friend that if he didn't get her out of the reach of my hand, imminent doom was upon both of them. My friends made mild fun of me for being so angry about this girl's presence, which makes sense since I am very easily angered by lame people, particularly if they are in my personal bubble for no reason. This was around 10:45 pm. By midnight and a few songs into the Felice Brothers' set, I had mostly forgotten about Stupid Girl.

But then, suddenly, about 2/3 of the way through their set, she appeared once again, right beside me. And within a matter of seconds her hair was being flipped in my face again. And she was dancing again, hitting me with all manner of body appendages. I was livid. After the fast song at hand was over, she turned around to the guy behind her and threw her arms around his neck, declaring loudly (to the crowd, I think, and not to him) that she would never kiss him at this point. As a slow song started and I turned back to the music, I actually heard these words come out of her mouth - I am not making this up: "You love me, don't you? You're in love with me... You're really lucky, you know, that you're here with me."

. . .

Yeah, she said that. She said that. I have no words with which to follow that. I can't even really complain. It's just. Well. There it is. New York City, ladies and gents.