The Gospel According to John

The Subway Chronicles: Cheaper by the 12

Well hello! It's time for the twelfth installment of our favorite deconstruction of the horrors of public transit!

There have been so many incidences since our last chapter. Most notable, I think, was the woman sitting on the A train in a puddle of what I'm pretty sure was her own urine, smoking a cigarette. But that really sort of goes around the funny dial far enough to almost come round to being sad? So, I'm just going to leave it at that.

Be that as it may, there have still been lots of wonderful characters, and we've plenty to discuss. As we all know, my loathing of commutes is well documented. Subway rides in general are not all that bad, but during rush hours? Well, let’s put it this way: there are enough jackbags and asshats in the world such that they compose roughly 93.745% of the population as a whole—this a well-documented statistical fact. The subway is perhaps THE greatest—in terms of quantity, not quality—gathering point for people in New York. And when it’s packed quite literally to the gills long about 5:15 PM on a Wednesday, and then you factor in the aforequoted statistic…well, you get the idea. That’s a LOT of jackbags and asshats.

All of which is to say, as always, that rush hour commutes on New York’s glittering subway is a treasure trove of pleasures rivaled only by, say, a root canal without anesthesia, ingesting rotten meat raw, or the music—nay, general existence—of Katy Perry.

But every now and then—every once in a bright neon cornflower blue moon—comes a tiny ray of sunshine on an otherwise debilitatingly infuriating commute. Not long ago, one such of these rays of sunshine greeted me on the uptown B train.

The Subway Chronicles: Elevenses

Oh hello. You've caught me at just the right time! I was thinking about the subway, and all its unearthly delights.

Ahh, the subway. One of the fun things about moving to a new neighborhood in New York City is that you get to contend with a whooooole new crop of fellow subway passengers. It's like visiting a new country and observing new customs. A whole new world--a new fantastic point of view, really--is brought to your eyes, filling your heart with a newfound love for your city.

Sometimes. Other times, it just makes you crop your eyes and say:

Look Bitch.

I know. New York is hard. There’s always someone in your face, there’s always someone making some idiotic shrieking noise in the general vicinity of your eardrums, there’s always some batshit-crazy loose-cannon motherfucker jumping up to dance a fucking jig to Peaches & Herb while wearing a propeller cap and lime-green hammer pants (no joke—there is) in the exact location of your path of movement at the exact moment you’d like to embark upon it.

I know.

And we are even luckier in that one of the more charming parts of our fair city is that we have a utility called “the subway” that delightfully takes this short-list of New York living’s biggest irritations, mixes them together with hordes of your garden-variety imbeciles, sprinkles in some oppressive and inappropriate air temperatures, and a rate of movement that is in all likelihood slower and even more annoying than, say, the line at the post office, and melds them all together into one big ball of fucking bullshit shoved into a tiny subterranean silver box on wheels. And we have the pleasure of luxuriating in this loveliness at least twice a day—and that’s only if we just use it to get to and from work.

I know.

Really, I know. Sometimes it’s just a bit too much. Sometimes, in the midst of a hellish subway experience, I think to myself “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, if I had just stayed in LA, I could actually be lounging on Pt. Dume beach in Malibu right now watching half-naked Pepperdine frat boys surf instead of listening to this homeless, diabetic, wheelchair-bound double-amputee whose wife was decapitated by a backhoe yesterday while just minding her business in Central Park and whose daughter spontaneously combusted the other day while watching cartoons and whose son was kidnapped by Osama bin Laden and sold into slavery in Waziristan and who now needs anything I can spare for a McChicken sandwich. Or, alternatively, the crazy French woman who plays the accordion and sings “The Girl from Ipanema” (I know you feel me, fellow Queensers). Whichever.

I know.

But the thing is, LB, sometimes, a person’s just another irritated New Yorker who can’t hold in his/her aggression. We’ve all been there at one time or another. Hell, I fucking LIVE there, okay? That guy you hear muttering “JEE-zus GOD” every time the train stops needlessly short and sends everyone not bolted down flying into the windows, despite the fact that this is just a part of the day-to-day and there is not in actuality ANYONE of any consequence within 500 yards to actually HEAR his complaint? You know that guy? Yeah, that guy is ME.

So I know. Yes. Sometimes, a person’s just a harried New Yorker who needs to get shit off their chest. But sometimes, LB, sometimes? A person’s just a rancid fucking bitch.

You, LB, are the latter.

As my dear friend and former roommate, who I’ve mentioned on one of these Subway Chronicles entries before and named Some Horrifically Long and Convoluted Acronym that I Now Cannot Remember and Am Too Lazy to Look Up, or SHLACATINCRAATLTLU, were riding downtown, after a long afternoon of Ikea shopping, to get some Pinkberry and watch the Laura Linney–Liam Neeson Broadway production of The Crucible (which, incidentally, I saw back in ’02 with the very two eyes on my person and it was, frankly, the motherfucking shit) on video at the Performing Arts Library because SHLACATINCRAATLTLU is leaving soon to play Goody Proctor in regional theatre and I am that gay, you came barging onto the 1 train with your homegirl/cousin/sister/auntie/what-the-fuck-ever and a giant stroller containing a baby belonging to one of you. You and your cohort and said bestrollered baby took up THE ENTIRE ENTRYWAY. ALL OF IT. NOT SOME OF IT. ALL OF IT. It was really quite cramped for the rest of us. But, you know, that’s how it works, right? That is part of the joy of the subway, no? People have babies in this city just like everywhere else. And baby’s make messes and require tons of space. Sometimes it be’s like that.

So we stood, chattering away as if all were well, despite the fact that neither of us had any room to move because of your gigantic bullshit Kmart Evenflo horseshit stroller. You were chatting with your friend in the traditional way of the ghetto, wherein you were discussing a fellow female who offended your sensibilities at work the day before and whom you were planning to box about the head and shoulders when next you see her, or somesuch, when suddenly you whirled around and bellowed at the woman behind me “EXCUSE ME, YO BABY IS KICKING ME.”

Positive that we must have misheard (because who would get THAT angry about a baby kicking them?), SHLACATINCRAATLTLU and I whirled around to see what the fuss was about. Directly behind you, in an old-school stroller whose size was worlds more appropriate for something like a crowded subway (one of those models from the childhoods of me and my ilk that were little more than a piece of fabric affixed to pieces of metal tubing affixed to wheels, which modern mothers no doubt regard as “death traps” or something equally ludicrous when, in fact, THEY ARE PERFECTLY FINE AND DON’T COST AS MUCH AS SOME PEOPLE PAY FOR A USED CAR) sat an adorable little girl of no more than two years old, if that, playfully flinging her foot to and fro, coincidentally in the direction of your leg.

Said little girl’s Eastern European grandmother, who I’d like to call Gypsy Rose Lee (cuz gypsies are from Eastern Europe. Do keep up.), quickly placed a hand on her granddaughter’s foot to signal her to stop kicking and rearranged the stroller so as to keep her foot from meeting your leg again, and muttered something to the child in a Slavic tongue one assumes equated to “Sweet little pumpkin pie, please don’t kick or the angry hoodrat might kill us with her acrylic fingernails, my little babushka.”
SHLACATINCRAATLTLU and I, upon surveying the situation, recoiled and then whirled around at each other with looks of wide-eyed horror. Not because we were afraid of you—since you were very likely little more than bombast backed up by no guts—but because we were wholly appalled that you would bellow down the train about a toddler accidentally kicking you with her two-inch-long besocked baby foot.

I mean, seriously?

But, LB, you couldn’t be satisfied with having bellowed at a toddler and Gypsy Rose Lee the Slav.

No no. You had to continue bitching a blue streak about it.

You: Did you see dat shit?
Your friend: What?
You: That fuckin’ baby kicked me up on my fuckin’ leg.
Your friend (clearly thinking you’re a giant fucking asshole, which you are): Girrrl.
You: I hate that shit. Why yo baby gotta fuckin’ kick my fuckin’ leg?! Some bullshit.
Your friend: Mmm. (clearly desperate to separate herself from what an enormous, cavernous asshole you are)
You: I TOLD her grandmother too.
Your friend: Girrrl. (clearly not wishing to indulge you and be vocally associated with what a giant, hemerrhoid-riddled asshole you are [Too far?])
You: I said “Yo baby kickin’ me!” Hell no.
Your friend: (In a stage whisper, clearly hoping to divest herself from you acting like a shit-stai----you get the idea) What she say?
You: She ain’t said nothin’! She don’t speak no English! I’ma make her speak English, dumb old bitch.

At this point, SHLACATINCRAATLTLU and I recoiled in such sheer horror that you would have the audacity to call a sweet, unassuming old woman who DID NOTHING TO YOU a “dumb old bitch” simply because her grandbaby’s foot bumped your leg because she’s a baby and DOESN’T KNOW ANY BETTER.

I mean, seriously? Who the fuck are you?

Then, at the next stop, when a few more people got on the train and couldn’t maneuver themselves into any sensible position that would preclude them from flying headlong through the train because you were sprawled all over the entryway and what little space WASN’T taken up by your GIGANTIC ASS was already taken up by your/your friend’s GIANT STROLLER, you got all in a huff because a Poor, Defenseless and, Incidentally, Short, Chinese Girl was pressed against you—AS ALWAYS HAPPENS ON THE SUBWAY. You turned to her, pointed at an empty seat she had no hope of accessing without stepping on/tripping over no fewer than five people, including me and SHLACATINCRAATLTLU, and all but bellowed “You can sit down RIGHT OVER THERE. I said you can SIT. DOWN. RIGHT. OVER. THERE.”
YOU BOSSED AROUND A GROWN WOMAN.

And then, much like you did with the baby and Gypsy Rose Lee, you had to make sure your friend got a play by play.

You: Girl, you see that shit?
Your friend: (clearly not wanting to be associated yet again with what a giant pus-infected asshole you are) Naw, girl.
You: Bitch all rubbing up on me. I hate that shit!
Your friend: (do I really need to qualify?) Mmm hmm.
You: Fuckin’ empty-ass seat right the fuck there, she standin’ there rubbin up on me. Dumb bitch!

Nevermind that PDAISCG couldn’t even SEE the empty seat because YOUR GIANT ASS AND ENORMOUS STROLLER WERE COMPLETELY BLOCKING ANYONE’S VIEW OF WHAT WAS GOING ON DOWN THE TRAIN.

Seriously? What IN the everloving FUCK is your problem?

No seriously. What are you so fucking angry about?

Is it that you were wearing a sweatsuit that was at least 10 sizes too small and had your gut billowing over the waistband and made you look lumpen and obese? (Sidebar: do we all agree that it’s pretty hard to have a muffin top IN A FUCKING SWEAT SUIT?)

Is it that your hair was plastered to your forehead in what you THINK is a finger-wave but actually just looks like you accidentally dipped your head in glue and then passed out face-down so that your hair was unfortunately epoxied to your face?

Or is it because your soul is wracked with loneliness because you’re such a nasty bitch that no one will come with two feet of you, save the friend you were with on the train, who quite honestly seemed about five minutes away from backhanding you onto the subway tracks and leaving you for dead?

Whatever it is—whatever the impetus for your rage may be, may I make a suggestion?

TAKE A FUCKING TAXI.

Regards,

John the Craptist.

Les Chroniques de Subway la Parte [The MTA Can Suck My] Dix

This edition of The Subway Chronicles is going to be a little different than usual. Though there are a few individuals with whom I have bones to pick, the bulk, the lion’s share, the vast majority of my ire ce moment is directed not at persons, but an entity—an entity that despite being the largest and wealthiest of its kind in North America, and, in fact, being larger and wealthier than all entities of its kind in North America COMBINED, as well as being the THIRD largest of its kind IN THE WORLD, just can’t seem, no matter how hard it tries, to not suck a giant ballsack.

Of which mighty entity do I speak?

Metropolitan Transportation Authority

Alright look, MTA.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Believe me, I lived in LA for four years, so I know from not having public transit, and it ain’t pretty. I also spent two years in Chicago, so I know equally well how fucking irritating it is to have a system that isn’t nearly as extensive as it needs to be, and whose various lines incomprehensibly only touch each other in one location.

(Sidebar: what the fuck CTA? Why is it that I can’t easily get from O’Hare to my friends’ houses without going ALLLLL the way downtown and coming back out unless I switch to a bus, and don’t try to fucking tell me that’s no big deal. Have YOU done that shit with a suitcase before? Fuck you. It’s horseshit.)

So I’m not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, okay?

But I’ll be frank with you: if some dumb mother fucker bought me a horse, and every time I tried to feed it a delicious sugar cube or a handful of delectable oats, the sugar and/or oats tumbled the fuck out of its lips all over the floor of the stable because the horse didn’t have any teeth, you bet your ass I’d pry that fucking horse’s mouth open, see that it was toothless, and scream “Oh HELL FUCKING NO YOU DID NOT JUST GIVE ME SOME BUNK ASS, BROKEDOWN, BULLSHIT, BUSTED OLD FUCKED UP HORSE WITH NO MOTHER FUCKING TEETH!”

Because THAT, MTA, would frankly be bullshit.

But here’s the thing that makes this different than looking a gift horse in the mouth: You don’t pay for gifts. That is the essence of a gift. It is bestowed upon you with no obligation other than feigning delight.

BUT I MOTHER FUCKING PAY FOR YOUR BUSTED ASS. To the tune of 81 GODDAMN DOLLARS A MONTH.

(Sidebar part 2: I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ONE FUCKING WORD ABOUT GAS PRICES. Cry me a fucking river. We all knew this shit was coming. It’s not like gas JUST got expensive. It started with fucking Katrina THREE YEARS AGO so fucking save it. Furthermore, by the time you weigh your gas prices against the fact that a fucking McDonald’s value meal is fucking NINE DOLLARS in this city, we’re probably all in the same boat. So eat a dick up till you hiccup.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes.

I PAY FOR THIS SHIT. So I’ma look this goddamn horse in the mouth and I’ma bitch the fuck to high hell about it. Why?

CUZ YOUR ASS IS BULLSHIT.

Firstly, let’s discuss your fare hike back in January—which amounted to an extra $5 a month, which I gladly paid cuz, hey, those trains don’t run on goodwill and wishes upon stars, right?

But now here we are, seven months into your fare hike, and your shit just keeps getting bunker and bunker and bunker! It’s like you’re my fucking crackhead brother or something! I keep bailing you out, giving you money, and you keep saying in your weird fucked-up cracked-out jittery way “Y-yeah, y-yeah, I’m g-gonna find a job today, I s-swear,” and then instead of finding you at the employment agency, I catch you getting buttfucked by a drug dealer in a crack house!

THAT’S WHAT THIS SHIT IS LIKE, MTA!

Let’s discuss the specific lines I use most often, shall we? I live off the N/R/W lines, which—I was just informed by friend and reader Matt—are the butt of a longstanding local joke. Apparently—wocka wocka!—the N/R/W stands for Never/Rarely/When We Feel Like It. Which really is apt because I spend HALF MY FUCKING DAY WAITING FOR THIS BULLSHIT  TO SHOW UP.

Oh but the Q train, with whom the Never, Rarely, and When We Feel Like It share a route from 57^th St to Brooklyn? Oh THAT SHIT comes EVERY FIVE FUCKING SECONDS!!! Which is fantastic except it’s an EXPRESS TRAIN that skips all but about FIVE STOPS which means IT DOESN’T FUCKING GO ANYWHERE!!!

Even in the middle of the goddamn NIGHT, you can’t swing your fucking DICK at 3 in the morning without smacking it into a fucking Q train! Oh but the N, R or W? Get comfortable, bitch. Curl up with the fucking rats. Hope you brought a sleeping bag! Hope you brought any necessary medications! Hope you brought a roll of toilet paper! Cuz that shit isn’t showing up for who knows?! Six hours? 45 minutes? 1 hour and 17 minutes? Yesterday? Tomorrow at precisely 47:83 blugglock p.m.? WHO FUCKING KNOWS?! WEE!!! ANYONE GOT A PACK OF CARDS?! NOTHING PASSES THE TIME LIKE A GOOD GAME OF GIN RUMMY!!

Seriously, 17 Q trains just traversed their completely pointless route in the time it took me to write that paragraph.

But I digress.

Let’s start last Friday—charitably glossing over all the other bullshit you’ve pulled over the past YEAR, starting with the day last August when it thunder stormed one morning and you COMPLETELY lost your shit and my 35 min. commute took two hours and it took you THREE DAYS to get your shit together because you couldn’t deal with some rain water. IN FUCKING NEW YORK. Jesus, fucking Muslim wackjobs rolled up in this bitch and flew goddamn JETLINERS into the fucking Financial District and you were up and running in less time than that shit took!

ANYWAY. So let’s start with Friday. No, you know, what let’s not. I have a few other general comments first.

What in the EVER LOVING FUCK is wrong with your employees, MTA? Huh? Do you poison their puppies or something? Do you fuck their wives behind their backs? Do you smack the ladies on the ass as they’re punching the clock? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO THESE PEOPLE TO MAKE THEM SO FUCKING ANGRY AT THE WORLD?

Cuz seriously? Most of them act like a bunch of bitter 3-year-olds. The most egregious example of this is—and this is a new development just in the past few months—STOMPING ON THE GODDAMN BRAKES. What is that shit?! I would estimate there are probably AT LEAST 150 people standing up on a subway train at any given time—during the day at least—and those people include children, the elderly, the pregnant, people with injuries that other people don’t have enough decency to give up their seats to, and—Jesus H. Christ help us all—TOURISTS! THE TOURISTS! Who don’t have enough fucking sense to know that when you stand up on a moving entity you need to fucking HOLD ON TO SOMETHING!

See, the thing is, THESE TRAINS AND BUSES ARE NOT FUCKING UHAUL TRUCKS!!!! They are biiiiiig, loooooong metal tubes filled with HUMAN BEINGS! And much like, say, a lamp, or a box of books, or a plastic container full of sweaters in the back of a Uhaul truck, when you stomp on the brakes? EVERYTHING—INCLUDING PEOPLE—GOES FLYING THROUGH THE AIR AT A MILLION MILES PER HOUR. Don’t act like you don’t fucking know this! And don’t act like you can’t help it, because I used to be able to ride to work in the goddamn morning without slipping a fucking DISK.

Okay. Now.

Friday.

Everything started out fine. I had my iced coffee from Dunky Doney, my Arianna Huffington book, my iPod blaring…Led Zeppelin…(okay fine, it was the fucking Spice Girls. FUCK YOU), and I was happy as a clam, apart from the whole going to work thing.

Things were running relatively smoothly, apart from the fat Chinese girl who thought it perfectly reasonable to wedge herself tightly between me and another broad-shouldered man, thus making us all infinitely uncomfortable. I mean seriously, we all know how this works! Those fucking old-school 70s trains with the orange plastic bucket seats are NOT ROOMY ENOUGH for three people to sit abreast unless ALL THREE PEOPLE are wee. Three sorority bitches abreast? Sure. Three miniscule Japanese tourists? Absolutely! Two corn-fed, barrel-chested men and a fat Chinese bitch? ABSOLUTELY NOT. And I was there fucking FIRST. And so was the dude to my right.

And furthermore, I am VERY careful to be considerate about this. I know I am not a small man. We that hail from the Ostrobothnian Peninsula do not COME in small sizes. No such model EXISTS. And on top of this, as I have detailed before, I have FWS—FREAKISHLY WIDE SHOULDERS. I am constantly aware and making mental calculations about how the breadth of my shoulders will effect not only my OWN comfort vis-à-vis being wedged into a subway seat, but also those who might end up on either side of me. I suggest, strongly, that those with FWA—FREAKISHLY WIDE ASSES—have the same fucking consideration and perform the necessary spatial guesstimations.

ANYWAY.

So apart from fat Chinese lass, (FCL, I suppose), all was fine. We plunged into the under-river tunnel with wanton, reckless abandon, probing deeper and deeper, eliciting squeals and howls of ecstasy from the wheels and rails. It really was something. I had to dab at the sweat on my brow and try to catch my breath. It was just simply divine, moving faster—oh God—faster—oh shit!—faster—oh Jesus—FASTER—OH GOD FASTER, FASTER, FASTER, YES FUCK YES OHHHHHH  SHIT YEEEEESSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!

And then you stopped.

What the fuck? FUCKING KEEP GOING! WE’RE ALMOST THERE! Fuck—come on! 59^th and Lex is only a second away! Keep going! KEEP FUCKING GOING! I need my 59^TH AND LEX! I DESERVE my 59^th and fucking Lex!!!!

Like a selfish man blowing his load without a single thought of his partner’s satisfaction, you just aborted the mission, rolled over, and went to sleep.

WHILE WE WERE UNDERNEATH THE FUCKING RIVER.

Call it transportus interruptus.

The train operator tried to start you up and get you going again, gently stroking you in your favorite places. You quivered for a short moment—and then fell back asleep. More caresses, more shivers—sleep. Caress, shiver—sleep. Caress, shiver—sleep.

This went on, and on, and on, and on, until I was about ready to say “Jesus, fuck this shit, I’ll just get myself off!” and start jerking my fist up and down until I busted a hole in one of the windows so I could just fucking HIKE THROUGH THE TUNNEL to finish the job you clearly couldn’t be arsed to take care of. 

Finally, the driver got you heated up and primed to go, and you started sliding through the dark, humid tunnel again, your wheels once again emitting those tell-tale sighs and squeaks. You were loving it. But then—what the fucking FUCK?—you decided you were still over it.

Transportus interruptus: the sequel.

Caress, shiver—sleep. Caress, shiver—sleep. Caress, shiver—sleep.

By the time you got the fuck over yourself and finished us all off—which, incidentally, was really rather perfunctory and I think I can speak for everyone on the train that you could have put forth more of an effort to satisfy us—I was 30 minutes late for work.

Ohhhh but MTA, your slipshod Friday-morning laziness didn’t hold a CANDLE to the fucking bullshit you pulled on Monday.

Let’s start with the bus. As you well know, the bus stop is not even half a block from my front door. And as you also know, the actual bus stop SHELTER is roughly 20 feet from the street corner. And as you also know—since your bus driver LOOKED RIGHT AT ME—I was running to catch the bus, and was NO MORE than TEN FUCKING FEET from the bus shelter. And yet what did you do?

YOU LOOKED RIGHT AT ME—IN THE EYE—AND DROVE THE FUCK OFF.

So I gave you the finger and screamed profanity at you, and then sat down to wait for the next bus. And when it arrived—LATE, AS PER USUAL—I boarded, stuck my MetroCard into the slot, and of course, because why wouldn’t it be, because what other outcome could I reasonably expect, it had expired.

Which—I realize—isn’t your fault. But I choose to blame you anyway.

So then I had to walk seven blocks to a Laundromat and beg for quarters to stick in your fucking farebox because GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID you should accept DOLLAR BILLS since we’re all so used to fucking SUSAN B. ANTHONYS and we don’t have the FUCKING INFRASTRUCTURE to switch over to fucking PAPER MONEY since it’s so NEW-FANGLED.

So I ride the bus to the subway. I get there, and the line to refill my MetroCard is 15 people deep. What the fuck kind of bullshit is this?!

Come to find out, the reason is that your credit card system isn’t working. Which means those who are lucky enough to carry $81—EXACTLY $81—in cash on them can at least by their MetroCards once your goddamn machines wake the fuck up and decide to suck the bills inside—and, of course, providing the machines then don’t decide to shove the bills back out again.

But the rest of us had to leave the station and go to a bank. Worse yet for a lot of people, you fucking CHARGED THEM ANYWAY without giving them any MetroCard, as documented by Gawker in an item aptly title "Service Alert: MTA Screwing You" here.

Yes, MTA, you had the unmitigated gall to actually CHARGE PEOPLE for transit you did not GIVE THEM.

Now, it’s Wednesday and, for the record, your fucking credit card system STILL isn’t working and you’ve made NO EFFORT to explain to anybody WHAT exactly the GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING PROBLEM IS.

ANYWAY.

So by this time, the line to buy a MetroCard, even with cash, is now long enough that it’s snaking down the steps and up the sidewalk, so I decide I’ll just take the Q69 bus to Queens Plaza and catch the subway from there, which is only 2 stops from work.

WHAT. A FUCKING. MISTAKE.

Because by now, it’s 9:15, which is just late enough for EVERYONE IN NEW YORK to be on the road. It took nearly 30 minutes to complete a roughly 7 minute bus trip—in the middle of which I inexplicably had to change buses. What the FUCK was that about?!?!

THEN I get into Queens Plaza, and the MetroCard machine is broken—BROKEN ENTIRELY, not even taking CASH.

So I truck my ass ALLLLLLLL the way to the other side of the station—which is HUGE—to use the OTHER fucking machine.

Then I finally—FINALLY, at LONG LAST—get on the goddamn E train, and—my God, I’m still in awe—despite it being 80 degrees outside at 9 in the morning, THE FUCKING AIR CONDITIONING WASN’T ON. It was cooler on the fucking PLATFORM than it was in the fucking TRAIN.

This is all just a week after you announced that you’re raising the fare AGAIN by 5% next month—bringing the monthly fare to $85—and that you’re going to raise the fare still AGAIN, yet ANOTHER TIME, in January 09 by another EIGHT PERCENT.

Which means within the span of 12 months—ONE SHORT YEAR—the monthly fare will have raised from $76 to a whopping $92.

THAT IS A FUCKING $16 FARE HIKE IN ONE FUCKING YEAR.

And yet what do we get for this $16 extra a month? Surly employees with lead feet—BUT ONLY FOR THE BRAKE—a train system that: completely collapses for two days when it fucking RAINS; generally takes more time to arrive than—this is a rough estimate—it takes to give vaginal birth to fucking TRIPLETS: stalls beneath rivers; and is paid for via machines that break down for days on end but STILL CHARGE YOU ANYWAY IF YOU DARE TO “DIP” YOUR CREDIT CARD (which, by the way, what the fuck does that even MEAN? The movement of my credit card in your fucking slot is LATERAL, not up-and-down, so I am, in fact, despite your onscreen instructions, not DIPPING a goddamn thing), and have broken air conditioning when it’s already 107 degrees outside at fucking DAWN.

THAT, ladies and gentlemen and others, is the sort of dazzling service a $16 fare hike in 12 months will buy you under the MTA’s auspices—that and a reported $900 million budget deficit. Which begs the question: what in the holy fucking shit-eating piss-drinking HELL HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH OUR FUCKING MONEY?!?!?!

So, here’s to you, MTA: SCREW YOU, SUCK MY BALLS, KISS MY ASS, AND FUCK YOUR MOTHER.

See you in the morning!

 

The Subway Chronicles Part Neuf: A Continental Affair

That's right bitches.

It's officially been a month since I started the new j-o-b, and you know what that means: I have one again amassed enough morning and evening commutes to have stockpiled a thing or two to bitch about in a condescending voice. 

So without further ado...STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE. Cuz here we muh-fuc*in' go.

First and foremost:

Oh, hello...

How would you, Slavic tattooed guy, like to ravage me like a puppy with a ragdoll? Hmm? 

Psst! My stop's next!

Ta.

Crazy Fast-Talking Gesticulating Italian Dancer Chicks

Ohhhhhhhhh, CFTGIDC, how you brightened my day.

Let's be frank, shall we? Summer in New York fuc*ing sucks. It's so fuc*ing hot up in here I can't even THINK. Do you know, the other night, I decided AGAINST masturbation because it was just plain too hot? 

TRUE STORY. IT'S THAT HOT.

My 7-block walk to the subway from work really isn't bad at all--it's actually a kinda pleasant amble up 5th Ave, truth be told--but when it's 92 degrees outside with 547.62% humidity and a dewpoint of 223? It's fuc*ing miserable.

And so it was that I arrived at the subway wanting to kill people. A lot of people. Copious amounts of people. And then I remembered that I hadn't yet gone underground, where it is easily at least 10 degrees hotter than outside, which means it was at least roundabout 100 degrees down there. And then I, kind of had the feeling of "fuc* people, I'll just kill MYSELF."

So imagine my joy, my rapture when, upon arriving at Lexington and 59th, you three got on the train. Oh but you were something, having just left rehearsal at one of the nearby theatres or dance class at Broadway Dance Center, one or the other, given that you were in dance attire, much of which had Broadway Dance Center written across it, and were carrying large bags, and were sweating like farm animals, and had your hair pulled tightly into buns.

There was Italian Thing 1, with her purple sweatpants and her long, flowing, chestnut-colored tresses. I could tell right away that she thinks she's the prettiest of the three of you--and you know, TECHNICALLY, she's right. She WAS the most conventionally pretty. But she was also, very plainly, an idiot. And she was also, very plainly, too small to be any fun. She had no tits, and about a 12-inch waist, and looked as though she'd crack in half if you laid on top of her. What guy wants that? Straight guy I mean.

And then there was Thing 2. She was probably the sweetest of the three of you, very smily, and rather buxom. Were I a straight man, I would have thought dirty, dirty things about her. She was the sort of classic Eye-talian girl that you would run away with and have a TORRID affair, but then your love would be torn apart by war and the rise of Mussolini.

And then--then--there was Thing 3. Ohhhh Thing 3, how you charm me. Because Thing 3? You were a little hell-cat! I suspect that Thing 2 was your sister--you look an AWFULLY lot alike--but you were much more of a force to be reckoned with. Your body was bangin, and you knew it--you had your t-shirt tucked into your bra, showing us all your ripped abdominabobbles, and your rack blew those other bitches' out of the water. You had the eyes of a barracuda and looked like you could chew your way through someone's jugular. But in a hot way.

You were the shi*. I decided your name was Giovanna. Mainly because that's what Thing 2 called you.

Most of all, I loved you because you were UPSET! And you were waving your hands around and declaiming emphatically your stance. To which Thing 1 just sort of greeted with a look that said "Wait...what? Where am I?" except in Italian; and to which Thing 2 just nodded and placated and occasionally rolled her eyes over and over again, tiring of your histrionics.

But no! No, Giovanna, you would NOT be discounted! You continued to demand that you be listened to! Because by God that boy had sent you a VERY difficult to decipher text message (I gleaned, via expression and body language and vocal emphasis), and he was TOTALLY giving you mixed signals, and you were NOT playing games!

It went a little something like this:

Giovanna: No! No! (smacking the arm of Thing 2) LaSAGna, linGUIne, fettuCCIne! (Assumed translation: "No, No, LISTEN to this!") (flipping open her phone) "Prosciutto marinara chiANti, panini stromboli calZOne." Something--parLANdo?! Something--parLANdo?! (Which I'm assuming means something like "What is he TALKING about?!")

Thing 2: (rolling her eyes) Mio dio! Mio Dio GioVANna!

Giovanna: No! No! Ascolti me! (Listen to me? I'm assuming?) "Prsociutto marinara chiANti, panini stromboli CALZONE!" (smacking phone with fingers for emphasis) CalZOne! CalZOne calZOne!

Thing 2: (rolling her eyes) Si, si, calZOne!

Giovanna: (demandingly, thrusting her hands into the air) Cosi? (I'm assuming this means: So? or Well?)

Thing 2: (mockingly, thrusting her hands into the air) Cosi?

Giovanna: (pounding her fist on the train seat) CalZOne calZOne calZOne!

Thing 2: Ay Giovanna!

Giovanna: (hands waving wildly, it pours out of her mouth) SpagHETti parmesANo samBUca, no? E fettucine alfredo e pesto carbonara prosECCo parmiGIANa saltimBOCca marinARa lamBRUsco san giovESe e CALZONE CALZONE CALZONE! (my guess is: You, Thing 2, are not grasping the gravity of this! He's giving me all these weird signals and he says this and he says that and then he DUMPS me and then I'm thinking he's gone forever but then he sends me this TEXT out of NOWHERE that says CALZONE CALZONE CALZONE!)

Thing 2: Si! Si! Si! Calzone! ("Yeah yeah yeah! I get it!" I'm assuming?)

Giovanna: (smacking her arm) COSI?! (Well?)

Thing 1: (breaking her idiotic silence) Jesu CHRIsti!

Giovanna (raising her hand as if to slap her): EHHHHHHHH! (which I'm assuming means, ya know, EHHHHHHHH)

Thing 2: Arrabiatta! (Which, again, judging from inflection and gesture and cropped eyes, means something like "Enough!") Allora (which, if it's the same meaning as French, means something like "So, okay.") Porcini melanzone trieste (Say that it's very nice to hear from him)

Giovanna: (texting wildly) Si, si...

Thing 2: E rigaTOni maniCOTti al FORno (But you're very confused as to why he would text you out of the blue)

Giovanna: (getting excited) Si! Si!

Thing 2: PortaBELla Burlusconi mariNELli (Seeing as how)

Giovanna: (she can't WAIT!) Si!

Thing 2: FunniCELlo macROni belLIni! (You're a cowardly, penisless bastard.)

Giovanna: (smacking Thing 2 in unbridled delight) Si! Si! PerFETto! PerFETto! TiramisU!

Thing 1: Mio dio...

Thing 2: Silenzio!

Giovanna: (raising hand to smack her) EHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Aaaaand scene. Or: EEEEEEEE scena.

Loudest Fuc*ing French Woman in the Entire Fuc*ing World

Here's the thing.

We Americans have quite the reputation abroad, no? After all, we have our very own nickname: "The Ugly American." You know TUA--he's the fuc*tard walking around stonehenge in khaki shorts and snow-white tennis shoes, a mismatched polo shirt hugging his protruding belly, and yelling at his children in some annoying accent. Ya know, TUA--the fat woman with a fanny pack hovering over her FUPA (oh DO click on the link--you won't regret it), dangling from the waistband of her multi-colored rose-printed jersey shorts, fat sunburnt arms sticking out of a t-shirt featuring either kittens, or Jesus, or both, and some sort of visor with an EXPLOSION of over-permed/over-dyed/over-blown/all of the above hair coming out of it, smacking on the glass of a pastry case bellowing "Scuse me? SCUSE ME? Do y'all speak Anglish?! Hellooo? Well ah don't know what to do! Dont nobody in here speak Anglish!"

And, so we're clear, that is a VERBATIM quote from a woman I briefly stood in line with in a pastry shop in Paris. As you might guess, my "Excusez-moi. Mes amis ne parle pas la francais. Est ce que vous parlez Anglais?" got me served a croque monsieur toute de suite. Flower-printed t-shirt-material shorts lady just got an emphatic "NON."

Anyway. Ya know. The Ugly American.

So, okay. I get it. We're kind of assholes, in general, when we go abroad, I suppose. Although--I tried to find a link to this but couldn't, sorry--I recently read an article where a travel magazine surveyed people in the tourism industry--travel agents, hotel workers, tour guides, etc.--all over the world and asked them of all the countries they get tourists from, which tourists act a fool the worst. And you know who WASN'T on that list?

Americanos. That's right. We were regarded as enthusiastic, upbeat, polite, and easy-going. 

Ya know who were regarded as the worst? The Brits, followed by the Germans, and the Russians were up there too.

My point is: we Americans have a rep for being loud and boisterous and obnoxious. And ya know what?

I FUC*ING BEG TO FUC*ING DIFFER.

I have lived in this city for nigh on a year now, and lemme tell you what: this bitch is FLOODED with European tourists, due to that whole "America's a crumbling empire with an economy in the toilet and everything over there is like fuc*ing 75% off when you're converting the Euro so let's fuc*ing go SHOP, bitches! I want me some Carrie Bradshaw shi* to take home! I'ma roll MAD DEEP in fuc*ing Liepzig in some Manolos, bitches! Fuc* yeah! Brugges ain't gonna know what fuc*ing hit it when I roll in wearing some 5th Avenue Prada! Suck it Bucharest! Nueva York is my home now! No, I'm not kidding! I don't just shop in that bitch--I bought me a damn apartment! Uh huh! It's true! Cuz see, New York keeps building condos on top of everything, and les Americains can't afford them anymore, right?! Cuz their country's going down in flames and their funny-lookin' currency's worthless and stuff, right? So the buildings''re just sitting there empty, right?! Cuz their economy's in the shit*er, right?! Wooo! It's hilarious! So I went over there last weekend, and I bought some Jimmy Choos, and got my hair did at fuc*in Garrin NY, and went to Cipriani every day--for snacks, mind; dinner was at Le Bernardin. Please--and stayed in the Presidential Suite at the St. Regis, and put my luggage at the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons, and bought a three-story apartment in one of those ludicrous buildings on 11th Avenue? You know? Where NOTHING is except parking garages and that old power plant and yet the apartments still cost $4,000 per sq. foot? Yeah, one of those. So I bought one of those, and then I came home and I was like SUCK MY NUTSACK DUSSELDORF!!!! New York is my bitch and all you are is the dumb skank whose tits I use as a coke mirror! Na zdorovje!"

Which is all to say: I've had a bit of experience with the supposedly genteel nouveaux-riche European. And you know what? 

THEY'RE FUC*ING PIGS.

Which reminds me of why we're here at the moment: to discuss World's Loudest and Most Inconsiderate French Woman.

Now look here, LFFWEFW, I have no REAL problem with you per se. For one, you're French, and try as I may, I just can't hate your people or your country. I studied your language extensively, I adore it, your food is off the fuc*ing chain, your people are stylish as hell, I love your movies, particularly those ones with Audrey Tautou, as well as Charlotte Gainsbourg, and Yvan Attal, who, let's be frank, is a hangdog-comedic genius, and also, your nightly news is presented by THIS GUY:

Who has got to be the hottest little nerd that ever existed, and as if that weren't enough, you are also responsible for

him,

her,

and--sweet merciful Jesus--

him.

All in all? The French? Not half bad.

But YOU, LFFWEFW, YOU have given your country a bad name. You have vomited your nation's bile into my mouth and now it is all I taste. Not French fries. Not French toast. French bile. And I hate you.

For you sashayed onto the train this morning bellowing--BELLOWING--and by bellowing I mean BELLOWING--into your cellphone in French--which, you should no better than anyone, is not a language to be bellowed. Except for French profanity. That's pretty dope.

But otherwise? NOT TO BE BELLOWED. And yet, there you were, at 8:00 in the goddam* morning when it was 87% humidity and already 82 degrees, BELLOWING into your phone as if you were all alone in your house.

Now, I'll grant ye, I have a hyper-sensitivity to such behavior. I REEEEEEEALLY loathe people who don't have celly etiquette. It just...it makes me wanna...I just want to fuc*ing--

I can't.

But it WASN'T just me, LFFWEFW. No no. EVERYONE on the train GLARED at you. And then we all exchanged looks with each other. And then that skinny girl standing beside you--who was amazing by the way, wasn't she? So stylish, so stately, so juuuuuuuust this side of overdone but far enough in the line that she was still just amazing. I give her...a 9.5, though I'm biased because I LOVE a woman in a well-belted, charcoaly, midnight-blue sort of shift dress with a good pair of heels. But still. 9.5--rolled her eyes and said, audibly, hoping you'd hear, "Seriously?"

And then that spicy chica across from me rolled her eyes at you and said "Joo gotta be fockin' KIDDIN' me maaaan," and stomped off to the other end of the train. Even CHILDREN were staring at you, looking slightly frightened.

Why?

Because you were BELLOWING. All this hoo-hah going on around you, and were you fazed? Not in the least. And it was a HUMDINGER of a shout you were having. It went a little something like this (translation to follow):

"Martine! Martine! Martine! MARTINE! MAR--..............NON! MARTINE! Ecoutez! ECOUTEZ!...MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! Taisez-vous! Pourquoi êtes-vous si fâché Martine?! Pourquoi?! Je vous ai dit! Je vous ai dit, Martine! Non! Non! Martine je vous ai dit!......Ridicule! Ridicule!....Martine. Martine. MARTINE! Ecoutez-moi. A mon confiance--a mon confiance--a mon confiance Martine--MARTINE, a mon confiance--MARTINE!!!! A! MON! CONFIANCE! A MON CONFIANCE MARTINE JE VOUS AI DIT!"

I think you get the idea.

Oh, in English, that is:

"Martine! Martine! Martine! MARTINE! MAR--.....NO! MARTINE! Listen! LISTEN!....MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! Shut up! Why are you so angry, Martine?! Why?! I told you! I told you, Martine! No! No! Martine I told you!....Ridiculous! Ridiculous!...Martine. Martine. MARTINE! Listen to me. I swear to God--I swear to God--I swear to God Martine--MARTINE, I swear to God--MARTINE!!!! I! SWEAR! TO! GOD! I SWEAR TO GOD MARTINE I TOLD YOU!"

No, LFFWEFW, a MON confiance, if I have to hear the word "MARTINE!" bellowed ONE MORE FUC*ING TIME I'm going to go fuc*ing APESHIT and tear your fuc*ing HEAD OFF and smear your blood all over the walls of the N TRAIN like some kind of fuc*ed up Charlie Manson helter-skelter SACRIFICE up in this bitch. J'en ai marre, mademoiselle! J'en ai marre! Je suis ras le bol! (Oh--I've had enough, mademoiselle! I've had enough! I've had it up to HERE!)

I mean JESUS. Work your shi* out with Martine. Because #1, y'all have some MAJOR communication issues. I mean, when you can scream at someone through seven train stops and not say anything more than Martine, I told you, and I swear to God? Well, y'all have a lot of work to do on your interpersonal communication skills. 

But #2, nobody wants to hear this shi*! So work your issues out and don't get on my goddam* train until you do. 

I swear to Christ.

But here's why I REEEEEEALLY hate you LFFWEFW. 

Now, I'm the type of person who FANTASIZES about telling people off in situations such as this, but rarely does. Don't get me wrong--I've had my moments, small glimmering moments where I get fed up and ask really sarcastic, pointed questions like "I'm sorry! Where would like me to go?" when someone is irritated that I can't get out of their way because I'm mashed into a corner between a fat woman with psoriasis and some dumbshi* whose elbow is lodged in my anus.

But generally speaking, I think the better of it and keep my acid tongue to myself. Usually. But today? Oh, today, LFFWEFW, I was fuc*ing DONE. As I said, I was ras le bol with you, and so was everyone else around me, and I was just about to, at the top of my voice, while shaking my head madly like a rabid dog so's my hair would fly around in that really pretty 80s hair model/Crystal Gale sort of way, to let rip with the following

"MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! A MON CONFIANCE TAISEZ VOUS OU JE VAIS DONNEZ UN COUP DE PIED A LA BOUCHE! TU ME COMPRENDS?"

Oh, in English, that is: "MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! MARTINE! I SWEAR TO GOD SHUT UP OR I WILL KICK YOU IN THE MOUTH! UNDERSTAND?"

Ohhhh I was ready. Ready for the laughter that would ensue from my fellow passengers, ready for the shocked look on your face when you got scolded, albeit gently, owing to me not having quite the French profanity acumen I once did, in your mother tongue.

And just as I was about to open my bouche, what did you do?

You snapped your phone shut, flung it in your purse, and yelled "Salope!"

Oh, in English, that is: "Bitch!"

HOW FUC*ING DARE YOU LFFWEFW. You make me ride ALL THE WAY THROUGH QUEENS listening to that shi* and then JUST as I'm ready to scold you--IN A SECOND LANGUAGE!!!--you fuc*ing HANG UP?!

Va te faire foutre, salope foutue! Sucez mon scrotum velu, léchez mon bout rose, et mangez un pénis jusqu'à ce que vous hoquetiez comme la putain que vous êtes !

Oh, in English, that is: Fuc* you you fuc*ing bitch! Suck my hairy scrotum, lick my rosy ass, and eat a dick up till you hiccup like the whore you are!

Special thanks to Madame Wolk, Madame Mayer and Madame Day of the state of Michigan's finest school district, and the translation function of the Mac's Sherlock software.

The Subway Chronicles VIII (I am, Subway Chronicles VIII I am I am...)

It’s been a while. I know. Both for 'The Subway Chronicles' and the blog itself.

Blogwise, I've had a weeklong combination of freelance work and a stultifying 2-day temp assignment at a company I cannot name but whose initials are NFL (yes, the one you're thinking of) and whose computers are so archaic, this post has literally taken 5 hours to compose. If that's not love, I don't know what is, so stop your fuc*ing bitching about me not posting this week. I care not. I gave you five hours for one post to make sure you had SOMETHING this week. Suck it.

'The Subway Chronicles'-wise, the delay is the fault of the people of New York. They have just been relatively well-behaved on the subway of late. I don’t know what it is. Maybe people are so happy that it’s turning to spring that they just can’t muster the usual levels of asshole-osity (which has never been a word, but is now, as of this moment)? I know not.

But—and there is always a but—subway etiquette, like all beautiful things, must eventually come to a crashing, screeching, heartbreaking end. Herewith:

Fashion Victim with High-Waisted Jeans

I’ve said before that I applaud those who take sartorial risks, and I mean it every time I say it. Sincerely.

But sometimes it becomes instantly apparent that a trend that has recently come back to rear its head never should have been given a second chance in the first place. As such, it disappears as quickly as it came.

High-waisted pants for the womenfolk seems to be one of these trends. Remember high-waisted pants for the womenfolk last year? No? Yeah, neither does anyone else. They showed up for a hot-minute on hot messes like the following:

Fergie

and:

Mischa Barton

and a few unfortunate souls amongst the proletariat—seriously, I spied them maybe twice in real life, and this is New York. God knows if they had caught on they would have been fuc*ing EVERYWHERE. But they disappeared IMMEDIATELY. Why?

BECAUSE THEY’RE FUC*ING UGLY.

I mean, come on. Look at Fergie up there. We all know, Fergie’s got a bangin’ body. We’ve all seen it ad nauseum. And yet, does she or does she not look decidedly paunchy up there? She does. As if she might be a couple months gone with a mini-Duhamel.

And Mischa? Bi*ch weighs, ohhhh, roundabout, say, FOUR FUC*ING POUNDS. And yet does she or does she not look like she just got done eating Thanksgiving dinner and is fixin’ to bust because she ate her weight—wait, that’s like a child’s size portion—like she ate pregnant-with-twins J. Lo’s weight—in Southern-style cornbread stuffing and hence her FUPA (google it, I can’t be bothered to spell it out for you fools) is distended and straining her fly?

Right? Here you have one of the scrawniest bi*ches in the game, and another who, faithfully, by all accounts, be up in the gym just workin' on her fitness. And yet they are transformed to paunchy by fuc*ing hideous pants that don’t belong on anyone except maybe Rosie the Riveter.

But you, FVWHWJ? You are not cowed by the failure of this ill-advised trend whose bandwagon NOBODY jumped on. No no. You not only wore them with pride, but you wore them with, dare I say, ARROGANCE. You stood in the aisle, one leg cocked fiercely, as if posing for a photo shoot, your dramatically-belled pantleg sweeping with a flourish over your boot. I suspect that you fancy yourself Gisele Bundchen. And while you were not unattractive by any means, in the immortal words of the Ruff Ryders’ First Lady, Eve, none a you ain’t Gisele.

But most importantly, FVWHWJ: you are RAIL-THIN and yet—AND YET—you appeared to be, like Fergie, a few months gone with a mini-whoever-you-happen-be-fuc*ing or, like Mischa, recovering from a no-holds-barred binge at Burgers and Cupcakes. WTF?!

But this was but the tip of the iceberg, wasn’t it FVWHWJ?

Because from one arm, you dangled your $2000 handbag—a Birkin (don’t think I don’t know that shi* from forty paces, I watched ‘Sex and the City’ AND ‘The Comeback,’ and while I may not be able to dress myself properly 90% of the time I STILL once correctly identified a fake Dior as nothing more than a fake Dior from 50 feet away at a Macaroni Grill in Skokie, IL. Don’t FUC* with me FVWHWJ) for the record—from one forearm while talking pointedly—by which I mean LOUDLY—into your Blackberry with the other. You were intent on all of us hearing your conversation about your escapades at Fashion Week (let’s be frank, you probably only got into something really stupid, like FUBU or what’s her twat’s—Kimora Lee Asshole or whatever her name is—show or something), and seemed dedicated to making sure we were all deeply impressed.

But the coup de grace, FVWHWJ, was when you took the time to place your phone call on hold for the express purpose of turning your bag around the other way on your arm so that the dangly Birkin tag would be facing OUT to ensure that we could all see clear as day that you have a Birkin. Jesus, when you removed your coat (which, incidentally, was not only military-themed, making the entire thing overkill—military jacket, navy-inspired high-waisted pants, give it a rest—but was also made of canvas and looked deceptively similar to the female version of one I have from Old Navy, so the jig is up bi*ch) I was half expecting you to be wearing a t-shirt that says or “Ever wondered what a Birkin looks like in the flesh? Wonder no more!” or “Ask me about my oversized and out of date Birkin!” or maybe just simply “Hey, I have a Birkin!”

I mean, for God’s sake, it bears repeating: YOU TOOK THE TIME TO PLACE A PHONE CALL ON HOLD SO YOU COULD REARRANGE YOUR HANDBAG SO ITS LABEL FACED OUT. Yes you did! Don’t deny it! I SAWWWWW that shi*!

Indeed, you were verrrrrrrry impressed with yourself. But here’s a word of advice to you. Okay, several words. #1—If you’re wearing a style of trousers that NO ONE ELSE WEARS and makes you look like you have something going down in utero, they’re probably not that cute and #2—A handbag that peaked when it was the subject of an episode—an episode featuring LUCY LIU, no less—of a television comedy that went off the air soooo long ago that there’s now a follow-up movie about to gatecrash cineplexes worldwide proooooooobably isn’t all that impressive anymore and #3—This is Queens. Nobody gives a flying fuc* about Fashion Week (except me and my ilk, who are nothing more than uppity Manhattan types priced out of Manhattan and forced to sublimate their borough-induced rage by compulsively cleaning their spacious Queens kitchens. And even we are not impressed because we know that your Birkin, while classic, has not been interesting in nigh on 4 years. There was a reason Valerie Cherish carried a Birkin on 'The Comeback': because Valerie is universally 'out of it' and so the bag was a witty anachronism. Please note that 'The Comeback' aired in 2005. You ain't no thang, FVWHWJ. Call me when you have an Anna Wintour story like my beloved Fug Girls) and #4--SHUT THE FUC* UP ON YOUR CELLPHONE and #5—If you didn’t spend $2000 on past-prime handbags that are only anymore carried by dessicated Park Avenue dowagers you might be able to afford to live in Manhattan with the rest your social-climbing faux-fashionista types and be constantly surrounded by people who might be impressed by your stupid cellphone stories about waving to the Heatherette guys in Bryant Park and SWEARING that they waved back because they totally remembered you from last year SQUEEEEAL!

And #6, and most importantly--STOP WEARING THOSE BUTT UGLY PANTS.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Children are a rare joy. The subway is not. But every now and then, one of God’s little angels comes down to a subway train packed full of commuters so world-weary that the car is as silent as a library, and fills it with rays of incomparable joy. And sometimes—or at least this one time—it goes a little something like this:

Little boy, loudly to mother: Mama, how come every time I poop you have to check it?

Mother: (Thrusts hand over boy’s mouth) Merciful Jesus…

Really? For One Stop?

I understand the need to sit down on the subway. Believe me. I am a subway multi-tasker—usually slurping on some sort of beverage while also reading a magazine while also clicking through my iPod--because, sidebar: what, exactly, IS the problem with my iPod's 'shuffle' function? Out of a possible 2,200 songs, It picks the SAME 100 or so lame ones (seriously iPod, 'White Rabbit,' 'I Wanna Sex You Up' and something from The Sound of Music EVERY TIME? Why? Why?) and repeats them in the SAME ORDER every time, which, in my mind, is the antithesis of 'shuffling'--while also sending text messages like a giant asshole. And I understand the annoyance of the lurching and rocking that ensues because all of the drivers have massive chips on their shoulders and care not that there are 400 people standing on their train and feel perfectly justified in SLAMMING on the brakes instead of simply applying them. I get it. I know. I FEEL YA. Sitting down is choice, a welcome dodging of a very irritating bullet.

I also understand that for some, climbing over others to get to an empty seat is worth it. Personally, I disagree. Number one, the ghetto ass 1970’s trains with the orange and yellow seats instead of benches are deeply uncomfortable. Perhaps back during the bicentennial, people were still thin enough to fit three abreast in those tiny seats, but nowadays it’s just plain uncomfortable. Nay, it’s fuc*ing hideous. We NEEEED those trains with the benches nowadays so’s we can appropriately distribute ourselves so that everyone’s access to oxygen is equitable. I would rather stand and fly all over the train car (like I do) than squash into one of those middle seats, or one of those seats butted up against the wall of the train. It isn’t worth it to me. I have freakishly wide shoulders. I like to BREATHE. I’m funny like that.

But I get it. For some, an open seat is an open seat. And that’s fine. You, RFOS, were perfectly in your rights to climb over the man on the aisle like you were hiking through the Wasatch to get to the seat between him and the wall. Your eyes lit up with glee that is only comparable to a child’s on Christmas morning when that seat became available. You practically DOVE at it like those soccer goalies dive for those soccer balls because apparently the point of a soccer game is to keep the ball out of the goal at all costs (or so I’m told. I don’t know from soccer. Except that it is partially responsible for the wonder that is Victoria Beckham). You wanted that seat, and you were going to make it YOURS.

And that’s fine. I personally thought it was a little ridiculous, RFOS; that the ends didn’t particularly justify the means. You know what I’m talking about. Climbing over that man’s leg; tripping and almost falling over because the train lurched and you are, I suspect, a bit of a dolt; climbing over that man’s OTHER leg (ibid); hitting that man in the head with your ginormous shopping bag; incomprehensibly swinging around in a circle (why? why?) and hitting that OTHER guy in the head with your ginormous shopping bag; and finding that there wasn’t enough room in your extremely limited leg space to place your ginormous shopping bag on the floor and instead having to put it on your lap so that it incased you to nose level in a fortress of ginormous shopping bag.

To me? Not worth it. To the no less than five people to whom you doled out minor contusions with your seat-grabbing, shopping bag-flinging, circling-like-a-dog-about-to-lie-down-for-a-nap acrobatics? DEFINITELY not worth it. To you, RFOS? Apparently worth it. And that’s fine.

BUT YOU GOT OFF AT THE NEXT FUC*ING STOP.

What the fuc* is wrong with you?! Your ass was in that seat all of about TEN FUC*ING SECONDS. I mean, we’re talking from 42nd St to 49th Street here! DO THE FUC*ING MATH! That’s SEVEN BLOCKS! That takes MAYBE five minutes on fuc*ing FOOT!!! SEVEN BLOCKS! ONE STOP!

For God’s sake, your victims had only just gotten all the bleeding stopped when you jumped up and REPEATED THE WHOLE FUC*ING DEBACLE—in reverse, order to exit your seat—not even ONE MINUTE LATER!

And—AND!—you practically knocked a child down fighting your way to the damn doors because they started to close before you had a chance to exit! THAT’S HOW LONG IT TOOK YOU TO GET OUT OF THAT SEAT!

Really? For one stop, RFOS?!

WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUC* IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

The Return of an Old Friend

No, not Guy Who Said He'd Call and Never Did (GWSHCAND), thank God.

Remember a few ‘Subway Chronicles’ ago, I told you a story about Singing Out Loud to Overplayed Classic Rock Guy? You can refresh your memory here:

To be brief, he was the dude on the subway singing out loud—in full voice—to ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ and then all but forced the girl next to him to listen to it on his headphones, which had EARWAX ON THEM, and then proceeded to openly ogle her tits so intently that she pulled her coat tightly around her. He was something special.

Well, friends, he has graced us with his presence once again! The triumphant return of SOLOCRG! And he’s been making friends all over this city. Specifically, with my roommate.

It went a little something like this.

Scene: A packed subway train. A middle-aged man of approximately 40 who may or may not be homeless singing aloud to classic rock, Singing Out Loud to Overplayed Classic Rock Guy, sits down next to a stylish, pretty 20-something, Adorable Southern Bell Roommate with Kicky Pixie Cut, who is reading a magazine.

Singing Out Loud to Overplayed Classic Rock Guy: How’s your magazine?

Adorable Southern Belle Roommate with Kicky Pixie Cut: …I don’t know. I’m on the table of contents.

SOLOCRG: Which one is it?

ASBRKPC: TimeOut New York

SOLOCRG: Never heard of it.

ASBRKPC: (Silent)

SOLOCRG: Hey, listen to this song.

ASBRKPC: …What?

SOLOCRG: Listen to this song (offers her earwaxy headphone)

ASBRKPC: No, that’s okay.

SOLOCRG: No seriously, I just bought this at the Virgin Megastore.

ASBRKPC: Then how is it already on your iPod?

SOLOCRG: What?

ASBRKPC: If you just bought it. Nevermind. (Aside, to audience, in style of Shakespearean comedy): Why am I talking to this person?

SOLOCRG: No seriously. This song’s really funny.

ASBRKPC: Really. That’s okay.

SOLOCRG: No seriously! I don’t mind! I got two headphones!

ASBRKPC: No, really. It’s okay.

SOLOCRG: No, see? You take one I take one, right?!

ASBRKPC: (Trying with all her might to be a paragon of manners and comportment, in manner of gold-standard for both, Julia Sugarbaker) REALLY. It’s OKAY.

SOLOCRG: Suit yourself.

(Silence)

SOLOCRG: So, you wanna go out sometime?

ASBRKPC: (pause). Excuse me?

SOLOCRG: You wanna go out?

ASBRKPC: Like on a date?

SOLOCRG: Yeah.

ASBRKPC: No, that’s okay. Thanks.

SOLOCRG: C’mon! Why not?

ASBRKPC: (pause born of complete shock) Well, for starters, because I’m in a long-term relationship? (Looks around frantically for somewhere to escape. There is nowhere to go)

SOLOCRG: So?

ASBRKPC: So?

SOLOCRG: It’s just two people hanging out, right?

ASBRKPC: Um, no—

SOLOCRG: No harm in two people hanging—

ASBRKPC: --I DON’T THINK MY BOYFRIEND WOULD SEE IT THAT WAY--

SOLOCRG: Sounds like he needs to lighten up.

ASBRKPC: (Speechless. Notices woman exiting train. Leaps for her space near the door. Other passengers look on, horrified).

SOLOCRG: Suit yourself (Resumes singing at full voice)

Fin.

The Subway Chronicles: Le Septième

Sigh.

This was a commute to end all commutes.

As I and a large group of fellow commuters mounted the staircase, we heard the terrifying bong of the electronic bells that indicates the impending closure of the train doors. Luckily, most of us made it. The train car nearest the steps was strangely empty and we all crushed inside. About the time the doors had closed is when it hit us: the rancid stench of human putrefaction that is the distinctive bouquet of the homeless, a mélange of poop, sweat and pee with a patina of garbage and an undertone of gutter-water.

For those of you who live in cities without public transport, or who live in cities like Chicago where much of the homeless have been mysteriously run out to…somewhere—Aurora?  That shelter under the Sedgwick stop? The side of the Dan Ryan? Wherever—and are thankfully not often found bunking on subway trains, the scent of a homeless man is most likely something you experience in passing. He walks past you on the street, you get one foul whiff that lasts long enough for you to scream inside our head “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD JUST BREATHE THROUGH YOUR MOUTH OH JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY OH SWEET MERCIFUL MOTHER OF GOD JUST BREATHE THROUGH YOUR MOUTH OH GOD OH FUCKING HELL OH JESUS!” and then it’s over. It’s bad enough, to be sure. But, quickly, it’s over.

Well let me inform you that the aroma of the down-and-out possesses a power you cannot imagine until you actually experience it at full strength. It radiates. It consumes. And when contained in a shiny silver train car, it FILLS IT TO THE VERY CORNERS. It’s not like when someone farts in a car, either, where you crack a window and the noxious gases escape, leaving all unscathed. Nuh-no. It HANGS. I theorize that it forms covalent chemical bonds with the materials used to manufacture the interior of a subway car. The protons and electrons of the stink bond to the protons and electrons of the Formica on the seats and the metal of the handrails. I am convinced. (That is how covalent bonds form, yes? Am I remembering my chemistry correctly? Probably not. Whatever. Suck it. This is my blog, not Stephen Hawking’s).

So go with me on this mental journey. Imagine you’ve just passed by one of our less-fortunate neighbors, his scent filling your nostrils. Can you smell it? Good. Now imagine that you haven’t merely PASSED BY the less-fortunate, but that he is in fact sleeping on a bench inside an enclosed, narrow metal tube roughly, say, 50 feet long filled with his scent, and you cannot escape said tube. You are sealed in. It’s like Tupperware, except huge and on wheels. What do you do?

Well, if you’re anything like me and the others accompanying me onto this train, as soon as the doors close, you FLIP. THE FUC*. OUT. For example, the girl standing next to me, who started frantically looking around for an escape…I don’t really know what she was looking for exactly…a window she could break? A secret escape hatch? An axe with which she could chop a hole in the ceiling? I don’t know. But I do know she babbled almost incoherently to her boyfriend as she tried to shove her face inside her coat: “Oh God oh God we’re screwed we’re fuckin’ SCREWED!”

Just then, like a miracle, as if Moses himself had arrived, inexplicably—or maybe entirely explicably, perhaps the driver knew?—the doors opened again. And you would have thought the train car was ON FIRE. A STAMPEDE—and I mean it—a STAMPEDE of business-casual clad cubicle rats clamored out of the train car as if this were an episode of 24 and an anthrax-laden bomb had but two seconds left before it blew us all to disease-ridden smithereens. Children were trampled. People screamed “Save yourself! Don’t be a hero!” The National Guard showed up in riot gear and started firing rubber bullets. It was not cute.

Luckily, the bulk of us stormed the train car next door, filling it to capacity. I’m at the very first stop, mind. Usually these train cars are half empty when I get on in the morning. This one was like…I don’t know—a gay bar on Madonna night? A Wal-Mart during an acid-washed jeans sale? Whatever. Something REALLY crowded. Choose your own damn analogy. Cheek by jowl is the point.

Now as if this trauma weren’t enough, I had the good fortune of encountering two delightful fellow New Yorkers.

Asian Man With No Fucking Clue

Ohhh Asian Man With No Fucking Clue, you fill my heart with sunshine and mirth. Why? Because it’s a special kind of optimism that inspires one to, upon seeing a train filled to absolute capacity, decide to shove his way inside anyway. After all, there has to be SOME ROOM in there SOMEWHERE, right? The universe isn’t so cruel as to make the volume of a train car FINITE! That’s crazy talk! God is too benevolent, too generous! Nay, people like you laugh in the face of adversity! And by “adversity,” I mean simple facts of physics that everyone else in the world understands with no difficulty. Or really any effort at all.

But the kicker, AMWNFC, the topper, the icing on the cake, the coup de grace, was when you, upon shoving me further into the train, had the unmitigated gall to say, in complete seriousness, “Pardon meeeeh. Move into tlain prease.”

EXCUSE ME?   

I’m sorry, AMWNFC. Did you just tell me to fuc*ing MOVE INTO THE TLAIN TRAIN?
Where the fuc* do you propose I GO, EXACTLY? Should I move THROUGH the woman in front of me? Should I fuc*ing SHAPE SHIFT into a fuc*ing SPECTRE and just RETREAT into her fuc*ing SOUL in order to get out your WAY? Do you think I’m a fuc*ing HOLOGRAM or something? Or maybe I could munch on these fucking MUSHROOMS in my pocket that fuc*ing ALICE from fuc*ing ALICE IN FUC*ING WONDERLAND gave me and then I can SHRINK into a version of myself TINY ENOUGH to crawl up this woman’s ASS and get out your WAY! WHERE THE FUC* DO YOU WANT ME TO GO?!?!

And FURTHERMORE, ANWNFC, I WAS HERE FIRST!!!! I FLED FROM THE RANCID STENCH OF SOME HOMELESS DUDE’S ASS CRACK!!! I AND MY FELLOW PASSENGERS ARE FUC*ING REFUGEES!!! THERE WILL BE OTHER TRAINS!!!

When I glowered down my nose at you and said out loud, in my best sarcastic snarl, “Where exactly do you suggest I go?” You replied with a light-hearted chuckle “Ah know, wight? Too full! Dis twain too furll!”

EXACTLY.

So, AMWNFC: Pardon ME. Get the fuc* OFF MY TRAIN PLEASE.

Guy Who Said He’d Call But Never Did

Sigh.

Now let me get one thing straight, readers. I am NOT the type to obsess over the menfolk.

Wait. That’s not true AT ALL. Let me rephrase this: I am not the type to fall to pieces and go down a self-loathing spiral trying to figure out why I got blown off. My response is usually more in the anger direction. “Whatever. Fuc* that dude. What a douche. If he don’t want this prime piece a ass then he can suck my fuc*ing ballsack.” Ya know, that sort of eloquent, take-the-high-road bravado thing.

The point I’m attempting to make is that when I get blown off, I tend to move on with my life. What can ya do, right? As Bonnie Raitt has informed us, you can’t make someone love you if they don’t and you can’t make their heart feel something it won’t, ya know?

But every now and then a dude comes along who just doesn’t have any balls. Ya know the type? That has some sort of guilt complex? Who aside from the fact that he can’t just come out and say “Ya know? I just wasn’t feelin’ it” also doesn’t even have the balls to just NOT ANSWER THE PHONE when you call and ignore you until you get the point? Ya know that sort of person?

Yeah. ME FUC*IN TOO.

Guy Who Said He’d Call But Never Did was one of those. We met up for a beer one night and had a perfectly good time. Easy conversation, no lags or awkward pauses, no difficulty in coming up with topics. All in all, as good a first date as you can hope for. I tend to be cautious on first dates (to a fault, which is why I will most likely turn into a bitter old man who yells at neighborhood kids to stay off his lawn before dying alone and being eaten by wild dogs, in the manner of Bridget Jones, as previously blogged many moons ago) and keep things casual, letting the other guy take the lead. So when we parted ways, I cleverly left things open-ended: he could either go in for a handshake, or he could change the course and go in for the hug or, God forbid, the kiss. There are myriad options. To my surprise, he went for the hug, and then upped the ante by kissing me, albeit on the cheek. But seriously? What sort of “straight acting,” vaguely uptight financial analyst is gonna actually full-on kiss another guy in a straight bar on the Lower East Side? He just wasn’t the type. Frankly, neither am I. I am classy and sophisticated. I save that shi* for the bathroom or the alley outside or the back of a taxi. I was brought up right.

Anyway. So he hugs, he kisses, and then—THEN—he clasps my arms quite tightly, looks at me all dreamy-like, and says: “Wow. I had such a great time tonight. Gimme a call, okay?” Given that I had to leave abruptly—I lost track of time talking to this dreamy kid and was now late for a prior engagement—and there would be no walking to doorsteps or subways, I figured this is pretty much as demonstrative as you can get inside a crowded straight bar. Good sign.

So after waiting the requisite three days, I emailed—which, yes, I know, is trashy and impersonal. But whatever. I was busy, phone conversations are irritating, emails get the job done with little actual effort, and I’m also a pus*y, whatev. I emailed, indicated my interest and that the other night had been lots of fun, etc. He wrote back the following day very excited to have heard from me, and saying that he would call me to set up another date that weekend and that he was looking forward to it. In the meantime, he asked me to give him the details about a show I was working on at the time, as he and a friend of his wanted to come see it. Generally speaking, he seems pretty interested in me at least as a general concept, no?

So imagine my surprise when he a—didn’t call; b—never responded to my response to his email; c—obviously never showed up at my show; and—and this is the clincher, kids—d—would mysteriously either log out or change his status to “unavailable” on the IM chat feature of our mutual email provider EVERY MORNING when I would log into my account. I’d log in, and there he’d be with a little green icon and some happy status message like “What a great morning!” or “Yum…Blueberry muffins!” or “I’m a fuc*ing douche—who knew?!” or what have you, and the moment my Gmail would right itself and my little icon would pop up over there in the chat window, suddenly, mysteriously, intreeeeeeeeeeeeguingly, he’d switch to the red icon and read “Busy.” This went on for weeks until I was so fuc*ing annoyed at watching it happen every morning—I mean, seriously? It went on for like TWO MONTHS. Like if he were to slack off one day and just leave it green, I was gonna start IM’ING HIM LIKE CRAZY in an attempt to cyber-boil his cyber-bunny even though it had been TWO MONTHS and I’m NOT RETARDED and clearly understood he wasn’t into me after TWO DAYS of not receiving a response to my response to his email and ASIDE FROM ALL OF THAT we had NEVER ONCE IM’ED EACH OTHER IN THE FIRST PLACE ANYWAY.

Fuc*tard.

So this begs a few questions, no? Clearly, he was not interested. So why the kiss on the cheek? Why the dopey-eyed “OMG this was so fun weeee!” closing to the first date. And most importantly: WHY DID HE RETURN MY FOLLOW-UP EMAIL IN THE FIRST PLACE? And then MOST most MOST importantly, WHY THE F’ING AROUND ON IM PROGRAMS like this is 8TH FUC*ING GRADE and we are TOTALLY IN A FIGHT and if he responds to my im’s he’ll have to INVITE ME to his fuc*ing BIRTHDAY PARTY and he does NOT want me THERE fuc*ing RUINING EVERYTHING. But, being, as I said, the grown-up that I am, I simply said to myself “Whatever. Fuc* that dude. What a douche. If he don’t want this prime piece a ass then he can suck my fuc*ing ballsack. He lives in Hell’s Kitchen and works in the east 50’s, so it’s not like our paths will ever cross. So he can fuc*ing fuc* the fuc* off.”

By now you may be wondering to yourself, perhaps even aloud, “What, John the Craptist, in the ever-loving HELL does this have to do with the subway?”

Well, readers—my dear, impatient readers—it goes a little something like this. The stop after AMWNFC smashed his way onto the train and actually had the gonads to say “Pardon me. Move into tlain prease,” even though he had SHOVED ME into the woman in front of me and there was quite clearly NOWHERE FOR ME TO GO—after that, who should get on MY FUC*ING TRAIN?

Apparently, GWSHCBND has either moved from Hell’s Kitchen and is now living in OR fuc*ing someone who lives in MY NEIGHBORHOOD. Because the one who got on the  train was none other than GWSHCBND.

So let’s take stock for a moment. Thus far, we’ve been hermetically sealed into the rank stench of the homeless, fled same, been jostled about by a clueless Asian man with whom we’ve had to have a verbal altercation, and run smack into an idiot who’s left a bad taste in our mouth.

And while we’re on the subject of GWSHCBND, let’s talk about the fact that, much like his silly IM game, he spent the entire train ride glancing in my direction trying to ascertain whether or not I had seen him and if so, whether or not I was going to try to talk to him. Which, let’s be honest, I considered doing, just to make him uncomfortable and watch him squirm. The train was overly crowded (and I’m a pus*y) so I decided against it. But since he has apparently moved in on MY TURF—and by the way, GWSHCBND, if you’re reading this: GET OFF OF MY LAND—I’ll probably have myriad rush hour opportunities to make him feel awkward, and as I have a vendetta against people who I deem to be spineless—all of ‘em—I can’t wait. Yes, I know that I need a life. Suck it. I’ll do what I want.

Anyway. So after allllllllll of that—again, stench, flight from stench, Asian man, jackass who never called—we descend into the tunnel that goes beneath the East River and into the isle of Manhattan. When the train is as packed-to-the-gills crowded as it was, this is not a pleasant experience. You go quite a long time without the reshuffling of the deck that comes with making stops—losing a few passengers, getting to readjust your feet so that you no longer need to stand on one foot and brace yourself by grasping onto the ceiling because you can’t reach one of the handrails, getting that guy’s briefcase dislodged from your as*hole, etc. The tunnel is quite long and quite a bit of time elapses.

So imagine the pleasantness—the sheer unadulterated ecstasy—of being trapped inside the center of this tunnel, below the river, with the stench of the homeless still lingering in your nostrils, a clueless Asian man breathing down (or up, as it were, since you’re roughly three feet taller than he) your neck, standing nearly on one foot because he’s wedged his under your heel, a jackass retard who works one of your pet peeves trying as hard as he can to constantly glance at you without ever making eye contact to the point that you want to reach across the train and smack the living shi* out of him and bellow “Yes! It’s fucking ME!,”, being as*raped by a Kenneth Cole attaché and resenting it even more than you normally would because you realize that being as*raped by a Kenneth Cole attaché is in fact more action than you’ve had in a very long time, for a full 15 minutes because some motherfuc*ing shi*eating coc*sucking son of a bitc*ing as*clown of a retard pulled the emergency brake on the train sitting at the next stop and it is now stuck.

It's times like this when I'm reminded of the snarky, sardonic message on an e-card I was sent by a friend shortly before I moved to NYC:

Welcome to New York. You’re going to love hating it here.

The Subway Chronicles, Movement Five in A minor

First, readers, a question. Let’s say for a moment that you’re a grown woman who rides the subway to work. And by grown I mean middle-aged. Well beyond the age of childish hubris. You’re 45 years of age. At least. Probably more like 55. So it’s safe to say you know better.

Now let’s say, readers, that apart from being a median age of, say, 50, you also have the misfortune of having a HUGE birthmark on the side of your face. And by huge, I mean huge. It goes from your ear lobe, roughly, about ¾ of the way to the corner of your mouth. It’s BIG. Not anything hellatious—merely a swath of skin darker than the rest of your face. And being that you are, in fact, of a darker-skinned ethnicity—I’m guessing Southeast Asian, something not quite Indian but also not quite Japanese or Chinese or Korean—it probably wouldn’t even be that noticeable. Except for one thing.

And this one thing makes all the difference. Because, reader, this giant swath of discolored skin stretching nearly all the way across your face is able to grow hair. Lots of hair. Hair that is as thick as the hair on your head. Maybe thicker. And while the hair on your head is still a lustrous shade of chestnut brown, your birthmark is going grey. No, not going. GONE. It has GONE grey, giving you a stripe of gray fur roughly a half-inch wide and three inches long down the entirety of your cheek.

Now given all this information about your plight, readers, riddle me this. In this situation, do you:

A—Leave the birthmark as is. After all, there’s little you can do about it, right?

Or

B—Take $10, walk to the nearest Duane Reade, get some fuc*ing Nivea for Men, a muh-fuc*in’ Gillette Mach 3 and SHAVE THAT SHIT THE FUC* OFF so that you do not become THAT LADY ON THE SUBWAY WITH A GODDAM* SILVER MUTTON CHOP DOWN THE SIDE OF HER FACE?

I’ll leave it to a vote.

Assorted Collection of Uptown Thugs

In spite of my confirmed status as a prematurely aged fuddy-duddy, I am still hip enough to know that you, gentlemen, are incredibly cutting-edge. You listen to the hottest new hip-hop (*cough* garbage) which you kindly blare through your headphones so that the entire train can enjoy it along with you (*cough* as*holes), house your feet in the edgiest new $400 ‘kicks’ (*cough* ugly white monstrosities) that are so gigantic they get in everyone’s way (*cough* get some normal fuc*ing shoes you idiots) and have the coolest way of calling each other nig*er even though NONE OF YOU is black (*cough* retarded and how come there are never any big tough black dudes around to take offense to your use of that word and pick you up by your ill-fitting jeans and hurl you out the back door of the train? Disappointing, that. *cough*).

But here’s what I find most disturbing, ACOUT. It can be summed up with one word: Coogi.

Are we all familiar with Coogi? The couturier responsible for Cosby Sweaters? You know the type. Think back to Dr. Cliff Huxtable’s uniform: oversized, bestriped, multi-colored and fuc*ing HIDEOUS? Like, say, this?:

Or maybe this?:

Ooh, this one's my favorite:

 

When in the ever-loving hell did THIS come back into style? WHEN? And more importantly WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?

I don’t understand. Coogi had disappeared for YEARS. Thankfully. This assault upon my eyes has been gone at LEAST as long as the Cosby Show has. Maybe longer. And even when it WAS a weekly occurrence on Dr. Huxtable, there wasn’t anyone ELSE in the world wearing this hideous shi*. IT WAS JUST HIM.

Now? I see you, ACOUT and all of your ilk, running around the streets and trains of New York wearing this hideous crap ALL THE TIME. But, curiously, only in the last 3 weeks. It started with just one of you on a subway platform, wearing a horrendous jacket with “Coogi” splattered on the back that made me recoil. I wanted to grab this young man and say “Do you have ANY IDEA what you’re getting yourself into?” I felt like an intervention needed to be staged, but then my train arrived to whisk me away to something more important and I was over it. I shook my head and thought “Wow, kid, if you only knew that you were dabbling with dark forces beyond your understanding.”

And then I watched MTV’s ‘True Life.’ I know, shut up. The topic was “True Life: I’m an outcast in my family because I’m a self-absorbed fuc*tard” or somesuch. I’m paraphrasing. But we had a fat ugly slut (her words, not mine, watch the episode if you don’t believe me) who thought she was gonna be a nude model whose family hated her for having no ambition except to be a fat ugly slut nude model; a snaggle-toothed trailer-dweller whose white trash mom joined her siblings in making fun of her because she was a cheerleader and not a Goth (okay, this one actually WAS sort of sad, particularly since, snaggle-toothedness aside, the girl seemed to be a perfectly lovely, intelligent and ambitious young thing haplessly born to a mother who thinks it's cool that she's 40 and still obsessed with Kurt Cobain); and an Indian kid who thought he was a rapper, but was in fact actually just a retard and an actual true life version (see what I did there?) of that kid in ‘Mean Girls’ who’s the captain of the Mathletes but ALSO a DJ and rapper and also into Lindsay Lohan despite the fact that she probably has gonorrhea AND Chlamydia AND crabs AND is an alcoholic AND often finds herself wearing “other peoples’ pants” that just HAPPEN to contain la cocaina. Remember that kid? Yeah, that was this kid on ‘True Life,’ and he was an “outcast in his own family” because his parents, who were perfectly sweet and wonderful, merely insisted that if Rajiv or whatever his name was wanted to rap, he’d have to do it after his homework was finished. PARENTS. CAN BE. SO. UNFAIR.

I digress, ACOUT. The point is: Rajiv was covered head to toe in Coogi. WTF?!?!?!

What is going on in this country? As representatives of this culture, ACOUT, I demand you explain to me why you and your ilk see fit to clothe yourselves in garments that have been a punchline for DECADES because they look like someone was stabbed and disemboweled to death on top of a Jackson Pollock painting. Why? Why?

And turn that damn Mims down. You’re drowning out my Madonna.

I Saw That Shi*

Dear ISTS,

You seemed like a perfectly normal gentleman. You were wearing a very nice pair of dress shoes that I might even consider for myself, if I were, say, a lawyer or banker and were required to wear really nice oxford sort of shoes every day. You had on nice pants and a nice sweater and a nice leather coat. It was all a bit mid-40’s-father-of-three-who’s-really-over-listening-to-his-wife-bitch-about-how-he-never-
drives-the-kids-to-soccer-practice, but certainly not reprehensible in any way. You seemed like a perfectly normal, respectable, hard-working Manhattanite.

Which is why I am deeply—DEEPLY, profoundly, unendingly—confused as to why, ISTS, you found it perfectly acceptable to SPIT ON THE MOTHER FUC*ING FLOOR.

Having just recovered from a bout of the consumption or Bird Flu or SARS or Dutch Elm Disease or whatever the hell it was that I had, I understand, PROFOUNDLY, the need to dispense with one’s phlegm. Phlegm is a vile, vile substance, and there is little quite so unpleasant as coughing up a gob of bronchial mucus and feeling it roll about the mouth for a moment. It is disgusting. It is revolting. It is patently foul. In fact, I bet a lot of people reading this are mad at me for being so graphic. And they need to lighten up.

But that is beside the point. The point is, friend—I KNOW. Really. I feel ya, ISTS. You hacked pretty hard over there, and I felt kind of bad for you. You’re obviously recovering from something as injurious as I. But my sympathy evaporated when, between 59th and 51st, you moved your feet aside, parted your legs, leaned down and spit your gob of lung-snot between your knees and onto the floor of the train, where it landed with an audible smack.

WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? Who the fuc* does this?! Do you do this at HOME? Are you ACTUALLY married to someone who is willing to CLEAN UP AFTER YOU when you spit PHLEGM onto the hardwood? What, do you piss in the sink too? Shi* in the oven? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

You looked around afterward to see if anyone was looking, then reclined with satisfaction that you had gotten away with it.

But I SAW THAT SHI*. And I NEVER forget a face. And if I ever see you again, I’m going to back my ass up in front of you, pull down my pants, and relieve myself into your lovely Coach attaché case. And it will not be cute.

The Subway Chronicles: Redux

It’s been a rough week here at HQ, and my time for spreading the Gospel has been severely limited.

However, one thing that can always be counted on here in NYC is that the amount of absolute idiocy on the subway trains will never be proportional to the amount of time you have to deconstruct it for others. And thank God.

Herewith, a special expanded edition of…The Subway Chronicles

Claire Huxtable

I know the purpose of ‘The Subway Chronicles’ is not to give kudos. I suppose, if it’s the giving of props I’m interested in, I could start a different blog serial entitled something like ‘The Subway Awards’ or something, but that’s no fun. Who the fuc* cares about happy shit*zzzzzzz. It’s just a lot more satisfying to vilify others than celebrate them.

However, you, my dear Claire Huxtable, need to be celebrated—nay, worshipped. Why? Because Claire Huxtable (I have such unbridled adoration for you that I won’t even acronymize [I’m pretty sure that’s not a word] your name as is usual Subway Chronicles practice), I feel very, very strongly that you in fact are a real-life version of the classic sitcom character after which you are named. No seriously. No for real though.

Firstly, you’re about the age Claire would be now if she were an actual person. I heard you say you’re retired from the publishing industry, but you are definitely not old old. So I’m guessing…62? You speak with the same very-educated-very-intelligent-sista sort of pattern that the real other Claire Huxtable always used. And you were dressed impeccably, but not in a flashy sort of way. Well-cut jeans, the sort of boots I wish my mother would wear, a tweed blazer and blouse and, my favorite part….

Wait for it…

A fedora. You were wearing A FEDORA!!! It was like a throwback to the bygone era of Jazz Age Harlem!!! C’mere you sassy, brassy, classy bitch you! I wanna give you a kiss!!! UGH!!! I LOVE IT!!!

So not only were you dressed fashionably and age appropriately and adventurously (FEDORA people! Old lady was rockin’ a FEDORA! AND it was COCKED AT A JAUNTY ANGLE!! I can’t get over how much I loved it) but you also seemed to have no problems with your age. Your hair, pulled back into a smart bun beneath the JAUNTILY ANGLED FEDORA (no seriously though, it was awesome), was positively riddled with silver. There will be no dying away of gray in your world. No no. Not Claire Huxtable. You also clearly eschewed any sort of botoxification of your face. It was lined and drawn like a classy old bitch’s should be. You were a paragon of dignity, class and style, and I reeeeeeeeeeally wanted to try to foster some sort of relationship with you, wherein we meet once a month for lunch somewhere classic—Gramercy Tavern? Balthazar? I don’t know NY restaurants well enough, but somewhere classy and kind of hip and ersatz-European—and you tell me stories that begin “Well, in my day” and then we talk about books and maybe politics and then you invite me to go to the symphony with you because your layabout husband/lazy ungrateful son would probably just sleep through it.

But apart from all of this, what really made you awesome was your disdain for the exact same people I was glowering at on the subway. See, Claire, you and I really are kindred spirits. I swear to God, that woman whose kid was running around the train shrieking? I saw your face and I immediately shut my iPod off, because I had a poignant sense that you were about to launch into one of your Claire Huxtable monologues. You know, those ones where you start out speaking slowly and quietly placing emphasis on certain key words, and then you BUILD into something a little-bit-faster-and-LOUD before you get RIGHT to the POINT that WHOEVER-THIS-PERSON-IS-AND-WHOEVER-THEY-THINK-THEY ARE, they-had-better-get-a-grip-on-reality and some COMMON COURTESY because you’re TIIIIIRED of-listening-to their obNOXious child (cue audience: oooooohh…) SHRIEK like some noiiisome, iiiill-mannered, UN-TAMED hyena, and-if-her-mother-doesn’t-
get-control-over-that-girl-and-teach-her-some-manners? You have molded FIIIVE children into reSPECTful adults, and you won’t HESITATE. to mold. HERS. (audience claps wildly).

Ugh! Claire, I love you. I love your silver hair, I love your dignified face, I HEART your fedora, and I ADOOORE your unbridled contempt for what you would no doubt call “foolishness.” I, you and Julia Sugarbaker—

--and I know she’s around this city somewhere--need to have coffee. STAT.

Girl With Leg Warmers

And speaking of things Claire Huxtable would call 'foolish,' where exactly were you heading, Girl With Leg Warmers?

Because when I see a girl wearing a fedora (and not in the divinely perfect and infallible manner of Claire Huxtable), short skirt, black tights, patent leather shoes and leg warmers, I think “dance class.” And yet, GWLW, you were, curiously, also carrying a confusingly opulent briefcase and fiddling with a Blackberry. Are you the director of an in-rehearsal Fosse revue? Currently engineering Paula Abdul’s comeback tour, featuring her and M.C. Skat Cat in a tap-dance duel that will make their previous outing in the video for 1989’s “Opposites Attract” look like child’s play?

If the answer to either of these questions is ‘no,’ I suggest you exit the train, return to your home, and put on something at least—at least—50% less ridiculous.

Singing Out Loud to Overplayed Classic Rock Guy

You know on some level, Singing Out Loud to Overplayed Classic Rock Guy, I kind of feel you. Who among us hasn’t had a moment when we’re on the subway (or an airplane or somewhere generally public) and a song we love comes up on the ol’ iPod, and it takes every ounce of restraint we have in our faculties to not bust the fuc* out. For me these are songs like Prince’s ‘Kiss,’ or Phoenix’s ‘Everything is Everything.’ And God help me, when Madonna’s ‘Dress You Up’ comes on, I really very nearly have a singing-out-loud accident. I mean how can you hear that particular refrain with its catchy rhythm and NOT bellow out loud “GonnaDRESS youupin MAH-LOVE-IN MYLOOOOOVE” I mean, come on.

So I get you. And when you started turning that mother out to ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ I didn’t get angry like many others on the train did. Oh, sure, I openly laughed at you with the girl standing next to me—I mean, come on, you were patently ridiculous—but in spite of my default subway demeanor being either wear-iPod-and-pretend-to-sleep or sublimate-rage-by-glowering-at-everyone, I didn’t get angry. Rather, I chuckled, amused by the mirthful whimsy of it all.

But—and there is always a but—then things took a certain turn, SOLOCRG. The girl standing next to me sat down next to you when that seat opened up, and you, being the gregarious sort unfettered by social conventions, decided to strike up a conversation, opening with “Woo! Don’t ya love Lynyrd Skynyrd! Nothing gets a party started like Lynyrd Skynyrd! Woo!” The girl sort of chuckled and said “Oh yeah,” more in a tone of placation than anything else.

And then, SOLOCRG, you decided you wanted to share the Lynyrd Skynyrd with the girl, so you removed your headphones and shoved them in her face. “Here! Man listen to this song man! Lynyrd Skynyrd man!” And she was all “Oh, no that’s okay,” but you kept insisting and she kept demurring. You acted sort of wounded, as if you’d offered her your heart and she had declined.

But here’s the thing, SOLOCRG. You were kind of dirty. Not homeless dirty, but grubby. Your clothes wouldn’t necessarily be considered clean. Perhaps in some cultures, but not in ours. You had a scraggly beard, and you kind of smelled. Again, not like homeless—there was no eau de I-haven’t-had-a-shower-or-gone-to-the-bathroom-in-an-actual-bathroom-for-nigh-on-6-months
or anything like that. But you were just sort of, shall we say, earthy. Like how Matthew McConaughey is rumored to be. Celebrating nature. Eschewing deodorant. That sort of thing.

But what really tipped the scales of headphone desirability, SOLOCRG, was that your headphones were of the type that is actually inserted into your ear canal. They were more like earpieces than headphones, like the kind that, say, newscasters wear or, for those entertainment industry production folk reading this, much like a surveillance kit on a set. And when you shoved them into the face of the girl, do you know why she recoiled?

BECAUSE THEY HAD FUC*ING EARWAX ON THEM.

I was going to discuss the fact that for the rest of the subway ride, you kept looking over at her and ogling her tits, much to her oh-sweet-jesus-let-me-rearrange-my-coat-so-they're-somewhat-concealed chagrin, but I think I’ve probably said enough.

And seriously: ‘Sweet Home Alabama’? Dude, come on. People haven’t been into that song since ‘Forrest Gump.’

Parent of Possibly Abandoned Subway Babies

Okay this didn’t actually happen today, it was Monday night. But still, it bears discussing. Because you, sir or madam Parent of Possibly Abandoned Subway Babies, whoever and wherever you are, gave several people a near panic attack. We all thought that you were that guy standing behind the double stroller containing your two children and then—it all happened so fast that none of us could be sure—I and two others saw you get off the train at Grand Central and not get back on, leaving the double stroller containing your children behind.

I’ve googled this a thousand different ways to no avail, so I’m assuming that all is well. Surely at the very least the New York Post would have picked up on the story and ran a front page headline screaming something like “CRAZY BITCH LEAVES FUC*ING CRACK BABIES ON FUC°ING BRONX-BOUND 6 TRAIN!!! Stroller left rolling around in the middle of fuc*ing aisle! Passengers lose their fuc*ing shi*!!! Page 4” or similar.

I can only assume that you, POPASB, were not, in fact, the guy who got off the train and were actually instead the Woman Sitting in the Corner Doing Whatever it Was You Were Doing—either digging out a nasty hangnail or shooting up, I couldn’t tell which. Regardless, you gave us quite a scare, me, Sorority Girl with Bad Makeup But Hot Coat, and Bored Suburban IT Professional. We exchanged a number of horrified glances that, were they translated into actual words, would have gone down something like this:

Bored Suburban IT Professional: Why are you staring at me?
Me: Well, I mean…
BSITP: Oh. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
Me: Abandoned babies?
BSITP: I know, right?
Sorority Girl With Bad Makeup But Hot Coat: Wait—so you guys are scared those babies are abandoned too?
BSITP: Oh, for reals.
Me: Totes.
SGWBMBHC: Oh shi*. Motherfuc*ing shi*. I thought I was just overreacting, but now that you guys commiserate, I’m fuc*ing freaking out.
Me: Now don’t get hysterical.
BSITP: Yeah, just chill. Now, see, that guy is standing awfully close. I bet he’s the dad.
SGWBMBHC: You think?
BSITP: Oh yeah.
Me: Totally. See? Problem solved.
SGWBMBHC: Phew! Thank God!
Me: Right?
BSITP: Wait. Why is he getting off the train like the last guy did?
Me: There he goes…I guess he’s not the dad.
SGWBMBHC: OH MY FUC*ING GOD!!! OH FUC*!!! THE BABIES!!! THE FUC*ING MOTHER FUC*ING BABIES!!!
Me: Woah! Dude! She’s fuc°ing quagging out!
BSITP: I know, right? This is devolving. Quickly.
Me: I’m actually starting to get scared too.
BSITP: No man. Don’t do this to me. Don’t descend into madness!
SGWBMBHC: FUC*!!! FUC*ING MOTHER FUC*!!!!! THE FUC*ING BABIES!!!
Me: Dude, I think someone seriously bailed on their fuc*ing kids.
BSITP: Dude, STAY CALM!!! Don’t freak out on me!!
Me; Noseriouslythoughwhothefuc*dothesekidsbelongto?!
BSITP: I DON’T KNOW OKAY I CAN’T READ MINDS!!!
SGWBMBHC: OH MY GOD THE FUC*ING STROLLER’S JUST FUC*ING ROLLING AROUND THE FUC*ING AISLE AS THE TRAIN FUC*ING SWAYS BACK AND FORTH!!!!
Me: THOSE KIDS ARE FUC*ING MAROONED!!!
BSITP: DUDE! STAY WITH ME!
Me: I CAN’T DO THIS!! Look. This is my stop. Promise me you’ll take care of this.
BSITP: NO MAN DON’T LEAVE—
Me: PROMISE ME!
SGWBMBHC: WAIT, YOU’RE FUC*ING LEAVING US?!?!?!
Me: GET A GRIP, BECKY! Now promise me, BSITP! PROMISE ME!
BSITP: I PROMISE!
Me: You SWEAR TO GOD?
BSITP: I SWEAR! GO! THE DOORS ARE GONNA CLOSE! SAVE YOURSELF!
Me: DON’T LET ME DOWN MAN!
BSITP: I WON’T! I SWEAR! (taking SGWBMBHC into his arms) Everything’s cool, okay?
SGWBMBHC: My throat’s closing up.

And scene.

Whoever you are, POPASB/WSITCDWIWYWD, I hope that, upon reaching the proper size, your children deliver a swift kick to the general area of your groin for leaving them to roll about a subway train like a Matchbox car and giving SGWBMBHC her first of many heart attacks.

Fierce Fashionista Guy

I must give props to those adventurous enough to think outside the fashion box. The vaguely Eurotrash dress shirts on offer at Express are about as risky as I will get, and when I do try to take things a bit further, mix it up, embrace something a little more avant-garde, it’s usually a disaster. Sort of like Carrie Bradshaw waltzing through New York in a leotard and tutu (which I will maintain to my death was fuc*ing LUDICROUS)—on Carrie, you’ll accept it. You may not like it (and I DON’T, because I don’t care how many Sarah Jessica Parkers and Pat Fields you line up to defend the choice, NO ONE would be caught dead wearing that on the street except for, maybe, Yeah Yeah Yeahs lead singer Karen O, because it looked STUPID), but you’ll accept it, because she’s got that certain something that makes it make a little bit of totally parallel-universe sense. But put Charlotte in that shi*, and people would stop on the sidewalk, point, and cackle. I’m like Charlotte. It’s best that I stick to headbands and 50’s-inspired dresses. Or something…Wait. What?...

I don’t know. My point is: I applaud those who can take fashion risks. And you, Fierce Fashionista Guy, should be applauded for toeing the line. However, we need to talk.

You clearly cut an imposing figure. That I get. You’re one of those wispy, willowy queens, but not quite wispy enough that anyone would try to fuc* with you. You’re clearly a sister, but you look like you could, should the need arise, whip off those ginormous Dior sunglasses and that coat—which we’ll get to in a moment—and throw the fuc* down on anyone who might try to mess with you. Like I said: fierce.

But sometimes, FFG, sometimes fierceness, like love, just ain’t enough. There are some things that, regardless of how fierce a diva a sister-brother may be, are best left to the womenfolk. For instance, that to which your outfit was identical:

Part of the reason I love my Madonna so is because she pops up in the most unexpected places (like a man on a rush hour 6 train). Granted, you’d have to have as trained an eye as I have to pick up on the subtle references that permeate nearly everything, but they’re always there, lurking for some total and complete pathetically bored nerd like me to discover. I don’t have to tell you that. You’re clearly one of my Madge-loving brethren. Cuz while you probably think you’ve pulled a fast one, turning gender roles on their heads, asserting your individuality, taking old-time naval uniforms and making them something arrestingly now, you ain’t foolin NO ONE sister. I GOTCHOO. The jig is up.

Because everything you wore from head to toe was a direct copy of this costume. Your pants (which you can't get a good look at in the pic but are of the high-waisted WWII navy sailor bellbottom variety) were naval-style ones—very tight in the hips and waist, very wide-legged at the bottom almost to the point of resembling the bygone palazzo pant of early 90’s fame. Please don’t take us back there. Plus, they were bestriped—subtly so, but bestriped all the same. And they appeared to be made of something vaguely flowy. Gauzy, even. Nuh-no.

The jacket was just like our girl’s up there, sans the epaulets and cords (thank almighty Jesus). But everything else was identical—navy blue, very long, covered in big brass buttons, double-breasted, big collar. It was also clearly from the women's department--men's garments are not cut to accentuate our narrow-waisted hourglass figures as your coat was--and was even lined similarly, though—granted—not in red, and not as boldly. Your stripes, not being intended to read from a stage 14 miles away from the viewer, weren’t quite as widely spaced. Still, your coat was lined with blue and white stripes.

I can’t confirm that you were wearing a sequined, striped shirt—it was covered by the coat—and I’m praying that you weren’t. But I can confirm that you had the same haircut and style. Brunette, sure.  But a sideswept pixie cut nonetheless. And I have no other recourse but to assume that your Bluetooth earpiece was a nod to Madge's ubiquitous headset microphone.

I also would bet a week's wages that this pose and facial expression are precisely the ones you strike upon entering a room--flipping your bestriped coat open, flinging your arms wide and hollering "WHAT UP BITCHEEEZZZ!?!?!" at the top of your voice.

 

But I digress.

Now, FFG, nobody loves a sartorial allusion to the Queen of Pop as much as I do. This fall/winter’s equestrian themed madness

of pants tucked into riding boots and tight-fitting riding jackets and whatnot is a response and a throwback to Madge's outfit in the opening number of the Confessions Tour a couple years ago

and 'I feel love' for it (and that's an in-joke I'm sure YOU certainly get, FFG). And the look you’re referencing was pretty amazing—I mean, that shi* was the brainchild of Dolce & Gabbana after all. But do realize that apart from the fact that it is from 1993, it also takes the masculine-as-feminine thing so far that it really only works on women. Do remember, the name of this tour was The Girlie Show. And it was a costume. The possible exception to these rules is drag queens. But given the time of day and the briefcase you were carrying, I’m presuming you were en route to either a law or investment firm (not that your outfit will make any sense in either context) and not a drag club. And besides, have we learned nothing from 'Project Runway'? Is the Kors-coined superlative 'costumey' not the harbinger of an 'Auf Wiedersehn' to come?

I suppose, however, I should just thank my lucky stars that you went for that particular sartorial nod to early-90's Madonna tours and not for something else from the Girlie Show, like, say, this:

 

Because no one needs that during morning rush hour.

The Subway Chronicles: The Threequel

You know? I was having a pretty good morning today. And that’s rare for me; I’m the type the wanders out of my bedroom in a stupor each day and am pretty light-hearted—mirthful, even—until one tiny thing doesn’t go my way. Then, I become a homicidal, coffee-fiending maniac. And by ‘tiny thing,’ I mean tiny. My leg being tangled in the blankets (does this ever happen to you, where your legs are so enrobed in the blankies that you begin to wonder if you will ever be able to extricate them and will, in fact, end up wearing them to work and trying to pass it off as an ode to, say, the toga?) will illicit a hearty “Goddammit.” Knocking my little can of pomade off the bathroom counter will illicit an exasperated “Son of a whore.” But the king—the absolute crème de la crème, the coup de gras (why are these expressions for the ultimate always French? Someone google/wikipedia it and email me) is when I extract the shampoo bottle from the shower rack and it inevitably takes all the other bottles with it, sending them crashing to the floor. This inspires a torrential tirade of profanity that would make any of you—yes, even you—blush and makes Jesus—whose name is nearly always slandered in these not-even-fit-for-latenight-HBO soliloquies—weep for my soul.

But today, actually, I was having a good morning. I’m a bit under the weather these days, and yesterday was seriously contemplating the possibility that I might, in fact, die. I began drafting a will at my desk, which I then handed to my office-mate, croaking through my fever “Please…make sure...this is…executed…properly…farewell, my liege…farewell…” Seriously, when I got home last night, I called my mother, who unexpectedly wasn’t home—where the hell was she, by the way? All the woman does is read Rachael Ray cookbooks and watch Lifetime. Wtf?—and bellowed into her answering machine “Don’t you DARE bury me in some burnt out Scottsdale cemetery between some bullshi* strip mall and a McMansion development called something idiotically faux-Iberian like "Carnitas Vista." You hear me old lady? DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

But last night, I popped my former boss’s stash of Temazepam (a gift from our last business trip—I don’t sleep well in hotels) like candy and slept for nigh on ten hours. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning feeling like one mill-i-on dollars. Nay, comparatively speaking, one billion. Granted, I woke up a bit later than I should have, but miraculously somehow managed to be ready and out the door a full 10 minutes faster than normal. And, I had washed my hair the night before, and discovered that this makes it look even better than not washing it at all, as usually, particularly in the awkward stage of growing out that it is currently in, my hair will do one thing and one thing only and that thing is called “whatever the hell it wants.” Because I’m ill, I gave myself a sartorial pass today and put on my comfortable jeans, a shirt that’s a size too big, and my favorite hoodie, which rendered me wonderfully comfortable and yet, somehow, still kind of attractive. Then, I exited my building to find that the heatwave—it’s seriously been 65 degrees 2 days in a row—we’ve been under seems to have broken. Nothing irritates me quite so much as unseasonable temperatures. It’s fuc*ing January. I feel like it was only an hour ago that the third world 95 degree heat stopped. Give a brotha a minute and stay below 45 until, say, April please.

And so, twas with a joyful heart that I walked to the subway, comfy clothes caressing my body in a manner almost liscentious, flaxen hair flying in the breeze behind me. I even had a pleasant encounter with a fellow Astorian upon entering the subway, wherein we chatted and chuckled about how frustrating and confusing the daily ritual of trying to figure out which waiting train will leave first. “Tis such an odyssey, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh. “Quite, quite,” I replied with a titter.

You know, there’s a line in the 2000 film ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary,” adapted from the Helen Fielding book of the same name, where Bridget says “As soon as one part of your life is going exactly as planned, another part falls spectacularly to pieces.” And that, of course, is your cue to enter, Fat Girl With Ginormous Coat.

Fat Girl With Ginormous Coat

Before we move on to issues subway-centric, we first need to briefly discuss the coat in question: floor-length, woolen, and trimmed—both cuffs and collar—with fur. And not just a bit of fur. A lot of fur. Thick, voluminous, billowing fur. It was as if you were wearing a ruff collar, and when you opened the coat to scratch under your breasts (eew, by the way) I half expected you to be wearing a suit of motley up under there and produce a lute from--an inside pocket? underneath your bosom? somewhere—and begin strumming a bawdy ballad. If you were, say, eight feet taller and a black man and this were the 1970’s, I would assume you were a very successful pimp. You are already a big girl, and honey, that coat is doing you NONE favors. Also, your shoes are ugly.

But that is all beside the point. The point is that you seem to be very fond of turning yourself into some sort of barricade. When the 6 train arrived (in short order for once—again, this really was a good morning before you happened along!), you positioned yourself not to the side of the doors, in order to let people off the train first, as per etiquette, but, rather, directly in front of the doors. In fact, you centered yourself –I fuc*ing watched you do it—on the crack where the two doors meet. Yes you did, don’t deny it. You centered yourself on that shi*.

Now, as we discussed, you are a thundering, galumphing huffalump. Which is fine. Many are. And big can be beautiful (and you are, by the way, crass underboob scratching notwithstanding). But you should be aware that not even a wee, 5 foot 40 lb. size 0 pixie—say, a Sarah Jessica Parker or-be still my heart-a Madonna—has any business positioning herself directly in front of and certainly—God have mercy on your soul—centering herself on a pair of subway doors. Get your ass out of the ever-loving way.

But here’s the kicker, FGWGC: not only did you position yourself in front of and center yourself on (I can’t stress this enough) the doors, you also didn’t budge an inch when those exiting the train struggled to navigate around you. For God’s sake, that one woman, sized not unlike the aforementioned teeny-tiny icons—beloved, wondrous, splendiferous icons—got caught in the crossfire of the two streaming hordes trying to squeeze around either side of you and just stood there, staring blankly, starting to panic, having no idea how to circumnavigate the madness, no doubt wondering if she was going to have to climb over you in the manner of that wooden wall thing that military recruits have to scale during basic training.

And then—and then—FGWGC, once the melee had died down, you entered the train and instead of going down the aisle like you’re supposed to in order to get the ever-loving hell out of the way, you stood stock still in front of the doors on the inside of the train too, hugging the bar in the middle of the, shall we say, vestibule like it was a stripper pole and you was fixin’ to put on a show! This resulted in a good five feet of empty space behind you—space that could have been filled with people who were instead forced to huddle altogether too closely. Seriously, it was like Studio 54 up in there, except without the nudity, the cocaine, the dance floor sex (come on, we’ve all seen the footage from VH1’s “Behind the Music: Studio 54”), the music, the celebrities and, most importantly, the fun (though there was a woman who resembled Jerry Hall). You seriously dammed up the entire operation.

Now, I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. “Perhaps she’s getting off at 51st,” I thought, “and wants to remain closer to the door.” Sort of understandable, that. I mean, we’ve all gotten ourselves into one of those pickles, where you’ve been conscientious enough to move into the middle of the train to make room, and then your stop comes, and you have 47 people to meander around, and by the time you actually make it to the door, it either shuts on you or, worst of all, before you even make it there.

But you know why that happens, FGWGC? It happens, my zaftig friend, BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU, people who have no reason but the fact that they’re—what, stupid? Retarded? Lulled into a stupor by some sort of mind-numbing chemical the unnecessary amounts of synthetic fur on their coat collars are emitting? who knows—for planting themselves directly in front of the only means of ingress and egress. You did this from 59th and Lex until at least 33rd and Park—even after the melodrama that ensued at Grand Central, which was so harrowing I can’t even talk about it now because I’m still too upset—with not an ounce of contrition.

You are an as*hole, a great trolloping, trundling, trashcan-shaped as*hole, and I hate you.

Incredibly Tall Hispanic Man Stepping on My Feet

Look, Incredibly Tall Hispanic Man Stepping on My Feet, I know that this morning’s train was particularly jerky, and you were forced to stand the entire way, and being as tall as you are, God only knows where your center of gravity is, and I imagine it all made for you the act of standing up on a rollicking train even more difficult than the average bear. And, granted, in comparison to the tomfoolery of FGWGC, your offenses are paltry at most.

But seriously? Exactly how many times do you need to step on my feet before you realize that they are there and not going anywhere? I mean, there’s nowhere else for me to put them except on the floor. They are not detachable. I do not have the power to make them disappear with some sort of instrument of magic, like a wand or similar. We all step on peoples’ feet on the subway at one time or another—hell, I do it practically everyday. There’s a lot to negotiate on crowded subway trains, and you often can’t see the floor to know where you’re stepping. It happens. But the rest of us seem to learn from the experience—“Hmm…I moved my foot 3 millimeters to the left last time and stepped on that small child’s head and now she appears to be either dead or hopefully just paralyzed…so perhaps this time I’ll try moving the other foot 3 millimeters to the right and see if that works better.”

But not you. You just kept stepping on me over and over and over again, as if in hopes that this time, my foot will have vaporized and no longer be in the way. I demand an explanation. This really isn’t that hard.

As retribution, should I ever see you again I will tackle you to the ground and kick you square in the face while your mother watches. Why? Because these boots are Kenneth Cole, and I will be goddamned if I’ll allow you to desecrate them. DON’T FUC* WITH MY SHOES, ITHMSOMF. HAVE I MADE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR?

“Excuse Me I Need to Get Off the Train Please” Guy

Oh really? Really. Seriously? Honestly? No, for real? Really? Seriously. Honestly. Seriously?

You need to get off the train? You’re kidding, right?

Well boy is there egg on my face! When I got up and started shuffling toward the train exit behind the other throng of people shuffling toward the train exit, I thought we were just going for an early morning stroll down the aisle of the downtown 6! I thought it was kind of like those middle-aged suburban women who meet up at the mall in the morning and go power-walking! I didn’t realize it was for the purpose of getting off the train! Gosh, I feel so silly! To think, that whole time, there I and everyone else was, moving toward the exit, just trying to do our part to overturn the American obesity epidemic, when you, EMINTGOTTPG, were trapped behind us trying to actually get off the train! God, I’m so glad you spoke up! Who knows what would have happened otherwise! Gosh, ya know, this is something that we will all look back on someday and just laugh and laugh!

Except for the part where I bashed you in the face with a bottle because you’re an as*hole. That part will probably only be funny to me.

The Subway Chronicles, Chapter II

The misadventures of a New York City commute continue apace.

Ahem.

Dearest Asian Hipster Girl Looking Down Her Nose at my iPod:

Ordinarily, I'd write down some witty introduction here, but ya know what bitch? I got no sleep last night. I laid in my bed wide awake until 4:30 with a strange mental mash-up of U2's 'Beautiful Day' and the theme song to 'Sex and the City' running on a continuous loop through my head for no reason and it kinda made me want to kill myself. I slept straight through my alarm, had no time to shower (though this has caused me to discover that not washing my hair in the morning seems to give it extra control and manageability, as well as a nice sheen, so this particular cloud has a silver lining), forgot to brush my teeth, and was 45 minutes late for work, where I sit now, glaring at the computer screen, trying my damnedest to care whether the pull-quotes for Tuesday's New York Times 'Atonement' ad are properly aligned and whether Keira Knightley's name is not misspelled as 'Kinigtley' like it always, for whatever reason, seems to be, all while a vile taste and, I assume, accompanying odor introduced by my dirty teeth rolls about my mouth. So, you could say, I don't give a flying fuc* about witty introductions. I'll cut straight to the point:

You are an uppity bitch.

Here's why: I flipped on my iPod because in my deeply fatigued state, all I wanted to do on this morning's commute was not listen to the usual subway idiocy and zone out. I spent what seemed like four and half hours trying to decide what to listen to, every option having a distinct downside that made me, in my cranky fog, want to hurl my iPod at the wall and rant about how I needed to download some new music cuz I'm so fuc*ing tired of all this crap. Rather, I decided to just select 'shuffle songs' and come what may.

You, looking down from your assumed hipster-informed musical ivory tower, watched my iPod intently to see what would come up. I saw you. Your eyes were glued, just waiting to see what would pop up on the screen. That alone seemed pathetic enough to me. Why are you so interested in other peoples' music collections? I hate you.

By sheer chance, iPod decided to open the day with Madonna's 'Jump', and you know what you did? You thought I wasn't looking, but I was. YOU ROLLED YOUR EYES. And not just privately or discreetly. You did it with an exaggerated and dramatic headroll as well, as if to express disbelief to...who? That old Greek lady standing in front of you? I doubt she even knows what an iPod is. That girl next to her who was probably listening to Nickelback and daydreaming about getting home to play with her cats? I doubt she'd care. But whoever it was, you were REALLY putting on a show of how totally plebeian and lame you thought I was.

Who, exactly, hipster Asian girl, do you think you are? Just because you have a hot pink streak in your hair and horn-rimmed glasses doesn't make you the arbiter of taste. Yes, yes, I'm sure  your exalted iPod is filled with things like Shiny Toy Guns and that Johnny Cash cover album and you sit around with your friends talking about Foucault and stalking no-talent-hack hipster gods like Vincent Gallo so you can blow him or whatever. But let me remind you of a couple things:

#1: I'm assuming you're a refugee from overpriced Manhattan, as most people in Astoria are. Please note that the Manhattan refugees in Astoria tend to be theatre dorks: chubby girls who want to be in musicals and awkwardly effeminate gay men who...well, want to be in musicals. Astoria is many things, but it is NOT hip. So tone down the too-cool-for-school condescension and go to Brooklyn with the rest of your image-obsessed poseur tapered-jean wearing ilk. I hear Bushwick is lovely this time of year.

#2: I know someone who has that coat, and it's from Old Navy. You may be fooling the Nickelback girl, but you're not fooling me. Also, your stupid checkered shoes like the ones I wore in 4th grade are fuc*ing retarded.

#3: You should know that the next song that came up was by Interpol, a hipster favorite. I'm sure you like to pipe in Interpol on those days where you cut yourself to let the pain out or when your too-tight hipster jeans don't quite fit right because of the menstrual cramps or when you're, say, masturbating.

See how much we have in common?

Dearest MTA train conductors:

I realize you have a schedule to keep, and I respect that. However, when drama goes down, as it so often does, and that schedule gets tossed to the wind, causing us riders to stand for interminable  lengths of time on tiny platforms designed for 1940's-era crowds ill-equipped to deal with 21st century hordes to the extent that those of us intelligent enough to know that if we don't stand on the edge of the platform we will NOT be making the next train start to feel as if we're about to be shoved onto the tracks by the ensuing throng, do NOT, I repeat do NOT try to rush us once you finally come to our rescue!

This morning you FINALLY arrived at the 59th and Lex 6 platform after whatever the hell it was you were doing up there at 68th St--getting a perm? Playing sudoku? God only knows--and your train was so packed that it took an eternity for all the people to exit the train. You conductors are very, very fond of bellowing at us over the loudspeaker to "Let the people off the train before boarding pleeeeeease!" and we commuters, despite having been marooned on the tiny platform for 25 minutes and having serious discussion about which fellow commuter we were going to kill and eat since it appeared we would never escape, respectfully obeyed, standing to the side and allowing people to exit.

After all we had been through, after all our patience and courtesy, you had the NERVE to close the doors before any of us could even get on the train?!?!?! What is WRONG with you? And THEN, when I and that big black dude who yelled "Aw HELL naw!" grabbed the doors and wrenched them back open, you had the UNMITIGATED GALL to bellow over the loudspeaker "DO NOT HOLD THE DOORS PLEASE LET THE DOORS GO!"

Excuse me?!

Why don't YOU give people a chance to BOARD FIRST? Who even ARE you?! If I had had a gun, I would have taken you hostage and forced YOU to stand between those doors while I closed them on your person over and over and over again while cackling with sadistic glee and shouting "Stand clear of the closing doors, motherfu**er BWAAHHHHH HA HA HA HA HAHHHHHHHH!!!" I waited a week and a half for you to show up and I'll be DAMNED if I will rushed.

Dearest Four Extra People Who Couldn't Fit on the 6 Train But Decided to Shove Their Way In Anyway:

Crazy Russian Lady, I'll KIND OF give you a pass on this. You clearly didn't speak English, and for all I know the Moscow Metro system is still a Communist-era free-for-all. Perhaps you thought that if you didn't make this train, you'd be left to rot and shipped off to the gulag. Fair enough. I still hate you, and you smelled weird, but fair enough.

The last three of you, however, know better. Black Woman, you shoved me SO HARD in your effort to get onto the train that I nearly knocked over the short girl in front of me, then you shoved me SO HARD into the seat divider that I had no other option but to thrust my arm into the face of the woman seated next to where I stood in order to avoid it being crushed under my own torso. Then you stood SO CLOSE to me that I think--I'm not certain, but I THINK--we may have had anal sex. And then, to add insult to (anal) injury, your voluptuous ass was in the way of the doors so they wouldn't close and instead of GETTING OFF THE DAMN TRAIN AND WAITING FOR THE NEXT ONE you shoved some MORE until I heard the Tupperware containing my lunch pop open in my backpack.

Did you not HEAR the announcement that there were not one but TWO more 6 trains waiting to enter the station?

If we ever meet again, you should run. Because if I spot you, I'm going to hogtie you to the subway rails like an old silent movie villain.

That is all.