Black Chucks

What's up with all the girls in the East Village wearing black Chuck Taylors all the damn time?? Seriously, I saw at least 6 girls wearing them this morning...I thought the East Village was supposed to be about originality. That is all.

Oompa Loompa Doopity Doo...

This is just a quick and general observation-- a strange happening I've noticed over the past few months. There seems to be an astonishing and completely unfounded proliferation of short people clogging up subway stations these days. When you compound these persons' slight vertical statures with the fact that they all seem to be rather rotund and pear-shaped in nature, there comes an obvioius impedance for all others traversing this underground transit system. Foot traffic has now been slowed to a complete halt, as these small balls of sloth seem to travel in groups and revel in walking side-by-side in the smallest of areas. Additionally, when one of these wobbling fatbodies tries to squeeze their elephantine hindquarters through a terrified turnstile, a bottleneck of agitated commuters forms for miles behind it. It is quite possible that one could witness the seasons change waiting for this person's gargantuan buttocks to pass through to the other side. The last, and most obvious, problem that arises from these tiny minions of obesity occurs on the subway cars themselves. In mathematical terms, it is generally a given that one seat equals one person (all dimensions being proper and correct, give or take an inch or two). However, this equation becomes fallible when some give more than an inch or two; say maybe a foot or four. When in a seated position, their fat seems to flow laterally and engulf and suffocate all space surrounding it. (A suggestion: why not have them lay sideways on subway seats and stack them up to the ceiling of the car? Surely some sort of strap could be devised that would hold them safe and fast on their journey to whatever White Castle is nearest the next stop.)

In closing, I would like to state that I am completely befuddled by the origins of these diminutive carriers of corpulence. There is a distinct possibility that somewhere midgets are breeding with humpback whales, but I currently lack the resources to fund such a fact-finding mission. The only advice I can offer that might resolve this dilemma is this:

If the chicken legs you are about to inhale are bigger than you, use them as stilts instead of a mid-day snack, and kill two birds with one stone.

How lovely.

There was never a person anywhere, anytime who has ever uttered the phrase, "Gee the New York subway system is just so... so... CLEAN!" I have seen some serious dry-heave-inducing passengers in my day (I once watched in horror as an old Asian man, brilliantly not holding on to anything as the subway left the station, fell off balance and landed smack on my friend, the crack of his ass resting perfectly on my friend's arm), but the following gentleman takes the frickin' taco, boy. For the rest of this story, he shall be referred to as Mucus Boy.

Mucus Boy was hunched over quietly by a door seat, baggy pants pratically wrapped around his ankles, hat turned a click past sideways to make him, like, the coolest. Mucus Boy was holding a New York Times; for what, I have no idea. He didn't appear to be reading it so much as marvelling at it-- what are these wonderful things with all these letters? At this point I must admit that I was being merely judgemental. Really, the guy was just minding his own business. And then came the cough.

Now I, as most of you, have coughed before. Sure, sometimes something comes up and you happen to be in an enclosed public space. That's just life. Generally, out of consideration for others and my own peace of mind, I bite the bullet and send it back to where it came from. But not my buddy. Not our fearless hero of phlegm, Mucus Boy. Very casually, he moved the newspaper out from under his face. Ever so slightly he dropped an atomic bomb of a loogie on to the floor of the subway. And then smooth as sandpaper put his foot over it.

I gagged, hoping I wouldn't have to deposit something of my own onto the floor. Luckily, I got off at the next stop, but not after having learned a valuable lesson: never let your bag touch a subway floor again, and if possible, your feet as well.

I'd like to take this opportunity to quote Russell from Fat Albert:

"You're like school during a snowstorm. No class."

3.03.05

Today's subway ride was fairly uneventful until I got to the 53rd/5th Ave stop for the E/V. As I got off the train and went towards the stairs amidst the herd of people I saw a VERY tall african-american woman get to the stairs rolling a suitcase behind her. She was 8 feet to my left, but I got a good look at her since she towered above the rest of the herd. She was at least 6 feet tall, most likely around 6'2", wearing sunglasses and a very long fur coat. I noticed a slight bulge on "her" neck and realized that "she" was most likely a he.

As she got to the stairs a small(5'6" or so) asian man came up behind "her" grabbed "her" suitcase and helped "her" up the stairs. "She" seemed to be quite appreciative and they chatted as he helped "her" up the escalator. He was on the stair above "her" and they were now equal height.

See, not all New Yorkers are rude and inconsiderate.

That is all. Nothing too exciting today.

3.02.05

L - Train (1st Ave. Station) - It was 8:15am(an hour or so ago) as I was walking down the stairs towards the subway and I could hear someone yapping away at the guy in the ticket/token/metrocard booth. "You best be staying awake! Don't think I didn't see you sleeping on the job...back there in your cozy booth. That's right, I know what's up." Everyone, including the booth guy looked at him like he was insane...because, well, he is insane. He had a bounce to his step as he headed towards the entrance. Not your typical up and down bounce. This guy was bouncing side to side like he was a boat struggling to keep from capsizing. He didn't stop babbling as he passed through the gate.

I got a look at his face and the most prominent feature was the alcoholic nose. He was most likely quite drunk. I, like most people who have been in NYC for more than a few months, do not get surprised by these types of things. Instead of asking myself, "Oh good lord, is that man drunk at 8am?" as most people would do...I find myself thinking, "I wonder if he's just heading home after a very long night of drinking or if he got up at 6am and had Bourbon with his Wheaties. I really hope this guy isn't going to be operating any heavy machinery" The random thoughts go on and on, so I'll stop for now.

I'm walking about 10 feet behind him as he goes to wait for the L-Train in a very crowded station and he's still babbling. Most of it is incoherent until I get a little closer and hear him saying "That's right people. New York is a bad place. You have to be a tough mother f'r to survive here. And I'm a tough mother f'r! That's right. Blah blah blah blah blah."

Tough, probably not. High, maybe. Drunk, most likely. Asshole, definitely.

This is the East Village, so such things are nothing new...in fact, he probably wasn't the first maniac that most of these people had seen this morning. As I walked out of earshot of this guy I say to my roommate, "This is one of the reasons I love NYC. It's one of the only places in the world where a lunatic can talk to himself for 45 minutes and still have 2,000 people listen to him."