Monday, September 10, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the A train
DOB: September 10, 1932
Occupation: carrying some impatient-ass New Yorkers (like me) from 125th Street to 59th St-Columbus Circle without stopping
Hometown: NYC
Current residence: NYC, Far Rockaway or Lefferts Boulevard-Ozone Park to 207 St in Manhattan.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, I know the A train is a pretty weak selection for "Daily Dude I Want to Hit," but I take this train every day and it's one of the dopest express trains ever (at least it is when it's actually running express, and today is the 75 year anniversary of the A train coming into service. Besides, yesterday my home computer had a fucking terrible crisis which is unresolved (Windows won't start...how can Windows not start?!?!) and which may result in me calling my mom and asking for a $1300 computer purchasing loan if Columbia's IT hotness--a tech named Jose who sounded cute but who probably has acne, a prodigious gut, and bad taste in Sun Microsystems polo shirts--can't fix it. Therefore, I was unable to blog this morning, unable to check my Fantasy score last night when I got home drunk, unable to YouTube highlights from the VMAs, and otherwise unable to manage my life at all.
Add to that my efforts to blog up to my usual standards at work are hindered because my boss doesn't like me spending a lot of time blogging in lab, and because our department retreat is tomorrow and he just informed me that he'd like me to present a poster of my work there. While "retreat" implies getting away from it all for a relaxing holiday, it's actually 24 hours of science hell. Practically everyone from the department talks about their work, and I just frankly don't give a fuck about anyone else's project. I'm a fifth-year grad student, which means I'm cynical, jaded, and completely unenthused about anything science-related. There are free drinks, but they do little to mitigate the irritating monotony of the marathon talk sessions we have to sit through. So instead of trying to catch up on my useless bullshit, I have to put something together so I can contribute to the clusterfuck of data nobody wants to see.
So bear with me through lame blog entries resulting from trying to write covertly while I'm supposed to be working until I get this computer business figured out and get this stupid retreat out of the way. Hopefully I'll be back to being mindblowingly awesome shortly. Until then...yeah, the A train is hot. It's the longest subway line in NYC and Duke Ellington once played a song about it. Holla!
Labels: computer incompetence, contrition, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, MTA, NYC
Sunday, July 01, 2007
I keep the LIRR interesting
One problem I have is my extremely distinctive speaking voice. Not only does my voice have a singular cadence and tone, but it carries long distances. This doesn't bother me, because I don't really care if people hear my conversations or not. Because of my tendency to use profanity frequently and fluently (especially various permutations of the word "fuck") others have tried (unsuccessfully) to quiet me down. This happens most often in the P-N-Dub, where people are quieter and not as accustomed to hearing random obscenities as people in New York. Last time I was home, chatting merrily away with Morrissey'sHair and Sexxica about dick, and Morrissey'sHair was like, "Razzy, take it down a few decibels! You can't just shout about blowjobs!" HotLawyer shushes me every time I'm out with him no matter where we are to the point that on several occasionsI've responded with "Okay, fine, DAD!" I was having lunch one time at some random Puyallup Mexican restaurant with MillerTime and she had to say, "Razzy! Lay off the 'fuck this' and 'fuck that', there are old ladies and children over there! This is a family establishment!" While most of the people who freak about my language are back in the 253 area code, it does happen once and awhile in New York, and lately seems to be mostly associated with travel on the Long Island Rail Road.
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Labels: assholes, defiance, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, MTA, NYC, Rack, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, March 12, 2007
Subway bloody subway
Last Saturday, I met up with my buddy KatieScarlett and we went to go see The Host, this Korean horror movie in which the titled monster is basically a giant, man-eating, amphibious Chingy!, and then forced her to accompany me to a K-town noodle shop for Tsingtaos to bolster me for what I consider an arduous and lengthy trek: a D-train ride to Brooklyn to visit our friend Miss Corbutt.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
Labels: BK, crazies, gross, MTA, NYC, oh the horror
Monday, December 11, 2006
My nuts!
So I'm on the wretched L train the other day when I play witness to a marvelous New York moment that must, by rights, be shared with ye the browsing public:
The Metropolitan G-L connection is probably the weirdest part of my day. An intersection of lives deliberately separated - the strange confluence of the tragically hipster L train and the crosstown Real Brooklyn stock. The connection proves colorful each commuting day, uniting the business-bound with the working class, the rockstar aspiring with the ghetto proper. Allows unique things to fade out of recognition. Except on this day, in line for a late train, when a crazy man spiced up the morning somethin special.
I was waiting for the errant L when I heard the man not three feet behind me more than mubling to himself. Short guy, brooding look, the low end of biz-caszhe in a button-up and slacks. I'm torn from my snotty reading only by the persistant cadence of his cursing - and of course, my morbid curiosity about the vocal wackjobs that make the train a wonder of city life.
"Fucking train, I can't fucking believe this, goodamn it! [pause] Six fucking million dollars and they can't get the fucking train to comeon time, fuck!" A longer pause follows, and I can hear him pacing a bit, so I subtly inch my way away. A random "FUCK!" comes anew. More pacing. Then, in entirely calm tones, he announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no L train service this morning. For service into Manhattan, please take the G to Hoyt Schermerhorn to connect to the A train. " Silence, and another raucous "f-bomb" to pepper the hum of fellow stalled travelers.
The L train arrives.
I was trained to commuting precision by Rack, when I moved here, to know the exact spot on the train I wanted. The train door that opened to the staircase I wanted that emptied into the portion of the street best suited to my path of travel. Armed with this, I had strategically wiggled myself to be standing right in front of the oncoming jam-packed train's doors. I scooted to allow deboarding passengers their space, as Crazy Mofucker sidled up behind me, when an untoward moment dawned on the crowd: while a usual 10-15 people hop off at this stop, only three left, leaving us a shove-or-be-shoved chance to make it to work on time.
Grace a my position, I zipped in as one of the lucky three - only to be squashed by the 7-12 incredulous folks behind me determined to make this car. My rib cage flattened against the woman in front of me so close that I could tell her shampoo, my arms were pinned down by the people next to me so hard my lunch tupperware popped open its plastic bag, as people hurled themselves into the L and the doors struggled to close against them. I finally lifted my head up to beg, "No more pushing! No more pushing, please!" and made my apologies to Herbal Essence. As I intoned my request, Crazy Man - not two feet away - saw his entry into The Narrative and hollered to a woman directly behind him.
"Watch it, lady - you hit me in the nuts!"
I turned to see the train doors still open to the crowd as she pushed to stay inside the car. Her brow furrowed and she replied, in genuine confusion, "From behind?"
"No, from the side. Watch yourself!" Crazy Man threw that last as a threat, his head turned entirely around to her, pressed full on against his back. Still confused, she asked, "Well, where are your nuts?"
At this point, her friend next to her chimed in, "On the back of his head."
My restraint lost, and I burst out laughing. Too angry to be one-upped, he made his retort, "I wish they were so I could take a leak on your head."
The train doors close and we embark for the great isle.
"For future reference, nuts don't leak," shot back the offender. A silence followed and the giggles subsided. The commuting silence resumed as everyone fought to keep their footing.
Nuts cursed under his breath with the same violence of his impatient wait for the train, and all present wished to be farther away from thisvolatile middle manager who spoke of his junk in public.
At the next stop, the group shifted to accommodate the getting on and getting off of who-the-fuck-ever. As she moved, the alleged nut-basher said, "Careful, guy, your nuts could get slapped from all sides!" She moved in closer to me and winked.
Nuts spoke not.
At First Avenue, the same, and the accused announced, "Hey, how are your nuts?" The crowdquirmed, scared to laugh in a train so full that one could not protect one's face, should fistacuffs ensure. But laugh they did, however quietly, into the backs of strangers. Nuts rolled his eyes and turned away.
At Third Avenue, as Nuts maneuvered his way out of the door. As he departed, our heroine yelled, "Have a nuts day!" On the closing of the doors for Union Square, the entire train erupted, finally able to free the loud chuckles that had festered for miles. When I hopped off, I thanked the ladies, and made my way into the elbowed streets of Manhattan. To a day less entertaining, to day where people - self included - don't just fucking say it. Six million dollars, who cares if it runs on time. Worth every fucking penny.
The Metropolitan G-L connection is probably the weirdest part of my day. An intersection of lives deliberately separated - the strange confluence of the tragically hipster L train and the crosstown Real Brooklyn stock. The connection proves colorful each commuting day, uniting the business-bound with the working class, the rockstar aspiring with the ghetto proper. Allows unique things to fade out of recognition. Except on this day, in line for a late train, when a crazy man spiced up the morning somethin special.
I was waiting for the errant L when I heard the man not three feet behind me more than mubling to himself. Short guy, brooding look, the low end of biz-caszhe in a button-up and slacks. I'm torn from my snotty reading only by the persistant cadence of his cursing - and of course, my morbid curiosity about the vocal wackjobs that make the train a wonder of city life.
"Fucking train, I can't fucking believe this, goodamn it! [pause] Six fucking million dollars and they can't get the fucking train to comeon time, fuck!" A longer pause follows, and I can hear him pacing a bit, so I subtly inch my way away. A random "FUCK!" comes anew. More pacing. Then, in entirely calm tones, he announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no L train service this morning. For service into Manhattan, please take the G to Hoyt Schermerhorn to connect to the A train. " Silence, and another raucous "f-bomb" to pepper the hum of fellow stalled travelers.
The L train arrives.
I was trained to commuting precision by Rack, when I moved here, to know the exact spot on the train I wanted. The train door that opened to the staircase I wanted that emptied into the portion of the street best suited to my path of travel. Armed with this, I had strategically wiggled myself to be standing right in front of the oncoming jam-packed train's doors. I scooted to allow deboarding passengers their space, as Crazy Mofucker sidled up behind me, when an untoward moment dawned on the crowd: while a usual 10-15 people hop off at this stop, only three left, leaving us a shove-or-be-shoved chance to make it to work on time.
Grace a my position, I zipped in as one of the lucky three - only to be squashed by the 7-12 incredulous folks behind me determined to make this car. My rib cage flattened against the woman in front of me so close that I could tell her shampoo, my arms were pinned down by the people next to me so hard my lunch tupperware popped open its plastic bag, as people hurled themselves into the L and the doors struggled to close against them. I finally lifted my head up to beg, "No more pushing! No more pushing, please!" and made my apologies to Herbal Essence. As I intoned my request, Crazy Man - not two feet away - saw his entry into The Narrative and hollered to a woman directly behind him.
"Watch it, lady - you hit me in the nuts!"
I turned to see the train doors still open to the crowd as she pushed to stay inside the car. Her brow furrowed and she replied, in genuine confusion, "From behind?"
"No, from the side. Watch yourself!" Crazy Man threw that last as a threat, his head turned entirely around to her, pressed full on against his back. Still confused, she asked, "Well, where are your nuts?"
At this point, her friend next to her chimed in, "On the back of his head."
My restraint lost, and I burst out laughing. Too angry to be one-upped, he made his retort, "I wish they were so I could take a leak on your head."
The train doors close and we embark for the great isle.
"For future reference, nuts don't leak," shot back the offender. A silence followed and the giggles subsided. The commuting silence resumed as everyone fought to keep their footing.
Nuts cursed under his breath with the same violence of his impatient wait for the train, and all present wished to be farther away from thisvolatile middle manager who spoke of his junk in public.
At the next stop, the group shifted to accommodate the getting on and getting off of who-the-fuck-ever. As she moved, the alleged nut-basher said, "Careful, guy, your nuts could get slapped from all sides!" She moved in closer to me and winked.
Nuts spoke not.
At First Avenue, the same, and the accused announced, "Hey, how are your nuts?" The crowdquirmed, scared to laugh in a train so full that one could not protect one's face, should fistacuffs ensure. But laugh they did, however quietly, into the backs of strangers. Nuts rolled his eyes and turned away.
At Third Avenue, as Nuts maneuvered his way out of the door. As he departed, our heroine yelled, "Have a nuts day!" On the closing of the doors for Union Square, the entire train erupted, finally able to free the loud chuckles that had festered for miles. When I hopped off, I thanked the ladies, and made my way into the elbowed streets of Manhattan. To a day less entertaining, to day where people - self included - don't just fucking say it. Six million dollars, who cares if it runs on time. Worth every fucking penny.
Labels: assholes, crazies, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, MTA, NYC
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