i'm ranting of a white...
yeah yeah one of those 'it's been a while moments' is obviously in order. as the harrowing image above displays, i've relinquished the rat tail and all sorts of wonderful things have been happening. my appreciation for the Y chromosome has been newly ignited, we've had a "bye bye, blackbook!" moment but even though to incorporate 'bittersweet' would make one bitchin' alliteration, there was nothing bitter nor sweet about it. even soymilk has an expiration date. i'm in negotiations to turn my moroccan harem of a bedroom into something a bit more arboreal and, gasp, brighter. and--why am i sharing this information with you? i haven't said "fuck" once and it's beginning to scare me, too. read on, bitches!
so did you notice how when you're in a constant state of elevated irritability, the otherwise mundane suddenly becomes utterly offensive and borderline unbearable?
so yeah, it's like -70 in NYC now and because i spend the time before embarking on my favorite city provisional, that, of course, being the dysfunctional, constipated small intestine of track-lined tunnels this city calls a transit system, in this bitter cold, my playful distaste for the subway quickly hardens into a permafrost of violent hatred.
so without further hassle, a new rant for those who appreciate them most.
it's like 1:05 am and, like most human beings up at this hour, i'm slightly buzzed. i've waited for the subway for a little over 20 minutes...19 minutes too long in my book, but when it finally does come the pickins are slim and not one to risk slip and sliding on the patent loafers, i resort to riding the next 11 stops in whatever train car is closest. after lumbering in at a painfully slow feet per second, the screeching halt places in front of me the most dreaded and reviled option of the traveling night owl--the ethnic car.
now I'm not going to go all hating on race and start discriminatory shit--it doesn't matter what color your skin is or what accent may touch upon your words, this has nothing to do with black or white or red or yellow, but a certain propensity virtually exclusive to a certain former resident of a certain republic that that shares an island with haiti to abuse the loudspeaker function on a mobile phone to play the same 15 seconds of some reggatone song at inappropriate volume levels at this time of night is comPLETely uncalled for. and ridiculous. and the fact that said audible trash is usually littered with baby sounds from the 74 strollers around the car (my proposed bill to ban such unnecessary traffic causers never made it past christine quinn's desk) is only the icing on the diabetic birthday cake.
but the fun didn't stop there, oh no--we had a few more guests on tonight's shitshow of a ride home.
normally i'd be all over a two-seater (literally--i've got more legs than a bucket of chicken) but sans a peep of discontent, as few things rival the chic factor of a vintage rusty red alfa romeo blazing down the street or gripping the cliffs of the amalfi coast. but when it comes to the dirty orange of the nyc subway, if you take up two seats, you should be denied basic human entreaties. nothing irks me more than some godzilla from brooklyn taking up more than one seat, their smug expression suggesting--no, CONFIRMING--their contentment with what i see as one of life's most abhorrent inconsiderations. the one pictured here actually took the seat from me by winning the race to the lucky pair once their (as they didn't share one owner before) previous sitters got off the train.
being a denizen of the uws i've always looked forward to nearing the 103rd street stop, as the neighborhood hostel usually yields groups of haughty foreign tourists, and there's nothing like a troup of serbian boys on a hot august afternoon. the british are always fun too, as many of them assume a partial residency in light of the short distance between nyc and london, and often spark up lively conversation. even the occasional boisterous italian or stuttering french elicit a curious smile, but when those spitting and hocking germans board (and i own this one, bitches--there's tons of bratwurst in this boy's blood) i find my already present look of disgust contorting as deep as my botox will allow. they're crass and rude and travel in inordinate numbers. i feel like saying, "yeah, you instinctually seek occupation--we know. i get it. but ya didn't conquer the U.S. then and you sure as shit ain't setting up camp in car #5 of this uptown 1 train now, at least while i'm on it."
ok picture it: you're on a crowded train, standing next to someone lucky enough to be sitting (and hopefully not taking up more than one seat). you either lean on or wrap your arm around the vertical bar at the edge of their seat to stabilize yourself (because to hold on with your actual hand would contract unnecessary germage, but i digress) but upon resting in a position that will comfortably support you for the next 11 or so stops, your hip stops short against something slightly squishy, yet rocky and hard--a HAND! further investigation identifies it as the hand of the person sitting in the seat. the lucky fucker comfortably resting in a sitting position while you have to stand ALSO needs to hold onto a bar to maintain their security on the train. all you have is your two feet and a bar you can barely do anything with because of their tactless gluttony.
it's one thing to "get a grip," and even a firm one while riding a moving vehicle, but if it happens to be unnecessarily close to my ass, and i haven't solicited it, fold your hands in your lap and twiddle your fucking thumbs.
so a newly-freed bird in a solid gold cage of you.
xs and os