I was coming home last night, and made my way down to the 6 train platform at 52nd & Lex (I was running to SoHo to the Apple Store to get me a new iPod nano - read the blog above for that cluster fuck story), and at the top of the stairs that take you under the track to catch the 6 downtown, was this amazing jazz band - I forget the name, I’ll report back with their name if when I catch them next.

Anyway, I felt like commenting on how freaking COOL it is to have great live music in the subway, turning my ‘thank fuck the week’s over’ drivel into ‘yeah, let’s dance baby!’.

The band consisted of an Asian guy on sax, black guy on keyboard and a white guy on guitar. These guys were awesome - and they drew a crowd too, which I love to see.

Thanks for making my end-of-week trip home that much more enjoyable.

my state of mind while I’m brushing my pearly whites in comparison to my state of mind when I flash my ID card to my building’s security guards, can differ greatly. please allow me to embellish this preamble further…

a list of possible catalytical “mood changers”

1. high humidity
2. a plus-sized person trying to squeeze into 8 inches worth of seat next to me
3. someone’s backback/handbag being heaved into my torso
4. no/little/poor air conditioning in the subway car
5. no access to a handrail
6. slow moving train
7. people that insist on standing in the doorways when I’m trying to board, even if there are seats available
8. folks not shuffling aside when I need to get off at my stop

most every morning I’m walking to the subway in a pretty jovial mood - racking my brains in order to mentally prioritize my day before I even get on the train, probably humming along to Coldplay, strumming my fingers against the sides of my legs to the rhythm.

invariably, 4 out of 5 days, I succumb to one of those bloody bullet points above. having ridden the train for about 3 years now (regularly), I find that some of them are completely bearable. some, however, like a slow moving train, or being jabbed in the back by someone’s fake fucking Coach bag, phase-shifts me from ‘calm and collected British chap’, to ‘I will fucking kill you, with my bare hands’. that kind of encounter happens not-so-frequently, which is perhaps the reason I don’t have a felony record thus far.

until this morning, the aforementioned list of potential ways to turn me into Bill Bixby’s famed jade-colored superhero were commonplace, and apparently not open to additions to said list… then along comes a fat fucking italian greaseball carrying a box of A4 sized paper. I was almost to the coffee cart that I frequent every single day (for the last 18 months), and heading for the revolving door that would usher me into the outside world after departing my surprisingly pleasant train ride… I was in the process of walking the curve of my revolving world, and I noticed this heavy set guy in his 40’s walking toward me, looking to coincide his pace with an open slot in the revolving door. alas, he missed the slot before mine, which left this impatient fat fuck with only one option… to use mine when I exited. you’d think he’d have waited until I fully left my one-fourth of the revolver, but no. he proceeded to use the box of paper as a battering ram, knocking me to my right - my left foot thrown over my right, in an attempt to counter-balance his force.

[yeah, you know what's coming next]

now normally I’m not a verbal guy. I’d rather store that energy, and suppress it with beer that night (I’m kidding) - but I seldom lash out in retaliation… however since moving to new york, my serenity chip has been disabled.

[verbatim]

“HEY! excuse ME! fucking obnoxious prick!”

and what I get in return is the sound-impaired mouthing of a barely distiguishable “fuck you!” from him. typical response from a new yorker - well, one that’s 20 feet from me, and on the other side of a revolving door anyway.

so, I’m adding the following to my list of catalists:

• fat obnoxious new yorkers that think as they’re twice the size of me, they have twice the right to square footage in this city

at least the guy was carrying a box of paper, and not a frigging Sausage & Egg McMuffin meal - there’s hope for some!

not a good idea whipping out your todger on the new york city subway line when you’re sat across from someone with a camera phone.

some unsuspecting young lady on her way uptown on the ‘R’ from a job interview, was the victim of a flasher. to add insult to injury, it happened in the middle of the day on an [surprisingly rare] uncrowded subway train.

the link to the lady-in-question’s rant on this perverted twat can be found here.

great shot of that guy, I’m sure he’ll be picked by the authorities in no time, alas, I can see him getting off (no pun intended) on a technicality - the use of any photographic equipment on the New York City subway lines is illegal - post 9/11 addition to the penal code.

I see this every day - and I’m not exaggerating… EVERY DAY people!

I was sat on the subway [f train] this morning traveling to work, and this big guy gets on, cowboy hat, one of those really attractive earrings that makes a huge hole in your lobe - you know the ones I mean - he sits down right in front of me, sideways - you know the seats I’m talking about.

all is [pretty] normal, until he takes off his hat, places it on his lap, and proceeds to crack his fingers… this goes on for about 10 minutes, then it happens… the corners of his mouth start to turn up. he’s smiling… to himself… then he starts mouthing something inaudible, like if he was reading a book, and you’d kind of follow the words with your mouth sometimes. his silent chatter starts to race, then some kind of eyebrow twitching begins, like it’s some facial orchestra, and the conductor is building on the instrumental crescendo to a final climatic explosion of sound!

I notice hanging around his neck some kind of ID, so I position myself to a point where I can get a good look at what it is this crazy bastard does for a living - you know what it said? it said “licensed new york city tour guide”. I can see it now, “and to your left is the empire state building. and further north is central park, where I am going to take you and murder you all - and take your pinky toes as trophies.”

I sit and watch this guy, fiddling with his fingers and hands, eyebrows twitching like epileptic caterpillars, talking to himself in some silent tongue only he understands…

…and then it hits me…

I live in the company of freaking nut jobs!

sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get the opportunity to simply die of old age [rolls eyes]

another thing, why is there always some fat chick that must insist on rubbing up against your freshly washed and pressed $195 shirt, with her flabby arm flaps which are dripping with stinking sweat?

DON’T TOUCH ME YOU KFC-EATING FINGER-LICKING LUMP!!! Jesus!

summer on the subways - not for the feint of heart… or people that aren’t fat.

[sorry fatsos, but for the love of god, there are millions of people in the city like me, who cannot get their below-190lbs arse on the two-seater seats 'cos you're so freaking wide]

The new york city subways + the summer months = looking like a drowned rat before I get to work!

I can see it now, the City of New York, back in 1904 saying to the IRT and BMT contractors, “hey, it gets really fecking hot in the summer, how about we have some fun and bury the fecking rails and have these new yorkers bake and baste in their own bodily fluids during the months June through August!”.

good idea, fockers.