More bus stories

Things noticed on public transportation:
Many men have bald spots. Everyone is talking on a cell phone or has an iPod. Jean jackets are being worn by people of all ages. If a couple is dressed casually, the man is way more sloppy, unless both are doing the grunge/fishnet stocking thing and then the girl looks like an alien. People don’t look in the mirror before leaving the house. It is too early to wear sandals. Clothes in store windows are not for human use. No one smiles when walking and no one strolls — not even the retirees. Some men shouldn’t wear English cut (two vents) or Italian cut (narrow; no vent). They should stick with two button, single vent. Who thinks it is a good idea to sit on a city street while waiting for the bus? Some people should not eat calzones in public.

transportation

I am in a cab. Passenger cabin air quality not optimal. Speed and altitude acceptable. (Flying through a red light was certainly invigorating if petrifying.)

Notes from Underground

And I thought the Unabomber was in prison. Here is a guy with filthy coke-bottle glasses and crazy hair, carrying many pages of handwritten text. He is now up and asking for money for food and sleep. Money for sleep. Hmmm

It was almost as if he forgot to beg until after he finished writing and scrutinizing other passengers in a sociopathic way. He doesn’t look or smell homeless. He sat back down.

In typical NY fashion, I do not move into another car. I stay in the same car as a sociopath because after assessing the odds of a sociopath in each train car, I am opting for the sociopath I know.

Ok he left. So far, no other sociopath has presented symptoms in public. Many look slightly agitated as if they’ve had bad days and still have to take a commuter train home from Penn Station or Grand Central Station. Others have that blank face that is scary in its own way. Ok, now socio-man has returned, begging.

Ok, so he left again. Now a man in a parka with a hood is talking to himself and staring off in that crazy way. He is really scary because he looks and smells homeless. Not sure why I think he could turn violent at any second. Maybe because he lives way off the grid and he is talking threateningly and with anger. This is a time when I am glad I am getting off at the next stop.

QED that every train car must have a sociopath, lest the cosmic stasis be upended.

Notes from Underground, indeed.

Economizing

So a ride on the bus to save money on a taxi. Too much humanity here, though. A man is wearing driving gloves as he sits in a seat and holds the bar over the seat in front of him. Probably had to give up his car (he looks quite aged) and is yearning for the driving experience. He has Easy Spirit type black shoes and overgrown ear hair. I have been noticing these things a lot more since I have notice whiskers on my chin.

Someone is sitting in a back corner seat and is putting post-its on the wall of the bus. Can’t see too well but it looks like stick figures drawn with a red flair pen.

The man next to me had onions and garlic recently and his reflux is reacting — both directions. I have now moved and have a whole new view (and fresher air). No one particularly remarkable from this angle.

Cool town, spring in the City

It is only 60 degrees and already the sights and smells of summer have hit the subway.

There should be a rule that 50% of one’s body should be covered especially if one’s body mass index (BMI) is over the VPT (visually pleasing threshold). And even after 50% coverage, someone with a BMT over the VPT could trigger an IHR (involuntary heaving reaction). All in all, a public safety crisis that must be addressed immediately by Mayor Bloomberg. Imagine if a subway car full of people had IHRs because of one passenger with a BMI over VPT and less than 50% clothes coverage ratio. Not a pretty sight. In fact, I might have an IHR just thinking about it.

Ok and please explain how people can smell so bad in 60 degree weather. Maybe less bathing is an eco-friendly initiative. I know the smell makes ME green.

Happy anniversary to me

Ok, ok, ok, ok.  An inauspicious anniversary.  25 years (give or take) since a construction worker whistled or said something nasty or anatomically impossible to me.  The kinder, gentler view is that construction workers, like all others of our species, have become politically correct, at least on the surface.  But, I know that the cat calls, the “mamitas” are not for me anymore.  Maybe it is the grey.  Maybe it is the general sag of those once perky breast that even a miracle bra can’t cover up that does it.  Maybe I hated it 25 years ago but I yearn for it now.  I am 45.  When I was 43, two men in separate instances, said that I looked great for 47.  (Clearly one is divorced; the other on thin ice.)  So I am not 45 — I am actually 49.  Because if I look great for 49, then that is better than people thinking I am older or believing me when I say I am 45.  I am not 45.  I am 12.