Ok, so I know I've already blogged and 'vented' (ha) about the Subway 'Blower', but it seems that riding the NYC Subway System on a daily basis will provide ample fodder for this blog. Hopefully, these appalling situations I'm subjected to can at the very least entertain any readers.
Setting: Thursday, 5:18PM - 4/5 Train
Squeezing my way onto the crowded, metal, torture chamber known as the rush-hour 4 train at Wall St., I find myself standing backpack to backpack with my fellow captives. I awkwardly reach up to grip the metal ceiling rail to steady myself against what I know will be a ride rife with sudden stops, starts and odd twists, which I've witnessed throw many a tourist off balance, and I discover the rail is still warm from a previous hand. I struggle to rid my thoughts of the images of said previous hand performing all sorts of unspeakable and germ-laden acts prior to gripping the rail before me. I gaze dead-eyed at my reflection in the blurry subway window wondering if I really look as haggard when I'm above ground, and wait for the doors to close. The hushed silence that usually accompanies the early morning subway ride is regrettably absent during the evening rush hour. I'm finding it difficult to tune out the loudmouths around me that have the audacity to assault my ears with their idle co-worker chit-chat and soon the 'Subway Seething' takes over. I liken it to road rage.
I look away from my reflection and down at the people luckily seated in front of me. I study the bald spot of short man in his 40's seated below me and I try to imagine how much hair he'll have left in 5 years. My attempts at this follicular calculation are interrupted by a loud, repetitive jingling immediately to my left. I look over to witness a fair-skinned, young woman who as lifted her bent and well-braceleted arm toward her head, inserted her pinkie finger deep into her ear and has begun vigorously shaking her arm and pinkie finger in an attempt to apparently scratch some sort of itch located deep within her brain. The five, heavy, bangle bracelets she wears on this itch-scratching arm are jingling about in such a loud manner (which I assume she cannot hear since her finger is in her ear) and for such a length of time, that the people behind her are actually beginning to arch their necks to look over to determine the cause of the noise. Now, while I've never been a fan of this particular method of ear scratching, I have witnessed others perform it in a less offensive, and without question, a less vigorous manner. As I return my stare back to the balding man, I'm utterly aghast at how long this scratching and jingling is going on and I wonder just how dirty that ear can be. While this new thought enters my mind, the young ear-scratcher extracts her finger from her ear, grasps the metal rail next to my hand and I am once again left dwelling on what lies on the rail beneath my own hand.
A few stops later, the crowd thins out and I find myself a nice cozy seat by the back door of the train. I thankfully sit, happy to no longer be holding the rail. I gaze blankly across the car and watch a man fiddle with his palm pilot. He removes the 'stylus' pen from the side, brings it up to the side of his head and begins to scratch the inside of his ear with it. I silently vow to carry Q-Tips with me from now on and pass them out for free. "Free Q-tips here!, Get your free Q-Tips here!"
Friday, December 5, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Spitting, Hissing, Clanging Pipes
So, the cold weather is here and the old boiler in the basement of my apartment building has somehow been resuscitated once again. I live in a 5 story walk-up Co-op that was built circa 300B.C. You know the kind, interior 'exposed' brick (always sounds kinda naughty to me) and floors that all kind of slope the left. Well, to be honest, my floors slope a bit more than most. It's a bit of an uphill climb to go from the bedroom and 'up' the hallway to the kitchen. Additionally, most of my furniture has 1" wooden blocks or other makeshift shim under the legs to appear level. It all looks ok when you walk in, and you can't really tell at first, but there is a nagging, tilting feeling you get if you hang out there too long. Anyway...it's part of the "charm" and I have a massive closet - so I deal.
Anyway -- this is the "Spitting Pipes" entry, not the "tilting floor" entry, so I'll move on. There are pipes in this ancient building that run floor to ceiling in my apartment that seem to go straight from the basement, up through all apartments and right on out through the roof of the building. Not 100% sure how these pipes function since I also have two separate radiator units (relics from the late 1800's for sure), but come winter, these pipes come alive. At various intervals during the night they sputter, hiss and vibrate, sometimes spewing droplets of water from the little valve at the top. This pre-seizure behavior is a precursor for the more severe shaking, banging and clanging that is certain to follow. Picture if you will, the quiet of a brisk, winter night, snug in your bed under the covers, peacefully dreaming; and then imagine the sound of someone repeatedly dropping a handful of large, silver serving spoons into an empty bathtub next to your head and then clanging them around for a few minutes. Startling? Yes! These few minutes of clanging are blissfully followed by a rhythmic hissing and sighing of the pipe which can oftentimes lull one back to sleep only to cruelly waken one again as the clanging begins anew.
I have to imagine that the other occupants of my building experience the same disturbances, but I fear bringing it up and having maintenance perform an overhaul lest our association fees and/or 'assessments' go up in cost. Anyone else have pipes that party at night like mine?
Oh, and if I ever plan to sell my apartment, to any real-estate agents reading this blog. None of the above is true; I made it all up.
Anyway -- this is the "Spitting Pipes" entry, not the "tilting floor" entry, so I'll move on. There are pipes in this ancient building that run floor to ceiling in my apartment that seem to go straight from the basement, up through all apartments and right on out through the roof of the building. Not 100% sure how these pipes function since I also have two separate radiator units (relics from the late 1800's for sure), but come winter, these pipes come alive. At various intervals during the night they sputter, hiss and vibrate, sometimes spewing droplets of water from the little valve at the top. This pre-seizure behavior is a precursor for the more severe shaking, banging and clanging that is certain to follow. Picture if you will, the quiet of a brisk, winter night, snug in your bed under the covers, peacefully dreaming; and then imagine the sound of someone repeatedly dropping a handful of large, silver serving spoons into an empty bathtub next to your head and then clanging them around for a few minutes. Startling? Yes! These few minutes of clanging are blissfully followed by a rhythmic hissing and sighing of the pipe which can oftentimes lull one back to sleep only to cruelly waken one again as the clanging begins anew.
I have to imagine that the other occupants of my building experience the same disturbances, but I fear bringing it up and having maintenance perform an overhaul lest our association fees and/or 'assessments' go up in cost. Anyone else have pipes that party at night like mine?
Oh, and if I ever plan to sell my apartment, to any real-estate agents reading this blog. None of the above is true; I made it all up.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The Subway Blower
While the list of hateful things that occur on your average NYC subway ride is long; one thing in particular had me prepared to decapitate the instigator of this event.
The scene: 7:37 AM, the 4/5 line headed downtown.
At this hour of the morning, the subway is frustratingly crowded, yet the train occupants are thankfully, if not oddly, still and quiet while the train is in motion. One is alternately confronted with this close stillness between stops and then the sudden, startling movement, noise and rush in and out of the doors at each stop. On this particular morning, as I politely 'moved to the center of the car', I came upon a rare, vacant seat. A brief glance about the area confirmed that there were no disabled people or pregnant women vying for it, so I settled in ready to distract my mind in the 10 pages that make up AMNY.
As the doors closed and the crowd settled I became aware of the scent of sharp onions and vitamins and noticed the pages of my AMNY lighly swaying as if caught in a breeze. Trying not to inhale, I looked up to find a small, spiky-haired Asian man with his head down and eyes closed, blowing air from his body much like a woman in labor might during a long 'push'. His cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player, he proceeded to repetitiously perform this act, spilling the foul air from inside his body out onto us helpless commuters seated directly below him. Desperately wanting to angrily shout, "Excuse me Sir, but what the f--k are you doing and can you please stop immediately!!!???!", I instead attempted to sink into my scarf and lean to the left to avoid this acrid stream of hot air being forced into my very limited personal subway space. With the subway doors still tightly sealed and the train at least 1 minute away from the next stop, there was no available space for me to vacate the seat or move elsewhere and an irate tension quickly filled my body.
Seemingly in perfect health, and neither meditating nor fighting off nausea, he opened his eyes and began to whistle while performing this blowing exercise. Borderline horrified, I lamely sat there and endured this strange violation wishing I had the nerve to break the hushed silence in the train car and tell him to blow someplace else (as everyone claims they would've undoubtedly done were they in my position).
At the next stop, as the doors finally opened and replaced the oniony-vitamin air I was breathing with fresh underground, soot-filled air, I thankfully arose from my seat, stood a full 4 inches taller than "The Blower" and you better believe I gave him one of the most disugusted looks I could. Unfazed, he re-adjusted his backpack to the front and promptly took my seat, at which time I proceeded to blow onto his head.
The scene: 7:37 AM, the 4/5 line headed downtown.
At this hour of the morning, the subway is frustratingly crowded, yet the train occupants are thankfully, if not oddly, still and quiet while the train is in motion. One is alternately confronted with this close stillness between stops and then the sudden, startling movement, noise and rush in and out of the doors at each stop. On this particular morning, as I politely 'moved to the center of the car', I came upon a rare, vacant seat. A brief glance about the area confirmed that there were no disabled people or pregnant women vying for it, so I settled in ready to distract my mind in the 10 pages that make up AMNY.
As the doors closed and the crowd settled I became aware of the scent of sharp onions and vitamins and noticed the pages of my AMNY lighly swaying as if caught in a breeze. Trying not to inhale, I looked up to find a small, spiky-haired Asian man with his head down and eyes closed, blowing air from his body much like a woman in labor might during a long 'push'. His cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player, he proceeded to repetitiously perform this act, spilling the foul air from inside his body out onto us helpless commuters seated directly below him. Desperately wanting to angrily shout, "Excuse me Sir, but what the f--k are you doing and can you please stop immediately!!!???!", I instead attempted to sink into my scarf and lean to the left to avoid this acrid stream of hot air being forced into my very limited personal subway space. With the subway doors still tightly sealed and the train at least 1 minute away from the next stop, there was no available space for me to vacate the seat or move elsewhere and an irate tension quickly filled my body.
Seemingly in perfect health, and neither meditating nor fighting off nausea, he opened his eyes and began to whistle while performing this blowing exercise. Borderline horrified, I lamely sat there and endured this strange violation wishing I had the nerve to break the hushed silence in the train car and tell him to blow someplace else (as everyone claims they would've undoubtedly done were they in my position).
At the next stop, as the doors finally opened and replaced the oniony-vitamin air I was breathing with fresh underground, soot-filled air, I thankfully arose from my seat, stood a full 4 inches taller than "The Blower" and you better believe I gave him one of the most disugusted looks I could. Unfazed, he re-adjusted his backpack to the front and promptly took my seat, at which time I proceeded to blow onto his head.
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