These streets will make you feel brand new

Last night's post went unfinished as I couldn't commit to an entire entry on whether it was possible for a person to generally just smell like fart. This morning, however, our routine commute is taking a detour to the DMV's office for my very first New York license.(shout out to Florida campus police for utmost douchebag move of cutting up my best expired license photo ever taken right in front of my face. And on gameday!) This chore was also supposed to happen yesterday, but my hair wasn't in any shape to be photographed (note: think twice when teasing your hair out then locking it in place with mega hold spray for the sake of a Halloween costume). A bottle of leave-in conditioner later and we're all set to go.

They say you have to live in New York for ten years before you can call yourself a New Yorker, and not knowing if I'll ever make it to that point, I consider myself pretty seasoned. I think it's mostly about not letting little things effect you—germs on the train, copious amounts of money spent on shitty umbrellas, animals relieving themselves on the sidewalk. Once you're able to get past that, you're able to appreciate other little things like heavy duty tote bags, free samples at the farmer's market and 4 hour bottomless mimosa brunches. It's those things that have people waking up realizing they've spent so many years here that they need a new license to prove it.

Go yanks.

Friday Morning Treat: This guy

I've seen this guy a handful of times on the train, and as you can see, he is really the shit. Look closely and you'll see he has one of those ironic faux-ish hawks but with a silver fox twist. His facial hair is like a work of art that I've never quite seen before. It's like he shaved his beard into a thin strap curving down the cheek bone, then making an abrupt turn into the corners of the mouth. Fascinating. This particular species of older breed gentleman got off before we hit the bridge and tunnel, which makes me think he's probably got wealth to support his ego in one of those gutted artist lofts in the lower east side. Probably outfitted with original art and a cappuccino machine.

Guest photo: CCC!

Today this happened

Bonus #1: it was raining
Bonus #2: passenger 2 was reading "The Origin of Satan"
Bonus #3: the heat was on

No post this morning due to reading and general unableness to deal with Monday. But here's an accurate description of a movie theater right by my house. (this is dedicated to M5 and KK who warned me about this type of experience many moons ago, now I only go to Cobble Hill Cinema).

Friday morning treat: Man low pony

Child leash

This morning I got the privilege of standing directly in front of the most annoying couple on the F train. No, make that the Most Annoying Girlfriend on the F train. It all started at Jay Street/Borough Hall when seats opened up, she grabbed the two by the door and in her loud, over-aggressive voice instructed him to SIT DOWN SIT DOWN, HURRY! YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO HOLD SEATS ON THE SUBWAY! SOMEONE ELSE IS GOING TO GET IT! HURRY!!!!11!! My gut told me to just shoot her a look saying that she needed to promptly move her hand from the seat, or I was going to sit on it, and also take it down a notch before 9AM. But instead I looked at Boyfriend, who seems to me, paralyzed by embarrassment, but in reality is numb to this dictation. Regardless, he sits down and she piles her overstuffed bag on him, along with her water bottle. Because she is going to eat her cream cheese bagel and drink her coffee. But not before kissing his cheek, putting her head on his shoulder, and poking him in the side an upwards of five times. I open my magazine in an attempt to read a civilized article, but am distracted when Girlfriend starts trying to FEED him her cream cheese bagel. Hand-to-mouth style. (surprise) He doesn't want it. Then she goes on about her point of view (obviously the right point of view) on something irrelevant. She has one of those voices just comes off unintelligent. Not one I would want to listen to for the rest of my life, which is obviously what Boyfriend is going to do since he is alternating holding her coffee, then her water, then her bagel, then her coffee, then her water—clearly signs of abused puppy syndrome in which seemingly full of potential men get beat down so low that they have no energy left to look anything but flaccid, pasty versions of their former selves.

Then I got a seat. Things were looking up.

Until she finished her bagel, put the remains back in her paper deli bag, and put the bag under. her. seat. on. the. floor. She was littering. Right in front of me and everyone else on the train completely oblivious to what was happening. Again, I looked at Boyfriend in shock and horror. He looked back in surrender. It was more than my heart could handle at that hour, so I switched trains.

These types of relationships baffle me. The rest of the ride I thought about how you could "love" someone so much that you would subject yourself to holding a pink satchel and being force fed a densely cream cheesed bagel in public. Was it that awful being single? Were you just at that age where you needed to couple off to avoid the pangs of attending weddings alone? I could go on, but instead I exited the station and briskly walked the one block to my building.

But not before a well-dressed man "rapping" aloud passed me, shouted "YOU'RE NOT GETTING FUCKED TONIGHT!," lifted his leg up and pelvic thrusted in my direction.

The end.

The Mogen Clamp

No post this morning. I was too engrossed by the New York Magazine feature on circumcision.

Shine Box

There's something to be said for men's dress shoes in new York city. Sure, there are numerous white socks stuffed into shapeless faux-black leather, that hybrid between a leather dress shoe and a sneaker just making the cut into business casual. But on any given commute, I am sure to see a handful of guys doin it right.
Take this gentleman for example. Structured, polished with appropriate length pants, he really says I'm intelligent, successful, working on my posture and ready to have a beer all at the same time- just with the shoes! Having to pay attention to my footwear choice every morning, I know it's easier to throw the fancy in a bag and wear keds with a pencil skirt, making you look slightly like an adolescent especially when sipping a chocolatey mocha instead of a double soy latte (not that this ever happens). So, hat's off to you city men with attention to detail. I hope your golden toes are always noticed.

See something, Say something

The number one unspoken rule of the MTA system is never make eye contact. Unless someone near you has passed gas, emits extreme body odor, or is a Hasidic Jew next to you about to fall asleep on your shoulder. In these cases eye contact becomes essential in letting the other passengers know you play no part in this public display of acceptable self unawareness, but are a classy law-abiding citizen that occasionally touches the handrail.

My usual commute is a short 45 minutes on the F train, from Bergen Street to Bryant Park. Typical New Yorkers would likely transfer to a faster (cleaner) train midway through. I always start out thinking I will exercise this method as well, but somehow always end up with just not enough energy to cross the platform.

My novel readership is few and far between, and unless I have a New York Magazine crossword to not finish, I am left strategizing how to get a seat before the sweaty man next to me who will likely not close his legs, making it extremely uncomfortable for even the smallest leggy model to sit next to him. That or diagraming passengers’ reading material, outfits, and ultimately their lives as they ride the underground Petrie dish of the city.

And so babies, this blog was born. To serve as a live journal of my daily commute, and an excellent measure in avoiding eye contact.