Life of a Harpy

BAI

2010-03-03T12:08:00.003-05:00

Hello readers, what's left of you. Apologies for lack of posting. The truth is that the Subway isn't interesting anymore. It's late, it's packed and often, it's canceled. Plus, Blogger is tired. Everything about it bugs me. So naturally, I've started a new blog. It's going to be awesome, here's a sneak peak: Back of House. I'll be updating this a lot more because it's so. freaking. easy. Why don't you join me.

I'm also doing some illustration on the side. It's HERE.

Bon voyage!

Live Blogging: BlizzardStyle- The next day: 8:30AM

2010-02-11T13:59:00.000-05:00

Live Blogging: BlizzardStyle- 5PM

2010-02-11T13:57:00.001-05:00

Live Blogging: BlizzardStyle- 8:30AM

2010-02-10T10:22:00.002-05:00

Here we are at the beginning of the first Blizzard of 2010. The F train commute was its normal, slow self with the only annoying part being a thug playing his rapz out loud right next to my ear. I'm going to be doing a lot of commuting today, so updates to come.

Just in time for Valentine's Day

2010-02-09T12:49:00.002-05:00

This morning on the train I was blessed to witness a conversation between a girlfriend/boyfriend about going home to visit her parents over the Valentine's Day weekend. It went a little something like this:

Boy (ed note: NOT attractive in the least, which makes this story even more unbelievable): I'd really like to spend some alone time with your parents this weekend, it sucks your sister's got to be there.
Girl: Well, she's going to be, and I'd like you to be nice. It's Valentine's Day, where else is she supposed to go?
Boy: I don't know, it's not my problem. How about on a DATE?
Girl: You know she's not dating anyone.
Boy: Yeah, exactly, because she's a psycho. She needs to be in therapy.
Girl: She's not a psycho, she's just single.
Boy: Right, exactly my point. Anyone who's hasn't been on more than 5 consecutive dates in FIVE years obviously has a problem.
Girl: It hasn't been five years. And plus, before I met you, I hadn't dated in a while.
Boy: Yeah but you were right out of school. You were 24. She's TWENTY-NINE.
Girl: It's different in New York, she just hasn't found anyone she likes.
Boy: Yeah because she's a P-S-Y-C-H-O. Anyway, I'm going to make a reservation for the four of us for Sunday dinner. Us and your parents.
Girl: You have to include her, that's rude.
Boy: I don't have to do anything. She's not my problem.

This is real life people. As I'm standing there trying to decide how to respond to this A-Hole's sweeping generalization of late-twenty single women on Valentine's day, I kept being knocked down by his blatant disrespect for his own girlfriend. First I looked at him, hoping to communicate disgust, pity and anger. Then I looked at her hoping to say: Your boyfriend is the king of D-Bags and I hope you flee this excuse for a relationship as soon as humanly possible. And lastly, to all my suitors out there, please take note of this undeniably romantic (and fun!) vacation said D-Bag boyfriend is planning. If all you singles could be so lucky.

Werk un-related post

2010-01-29T11:10:00.002-05:00

If y'all are looking for something really fun to do on a boring Friday afternoon, you should go over to Lucky Magazine's Style Spotter website, sign up (super easy!), and then comment on my freshman post here. The perks to being a style spotter are really endless, and you will be contributing to my well-being 360degrees of separation-style. (PS- do this before Sunday)

Next up: a subway photo of a thug with really really saggy sweatpants.

Rant Rave

2010-01-26T10:45:00.003-05:00

Subway-related post:
Overheard on this morning's F:
Boy: So how's work?
Girl: It sucks. I hate it.
Boy: But you got a new position, right?
Girl: Yes. It's awful.

UnSubway-related post:
I just realized ANOTHER one of my favorite bloggers is back (um, maybe has been back for some time, which is even awesomer because there's that many more posts to read)

Friday afternoon tweet: the perfect bun

2010-01-22T15:02:00.000-05:00

Those gloves ain't bad, either.

A crowded subway is no excuse for unprofessional conduct

2010-01-21T10:59:00.003-05:00

So this happened the other night. Actually, I think it was Friday night, which makes this story so much richer since we were on the cusp of a 3-Day weekend and it rush-hour. The time of night where g-d willing you're not next to a creep or a mother of three. So there I am on the F Train with 300 of my closest commuters, reading a post I had printed out from one of my favorite resurfaced blogs Miss Doxie. I'm crammed in the back corner of the train, leaning up against the door that goes between the cars, minding my own business when all of a sudden GAH we're at Bergen Street! (I love when this happens, it's like time travel. But not really). I elbow my way through the passengers until I hit a road block. Literally. Some twink had decided Friday rush hour would be the perfect time to jam her wooden screen-printing door gate contraption diagonal into the last car. I am talking, there was no going around this thing. Caos ensued as I imagined being trapped on the F Train until the next stop.

Me: What the what is this
Random Man: Yeah, I know, seriously
D-bag Artist: (blank stare, most likely thinking about some theory on paying her bills with overexposed canvas and definitely not about people who actually sell their artistic souls for a living just to buy 2 buck chuck and candied pecans)

My options were to climb through the middle of this thing, risking splinters and basic stuck-ness, let the A-hole artist win and surrender to Carroll Street where I would have the same problem in addition to humiliation, or get Olympical on her ass. Luckily for everyone, I was wearing pants (I know, take a moment), so like muthafuckin lightning I hurdled the wooden torture device, propelling myself toward the closing doors. I made it out alive.

Guest-ish post: CCC

2010-01-19T09:57:00.003-05:00

Yesterday while I was enjoying cleaning out my fridge, our friend CCC was commuting to work and snapped this shot along with this caption: the 4 train, completely empty except for me and this fat guy who also obviously hates his job that makes him come in instead of honoring civil rights.

I would write more, but I am too exhausted from seeing these babies perform:

You might want to listen to their new album here.
Happy belated MLK. Let love rule.

2010-01-14T11:08:00.000-05:00

Oh snap

Forgive me Blogger, for I have strayed

2010-01-07T14:08:00.007-05:00

It has been a really, really, really long time since my last post. But in my defense, I have written something over here, and a little something over here, and also took some time to complete my career's work.*

Since I'm not technically on the train, let me think up a story of something that has happened on it since we last met. Oh, I've got one. (see how quickly that happened, New York MTA, I tell ya) One snowy snowy morning I was riding the 6 (gasp at foreign trainline) home from the Upper East (gasp again at foreign neighborhood). I'll be honest, everything was a little foggy, I was wearing faux-rubberized pants (never good before 10am) and in desperate need of a mocha and an asprin. Yet, because I am civilized, I was blocking out the surrounding tourists and general happenings of the first car by listening to the soothing sounds of my iPod and reading a very in depth Law Journal (true story, I swear). Because of the aformentioned conditions, I was not paying attention to the homeless woman in worse shape than myself fending off other passnegers a mere 10 feet from me. As I looked up to see what all the commotion was about, I see the homeless (smelly) woman in my blind spot about to clock me WITH HER BROKEN SNEAKER. If it were not for her stench forwarning me of the impending blow, I would have been a goner.

This is why you should never ride the 6. The end.

*Note: "complete" might be the wrong word. "start" might be the right one.

I ain't goin down like that

2009-12-29T09:18:00.001-05:00

This morning it's a cool 27 degrees with a windchill of about zero at approximately 35 mph. A perfect morning for the F train to be broken down at my stop. After already experiencing the freezing first hand earlier when I decided to start training for the half marathon (more on that later), I knew there was no way I'd make it to the next subway stop on foot.

Well gentiles, Christmas came late this year, as there was an uptown bus--heat a'blazin--waiting for me. Comfortably nestled in a window seat, I was just about to rest my eyes when a large woman boards exclaiming:

AW NAH, AWWW NAH. I AIN'T GOIN DOWN LIKE THAT!11!

I'm assuming this public outburst was directed at the F Train itself. Clearly agitated, the woman sits down next to me as her friend (?) starts to complain about the ratio of raised metro prices in relation to the number of broken down lines. Again, mama exclaims:

GIRL, YOU HAVE LIVED HERE LONG ENOUGH TO KNOW--THAT'S JUST HOW NEW YORK CITY ROLL! .... I like your coat.

This, my friends, is the portrait of a true New Yorker. Accepting of her home's constant berating, medicated and motivated to rise above its challenges, all the while holding an appreciation for winter fashions.

That's just how we roll.

Guest photo: CCC!

2009-12-23T11:30:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure this woman has been visiting this website and making every. single. thing. on it. Not a bad idea if you ask me.

I'm in a Cab

2009-12-21T16:36:00.002-05:00

Coming to you live from an expensed cab on the Upper West. Getting a cab in this town in this weather this close to the holidays is virtually impossible. Not to mention the snow drifts you have to hurdle as you interject yourself into oncoming traffic. My main gripe with cabs are drivers who insist on pressing on the gas before your whole body is in the vehicle. Ironically, this just happened to me. There's nothing that gets your blood moving faster than the fear you will be left for dead in the dirty street slush because you were too encased into your knee-length poofy coat to tumble far enough inside. But alas I am alive and have almost arrived at home base, where I will make a B-line for the elevator before any fashionista can spot me looking like a snowman.

Santa won't you bring me the one I really need won't you please bring my baby to me e e yeah.

2009-12-16T12:33:00.003-05:00

So this weekend I was making a special appearance on the A Train when this happened:
Take a moment to let that marinate.

This woman was obviously going to SantaCon in a holiday bousteire (this is how I spell it), erect Santa hat (with baseball cap interior for extra hold!), reading glasses (nothing gets you jazzed for all-night beer consuming like the NYT), a fur coat (want), and A GOLD SCRUNCHIE PEOPLE.

I'd like to focus on the gold scrunchie. Did she purchase this to match the rest of her outfit? Did she buy it at American Apparel? Does she wear this on other non-Christmasy days? Because I don't know about you, but when I'm thinking of the finishing touch to my just-slutty-enough costume, the first thing that comes bounding into my head like Rudolph out of the North Pole is a gold scrunchie.

Eggnog for everyone.

Not Ha.

2009-12-15T16:58:00.002-05:00

Okayso again, this post is not on/about the Subway, but this is hilarious. Specifically because I have been wearing my size Large men's sweatpants from Modell's for 4 days straight.

Poofy coats and other stuffed winterwear

2009-12-11T09:12:00.002-05:00

I lived in New York for three long winters on a vintage (read: old and dirty with broken buttons) JCrew coat and various felt-like insulation models. Last year I broke down and invested in a knee-length double-lined grey poofy coat (with hood!) from Brooklyn Industries. It is not flattering. It is not fashionable. It is the warmest piece of outerwear I own.

In my immediate vicinity on the train 15 out of 18 people are wearing poofy coats. Riding the train with the poofy coat can go either way. On one hand you are basically in a cream puff force field of heat which is very beneficial when you are positioned near small children in strollers or sleeping homeless (?) adults with a twitch. On the other hand, you are encased in your own personal thermos, have virtually no sex appeal and take up a third more surface area when sitting, a very touchy subject to the personal space conscious. But bottom line you are warm/sweating so when you exit the train and are hit with below zero windchill straight out of Lucifer's bedroom, you're mostly happy. For about 30 seconds until your face freezes off.

While some weaker souls could make the same argument for the UGG boot, I have yet to crumble to their stylistic level. To me, UGGs are worse than Crocs. They are completely devoid of personality. They are the poor man's athletic sneaker with nude pantyhose. Yet they are lined with the synthetic fur of a sheep. You don't care if you step in a huge icy puddle of mud mixture. You could also take out someone's kneecaps in one swift kick. Will this be the year I cover my entire body in padding?

For now I will relish in my choice of survival over style while maintaining a firm position on shapeless boots. However, if I'm not lounging on a beach somewhere with a fruity cocktail in the midst of early retirement in three years, I might become on of the converted.

Tuesday Treat: Guest photo from OkaySam

2009-12-08T10:46:00.003-05:00

To: Harpy
From: OkaySam
I thought of you when I saw this guy on the N Judah the other day. Cornrows, glasses and a mustache? It's really too good.

Baaangs baaangs baaangs—wait

2009-12-03T10:43:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I rode the A in to a photo shoot and rode the F out with new bangs. It's common practice at shoots for the hair stylist to come up with some reason to cut my hair. I normally concede as I usually need a haircut, and like yesterday, haven't washed my hair in a week—taking the mussed up look to a new level. On this particular trim sights were set on my bangs which I described as "toupe chic" and Riad Master of Hair described as "needing texture, honey."

Viola Karen O.
Pros include: disguise, endless opportunity for unseen eye-rolling, checking out people's booties on the train without them knowing and subway napping while maintaining a sophisticated totally awake pondering life persona.

Cons include: not being able to see five feet in front of you resulting in tripping, continuous poking of the eyeballs (fear of contacts popping out), feeling like you should be on the L train wearing musty flannel and wind.

In conclusion, after I exit this train the plan of having indie chic bangs for at least one day is most likely going to be abandoned. C'est la vie du Les hairstyles.

Delayed Holiday Posting

2009-12-01T12:41:00.003-05:00

I took this on my ride home last Wednesday when we were approaching a 4-day weekend and all was right with the world. Look at this seedling in town for the holidays after serving his country, bringing some flowers to his mama. Don't you just want to pinch his rosy cheeks?

Pre-Holiday Post (not really from a train)

2009-11-24T16:07:00.002-05:00

This post isn't really from a train and isn't really about a train, but after being called out in the weekly status meeting again, this time for wearing a "bathrobe," I thought maybe I'd take a minute to indulge in some fall fashion trends (also worn on the Subway!). Here are some things this season that immediately come to my mind that I want:

A Polka Dot Thermos from Kate Spade

A nice, comfy, bright red wool coat

A delicious woolen blanket from Brook Farm General Store. Or maybe this Silk Comforter from Garnet Hill if you're feeling extra indulgent.

Just a little something for the holiday parties. Or maybe just my couch.

This idea/design/life/store.

Okay, so this is not so much a fashion focused post.
Here.
Now where were we.

A balloon ride like this. With extra champagne.

Some bacon wrapped figs. Actually anything with bacon. This might be useful. (thanks Mary's facebook)

The first photo in this blog post. The molding. The crystals. The wood.

The scalp on this broad. Okay, fine I want the headbands, too.

Some Menswear. What a coincidence, it happens to be on my favorite model.

And a bike for good measure.

Happy fall, riderz.

Man Down

2009-11-19T14:04:00.002-05:00

This morning I got a text that someone had gotten run over by the F train,* so in turn no trains were running. This news comes dangerously close to me watching a video last week of some drunk woman falling on the tracks, the approaching train stopping about 2 inches from her head (intense) I checked GMA, nytimes.com and the MTA service Advisory website and didn't see anything other than the normal trailing list of road blocks, so I headed figured I would be in the clear. I was wrong.
Here we have the mass exodus from south Brooklyn to jay street where all of these suspecting commuters expect to catch a running F. After being bullied by a small, elderly Asian woman in a poofy coat, I'm here waiting on the Manhattan bound track like all of the other chumps late for work. I decide to make a hopefully time saving decision to take the A and transfer at west 4th. Maybe it's because this delay has put me past the morning rush, but the A is surprisingly spacious. Other than the slow jams blasting through earbuds behind me and a woman applying chapstick to her grown husband's lips in front on me, I have a seat where I can comfortably think about Bollywood routines and whether I should have fruit or juice when I get to work. It's surprise tragedies like this that keep my relationship with the F Train interesting.

*Update: Well, first I thought someone got run over, then I thought someone got stabbed, and now I kind of think someone got run over and someone else was on the tracks. Three cheers for accurate and time-sensitive news reporting!

How to stuff a woman's stocking (this is not a metaphor) by Ryan D'Agostino

2009-11-18T09:00:00.002-05:00

Yesterday in a weekly work status meeting, I went to present something from this month's Esquire magazine and was met by "I think you're the only person left who reads Esquire!" Touche, I do read Esquire, and I love it. I love the graphics, I love the articles, I love the funny jokes by a hot woman. Maybe it's my increasing void of testosterone, or maybe it's the hilarity of Dr. Oz's face knitted onto a Christmas sweater. Whatever the case, reading this magazine during my commute is a close second to not-finishing the New York Mag crossword puzzle.

This morning I came across this sidebar of How to Stuff a Woman's Stocking (this is not a metaphor) by Ryan D'Agostino. In the Matheny household our stockings consist of the necessities: deodorant, toothbrush, santa chocolate, socks, mixed in with a few big ticket items like makeup, jewelry or music. What I'm saying is that if I were ever on the receiving end of this stocking jackpot, it would be a very happy holiday. I give it to you:

The first step in filling a Christmas stocking is:
Remember to do it. Women tend to love us for performing gestures that are thoughtful, time-consuming, and surprising. This one is (potentially) all of the above.

The clue:
A small piece that represents a greater whole. If you bought her a new flat-screen (ed note: !), put the remote in her stocking. A new bike (ed note: !!)? The key to the lock.

Ticket:
Nothing delivers more excitement while taking up less space. Plane tickets are thoughtful. But so are movie tickets for December 26.

The old "box-with-a-map-to-the-closet-where-the-big-expensive-gift-is-hidden" trick. (ed note: a grandma Matheny favorite)

A gadget:
An option your dad never had—camcorders didn't fit in stockings. Digital cameras and iPod nanos do.

Perfume:
Small. Smells good. No-brainer. A good heavy anchor to place in the toe.

Something old-timey:
A candy cane and some clementines poking out will make it look like a stocking in the movies.

Filler:
Candy. (Obvious and affordable. Go right now to bespokechocolates.com and order the pretzel-covered caramels.) Matchbooks from restaurants you two ate at this past year. (ed note: swoon) A few pair of the running socks she likes. (ed note: double swoon) The earbuds she's always losing.

Something funny:
A meat thermometer, because she overcooks the steak? A nutcracker and some walnuts? You know her better than we do.

Kids

2009-11-16T12:33:00.001-05:00

I can't look at that obscene photo any longer, so here's an oldie but a goodie.

Friday morning treat: Rooster

2009-11-13T10:17:00.001-05:00

(photo courtesy of poops)

Half lycra blend

2009-11-11T15:35:00.001-05:00

We're currently in the grey area of seasons where no one knows what footwear is appropriate. I'm on the train surrounded by thong sandals, boat shoes, winter boots, sneakers, strappy sandals with tights, strappy sandals without tights, cowboy boots, hiking boots, and me. In rain boots when it's clearly not raining.

Choosing the correct footwear in the morning is directly proportional to how comfortable you are during the day. Chances are your office is either still sub-zero from our faux-summer, or has switched over to pumping dry dry heat for winter.

For these uncertain times I prefer to sport the almost full foot tights and strappy (usually closed toe) sandal. Almost full foot tights are where you buy footless tights, then pull the back of them down around your heel. This prevents your circulation from being cut off at the ankle and also slenderizes the foot, showcasing your pedicure (Ed note: just because there wasn't any summer and now we're in a wet fall does not mean you should forgo ped maintenance).

The longer I can avoid wearing tights the better. Holla back.

It's Martha, Betch

2009-11-10T12:57:00.004-05:00

The past two days I have had the pleasure of taking the 3 train into the City. This experience has proved meh at best. It's still crowded, people are more obese and generally have more bags. I attribute this to the fact that commuters on the F know it's going to be an extremely cramped and hot ride over the bridge where you are thisclose to the construction worker standing next to you that normally would be forgiven for not wearing a clean shirt, but at the start of the work day you wonder if he just never made it home last night. So the 3 train gets a C, and now I'll tell you the real reason for this post:

I WAS FRONT ROW ON MARTHA STEWART'S BROOKLYN SHOW.

Obviously, I am the picture of a Brooklyn resident, so when the stage hand turned the corner and sat us in the front row ONTHESTAGE instead of with all the other chumps in the bleachers, you can bet your organic tote bag that my face looked like this for the remainder of the show.

These streets will make you feel brand new

2009-11-03T11:17:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-30T10:47:00.001-04:00

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!

2009-10-29T12:57:00.000-04:00

Today this happened

2009-10-27T11:10:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-26T13:24:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-23T08:41:00.001-04:00

Child leash

2009-10-22T10:20:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-21T08:57:00.001-04:00

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

Shine Box

2009-10-20T08:37:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-19T09:07:00.000-04:00

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.