You guuuuuuuys. I CAN’T.
I’ve been working my ass off lately, with two jobs and the bloggity blog blog and the band and oh yeah, the occasional hour or two with *gasp* my husband and/or my friends, and when you’re a regular Jane in NYC, that means logging a shitton of time spent with the good old MTA. Plenty of people have said plenty of things about the complete shittiness of having to share your commute with a billion other crabby, sweaty, pushy people, so I know I’m not reinventing the wheel here, but there are a few things that really get my proverbial goat that don’t seem to bother other people half as much. Am I just crazier than the average Manhattanite? (Oh shit – I have to get used to saying Brooklynite! Ah, the joys of moving!) Pretty sure I’m bitchier than the average, for sure. Anyway.
WHY why WHY WHY whyyyyy do men (usually young men who should be getting up to give their seats to ANYONE else. YOU ARE CLEARLY HEADED TO THE GYM. WHY ARE YOU SITTING AND MAKING THAT OLD LADY STAND, ASS?!) insist on putting whatever backpack, shopping bags, golf clubs, laundry bags, or whatever mound of crap they are carrying between their legs? Seems weird to get mad about, maybe? YO, SON. Those bags are making you sit with your legs spread so wide that you’re taking up 2 to 3 spots where PEOPLE COULD BE SITTING. And do NOT get me started on the dudesons who just sit like that with NO good reason, hogging multiple seats, and REFUSING to move an INCH. And then I mash myself in the 3 inches he’s left available JUST TO SHOW HIM, and we have a subway standoff, him refusing to move his leg so I’m practically in his lap but I DON’T CARE I AM NOT MOVING ASSHOLE. Because clearrrrrrrrrrly your D is soooooooooo big you just haaaaaaave to sit like that to accomodate its extreme girth. YEAH. Uh huh. I HATE YOU.
Screaming, ridiculous groups of obnoxious teenagers.
This is what school busses are for!
I need to move back to Ohio.
I KNOW that 85% of the riders on the subway are coherent enough to read the signs, hear the announcements, and glean from simply existing as a human with any sort of manners, to LET PEOPLE OFF OF THE TRAIN BEFORE YOU GET ON. I get it. You have places to go. You want a seat. Welcome to the exclusive club known as EVERYBODY else around you. I freely assume that if you are a push-er on-er, you are a selfish, rude, classless ass, and that gives me the FULL right and authority to carry out a citizen’s angry stare-down for at least two stops if I’m not already in ‘fuck it, it’s New York, everyone sucks’ mode for the day. If it’s an old person who clearly has the need for a seat, I try my best to not get too ragey. I mean, they need the seat, and very few people will actually offer them one. In addition, if you don’t already know this about me, I’m not exactly a ‘kid’ person (they’re cute when they’re someone else’s and relatively quiet) but I have a pretty serious soft spot for seniors, so I can shake it off a LOT easier from a cute old lady. However. The average profile of a push-er on-er is generally 18-40, generally healthy, not carrying anything heavy, and is CLEARLY the only person who needs to get on a train at any given time. Not to mention, a push-er on-er is the FIRST person to hockey check a tourist who doesn’t let them off of THEIR train. So beware, p on’s (ha, see what I did there?), because I WILL stare you down, and I WILL block your way and say something (loudly) if you try to get on the train before letting me and my fellow passengers off of it.
NO I WILL NOT SWIPE YOU IN WITH MY CARD AS I GET OFF OF THE TRAIN.
I’m not getting fined or arrested for your sorry ass. Put that $2.50 you clearly spent towards the latte in your hand toward a Metrocard next time.
And finally, five.
The MOST HORRIFICALLY TERRIBLE PERFORMER on the ENTIRE subway system, the Hendrix guy on the L stop at Union Square. Look, man. I know how it is. Being a musician anywhere is tough. Being a musician in New York is tougher. And busking is a ballsy move, which I respect you for. There is where my respect ends. Dude has NO IDEA HOW TO PLAY THE GUITAR. He presses play on his lame backing track for Red House, misses his entrance, plays a few chords in the wrong key, and stops. Ah, but he’s not done yet. He won’t be beaten. No, he restarts the track, and tries it again, still in the same WRONG key. Never playing a chord on the beat, trying to sing and forgetting the words, and sounding worse than one of Tom’s 7 year old students (one of which played Iron Man at the last recital and killed it, btw – YOU’RE WORSE THAN A 7 YEAR OLD) until he finally gives up about a minute in and skips to the next track. Mercifully, at some point the train shows up to whisk us away to rehearsal where we can hopefully rid our ears of his SHIT. The last time we were subjected to this torture, the intro to Little Wing started playing on his boombox as the doors were thankfully closing, and all we could say was ‘Good luck with that one, man…’ Maybe it’s some freeform acid jazz rock next-level shit that we’re just not getting. Or maybe you blow. PROBABLY THE SECOND CHOICE. Jimi is crying in heaven because of you. PLEASE STOP.