Don’t sit so close to me

This morning I came into work early.  I’m taking a half day to beat the Easter weekend traffic to CT and the earlier I come in, the earlier I’ll be out.

What did this mean for my commute?  It meant that the trains were on time–and practically empty.  It was awesome.  No one was even close to me.

Until 59th street that is.

A girl got on the train and sat RIGHT ON TOP OF ME.  I mean, there is an empty train car and she plopped right next to me (and my big suitcase) like it was a crowded rush hour train.

Don’t believe me?

don't mind the poor, unsuspecting kid at the end of the bench. i don't have blurring technology at work.

Do you SEE her proximity to my personal space?!  I kept wanting to ask her to just scooch down a bit, but you can’t really do that so I just sat there.  Sighing and giving her looks and being passive aggressive about the whole thing.  But honestly, creepy girl, WHAT is your deal?!

There is a concept known as “personal space”.

Learn it.

Embrace it.

Respect it.

Certain behaviors will concern your fellow riders

I have this problem.  Wherever I am, subway, street corner, the line at Starbucks, I am in observational mode.  And, if the need arises, I will whip out my cell phone and take a picture of whatever ridiculous thing I just saw on the subway or street corner (for the record, I’m not a hooker, but there’s no other way to phrase where I was standing.  It was the corner of the street.  I can’t help that).

So this morning on the train I was able to plop down into a seat at around 59th street.  As I was plopping I noticed a guy tousling a girl’s hair out of the corner of my eye.  When I was finally situated on my bench (making sure I didn’t sit on anyone’s coat and no one could crush my sandwich) I looked up.

The tousler and his girlfriend were still there.  (Okay, I assume girlfriend but it’s New York–they could have met at 105th and gotten cozy by 77th for all I knew).  So anyway, I’m watching them and I’m wishing I could pull out my phone.  Because at this point they are violating one of my transit rules: Do not lean against a pole during rush hour. Pole space is limited and leaners take up the space of 3 or 4 other people’s hands.  Plus, they’ve made their lean worse in that Girly was leaning and The Boyfriend was hugging her and holding the pole behind her.  Double whammy.

I pulled out my phone.  The woman next to me was sleeping and it seemed like I could maybe snag a shot of them.  I like to have some means by which to illustrate a post and if I was going to try and explain how they were ignoring all rush hour etiquette, then it would have been helpful to have a reference.

As soon as I pulled my phone out I realized the situation was worse than I’d originally suspected.  Because at that moment, The Leaners started macking.  The Boyfriend was specifically interested in smooching on Girly’s neck and it was WAY more than what is considered appropriate for the morning (for the record, couples who ride part way together and give a quick goodbye peck are okay by me)–or for a crowded train!

So while just seconds before I may have been facing the internal battle–to snap or not to snap–I was now settled on a decision.  This MUST be photographed.  While I was trying to tip my phone to just the right angle I realized I had no choice but to abandon my normal attempts at cell phone photographic subtlety (aka using one hand to cover the screen so the victim subject doesn’t get wise).  I was sitting there, wiggling my phone around but as we were pulling into the next station, I realized it was now or ever so I shot.  And I missed.

Unfortunately for me though I didn’t realize that the guy standing directly in front of me (and therefore dangerously close to The Leaners) was watching my blatant attempt at being a paparazzo.  I happened to look up and I saw he was giving me one of those “wow, did you just see those 2 going at it?!” looks and I smiled and we did the whole “yes, we’ll acknowledge how weird some people are” thing. But I was still busted.  I couldn’t exactly say “oh, by the way, that’s not as weird as it seemed.  I’m not just some creeper getting her jollies by taking pictures of people making out. I’m a blogger,” because, well, A) Girly was still there and would probably have been offended and B) that’s just not okay to say.

So what choice did I have?  I pulled out my little notebook and started jotting things down.  I figured if I was taking notes and occasionally glancing in Girly’s direction then maybe he would figure out that I was actually just trying to make note of the event and not being a weirdo (not that taking notes like that isn’t being weird but whatever).

And because I couldn’t just write one sentence and be done with it, I wrote the following:

Places where PDA should be avoided–train (in case he was trying to read my notebook).

Also, try to be less obvious when taking pictures on your cell or people will think you are weird and not a writer.

Odd.

In fact, I feel compelled to keep writing to look less like a freak.

Fair?

I need help.

Yeah…I think it’s safe to say that I do, in fact, need help.  Either that, or I need a less conspicuous cell phone.

Some brief thoughts…

Not quite short enough for Twitter, not quite long enough to deserve a post of their own.

Brief thoughts on the Duggar’s:

I realize I’m the last person to talk about the infamous 17 kids and counting, wait, baby makes 18, family but I don’t care.  Roomie and I watched the show last night and we heard, well, some disturbing things.

A daughter (on the Duggar family hairstyle): Well, we all have long hair because my dad likes long hair. Does anyone else find this weird?  Like, ‘hey, why’d you buy that blue top?’ ‘oh, you know, ‘cuz my dad likes blue.’   Seems odd….

Another daughter (on changing the oil): I dripped oil on the camera but it wasn’t my fault.  It dripped because my father did not inform me that it was about to come. Okay, Rachel and I almost choked on lemonade and fell off the couch, respectively, when we heard that.  We were SHOCKED to hear that the editing crew let that one through.

A son: Jackson, stop it!  You made it splatter everywhere!  Again…what’s going on with the editing crew?

Rachel and I assumed that this crew hates that they got this show and since they are weirdly creeped out by the concept of a family that’s 9 times bigger than the average family, they are doing their best to make sure that the lines and footage they keep in really reflect the “crazy.”

Brief thoughts on the MTA/Albany:

New Yorkers are pissed.  And if they aren’t yet, they will be by March 25th.  Know why?  That’s the day that monthly unlimited MetroCard jumps, nay leaps, sky rockets even, from $81/month to $103/month.  That’s a $22 hike.  That is UNBELIEVABLE.  Like the signs say, for $103 there should be “a sauna, a pool and Pilates classes down there.”

Not only do I know have to shell out an extra $20 and change a month, I also have to have my route suffer.  AT LEAST once a week for the past 5 weeks I have gotten to 33rd street, a mere 2 stops away from my stop, only to hear the conducter make the dreaded announcement: “Attention all passengers, the next stop on this train will be 14th street.”

Do you know what happened to me today?  I heard that same freaking announcement.  I heard it after I battled to even make it to 33rd street w/o people yelling, pushing, shoving, and slamming in the face with their purses (I was INCHES from getting a bag to the nose).  And so I schlepped myself, my purse, and the 2 extra bags full of crap for work off the train.  Then I got shoved out of the way by a fat chick who couldn’t see that I had more bags than I could handle and figured that slamming her large ass into my little frame was the best way to act (a simple “excuse me” would have worked wonders).

I  high-tailed it to the other end of the tracks, hoping for better luck as I got away from the middle of the train.  No such luck.  I watched another over-crowded train, the 4th I’d seen that morning (including the few that passed us by at 96th and the one we finally shoved onto) shut its doors, me still on the outside.  After another few minutes I finally made it on to a train, where a businessman sat, unabashedly chewing his fingers and unnecessarily taking up 2 spots on the bench, and eventually got to 23rd street.

So I have this to say to you, MTA and Albany/the NY government: get your shit together.  Hurry the hell up with that 2nd avenue line.  STOP skipping stops during rush hour (which I know is something that I harp on nearly every time it happens…I swear, I’ll stop now!).  It’s really not doing anyone any favors.  In fact, it’s making things worse.

Oh, and if you see an angry mob led by a short girl with a mop of curly hair on her head–run.  Run far and run fast because that means I’ve finally snapped, assembled a mob of like-minded commuters (slash* bloggers), and the end result, well, it won’t be pretty.

Brief thoughts on spelling out punctuation marks*:

I have always said “slash” in conversation.  Don’t expect me to stop just b/c I have a blog and I’m working with the written/typed word and can just type a “/”.  It’s just not the same and every so often I like to type a good “slash.”

Umbrellas are SNOW not necessary*

I love snowy days.  I don’t know anyone who doesn’t, and if you tell me that you don’t, I’ll tell you that you have no soul.  But I have one grievance about snow days.  Stupid people, despite the fact that they are normally annoying, are especially annoying on snow days, and I will tell you why in one simple word: umbrellas.

Stupid people carry umbrellas on snow days.  Snow is not an umbrella form of precipitation and you stupid people carrying them have become a burden, nay a safety hazard to the rest of us non-suspecting, non-umbrella-wielding pedestrians.

When it rains, I understand that I have to be on the look-out for “the dip;” that thing that you tall umbrella users do to avoid other umbrellas, nearly poking the eyes out of us short folk in the process.  But when it snows, I’m not prepared for that sort of thing.  So there I am, walking along, looking at those big, fluffy flakes and envisioning the nice warm cup of hot chocolate I’ll be drinking in my nice warm apartment when I get home when BLAM! Umbrella pokey thing right to the eye! Now all I can envision is the nice EMT who will be driving the ambulance to the hospital to remove that bit of metal from my cornea.

If that’s not bad enough, I have to compensate for your “slip” factor.  It’s snowy, it’s slushy and it’s slippery.  These are not ideal walking conditions as it is and then I get stuck behind you, and you’re walking slowly, and I know this because if you are the type to carry an umbrella in the snow then you are the type to walk more slowly than is called for, and you will do one of two things: either A) the stop-short causing me to dodge the pokey thing once again and walk around you while you decide which is the least snowy path (channel Frost here people, just pick a path) or B) you slip.

God forbid you slip, because that umbrella will take on a life of its own and it’s anyone’s guess where it will end up.  Will you throw it?  Will you try to hook it on something, something that is hopefully not me, to save your fall?  Will you jab it at me in the hopes that I will catch it, again, saving your stupid toosh from snowy peril?  No one knows and therefore no one is safe.  Not me, and certainly not you, because let me tell you, nothing could make me more angry on a snow day than trying to go sledding (ah to live somewhere again where I could actually go sledding…) and winding up with an umbrella jammed somewhere in my cranial region.  Should that happen you can expect that favor will be returned, but most likely not in a direct “eye for an eye” sense.

So I’m just asking this one tiny favor on behalf of pedestrians everywhere.  Leave your umbrellas at home and save them for spring.  Pull out a nice little hat and a scarf and brave the weather like the rest of us, with icicle hair and weakened immune systems.

la

*I first published this post on LionConnection.com.  It seemed very fitting that I pull it out again today.

We’ve got singers! Or, my sort of live blog from the train Sunday night*

When you get on a train it’s always a crap shoot–who will you end up next to?  Will it be some creepy fat guy who basically sits on you?

That is a TOTAL line cross

Note how dude fell asleep...angled...toward me...ick.

Or will it be a fratty group of dudes who are overly impressed with themselves?

Or will you like, totally luck out and get the girls who, like, totally think they are in a band.

Oh what if we try this arrangement instead?

I can’t go that high, can we bring it down an octave?

You don’t even have to try any longer…to make me want to kill myself–AND YOU!

Why?  Why could it possibly be necessary to practice on a crowded Metro North train? As soon as I realized who I was stuck behind–the cover band from hell–I looked to the guy next to me to try and get a sympathy eye roll.  I wanted to ask them, “excuse me will you be doing this for the whole trip? If so I’ll put my headphones on.” I don’t really want to hear you sing the same 3 lines over and over for the next 2 hours. I mean,  I just can’t take it. It’s bad enough that the dude behind me has managed to somehow get his feet almost in my lap but if I have to listen to the Doublemint twins in front of me jamming to the same bad Corinne Bailey Rae song the whole way, I’ll freaking lose it.

Damn.  The dude next to me is bouncing at Fairfield.  I’m losing all backup! At least he seems equally annoyed so I know it’s not just me. They haven’t made it further than one verse and they’ve spent most of their time on the same 4 lines:

I thought that I was stronger
When you gonna realise, that you don’t even have to try any longer?
Do what you want to.
Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song

Oh here we go; to make matters worse I am in the bathroom car AND I am facing the backwards car and a creepy middle aged man is making this weird pursed duck lips face at me.  Sir…that’s gross.  Please stop. I’m not looking at you,  you just happen to be in my line of vision. Now at least I can chat with Blondie who looks like my ex and my neighbor had a baby–weird–but he’s out soon and then I lose my backup.  And my buffer zone–that’s even worse. Knowing my luck on this train I’ll get an even weirder seatmate which I just can’t risk.  But how to make it look like someone’s here? Put my bag down and hope for the best I guess.

Oh this should be good.  A girl just got on the train and busted up their little practice nook.  It’s quiet.  But for how long?  What’s this?  THEY ARE STILL SINGING!  Ah, and this is fun–one of them is chewing gum. Now I stopped singing years ago but I do remember that gum is a no-no whilst doing one’s scales.  You don’t think Shower Singer is chomping away when he belts out his arias do you?

I can’t believe this–35 minutes on one verse. And it’s not even your own song– someone has already worked out the key changes and the beat and, oh yeah, THE WORDS so what about this is so hard for you?!  Could it be the acoustics on the train? Yeah I bet it could.  That’s why trains are generally no singing zones!!   Augh!

I wonder if they’ll take requests.  Maybe a little Beyonce or some Brit Brit? All my singles ladies, now put your hands up, you, you you are a womanizer!

Fortunately Milli and Vanilli got off the train at Stamford.  Ah…some peace and quiet–finally.  Unfortunately the train has slowed and now stopped and lost all power just outside New Rochelle.  At least they aren’t here to serenade us in the dark.

la

*Yes, I did actually spend my trip typing this post out and no, they never made it past that one verse and yes, the girl who sat through their rehearsal deserved a medal by the end of the night b/c just before Harlem some guy fell over and crushed her box of Special K–don’t feel bad for him, he lost his balance and tried to blame a leg cramp so he wouldn’t look quite so goofy.

The day Big Teddy blew away

It was a windy November day.

I was nearly 4.

And I was clutching that bear for dear life as the wind whipped by me.  To be honest, I was lucky I had him to weigh me down.

I’ve been thinking about Big Teddy this week.  The wind…oh the wind.  It’s been unbelievable.  Whipping around no matter which direction I walk.  I head west, I’m walking into it.  I turn the corner, I’m somehow STILL walking directly into it.

My commutes for the past few days have consisted of me, head down, eyes barely open, struggling to take even one step forward.  This wind has literally blown me backwards.  How am I supposed to battle that?

There’s no cure for wind.  If it’s cold, you put on a hat.  If it’s raining, you grab an umbrella and put on some rain boots.  But if it’s windy?  Nothing.  You’ve got nothing.  Forget protecting your hair–a hat will blow off and a hood won’t stay up.  You can kind of protect your eyes w/sunglasses but what are you supposed to do on the walk home, pull a Corey Hart?

I know I’ve obsessed about the wind before, but it’s out with a vengeance this week and I just can’t  handle it!  I mean, we just got a break from the seemingly endless frigid spell we were in; the sun started shining, the temperature rose, and then WHOOSH!  All ruined by the wind.  The first non-freezing day in weeks and we can’t even enjoy a walk around the block w/o getting blown away (and let me tell you, trying to eat ice cream while the wind is gusting right in your face is NOT an easy feat).

But thankfully it’s Friday.  And all I have to do now is hope that the wind is on my side when I hit the train to Connecticut.

I got stunk up

This morning, as Rachel and I were walking to the train, we heard the AMNY lady shouting about the day’s headlines:

AM! AM! READ ABOUT THE HOMELESS!

Not exactly the best way to sell a paper (yes I know it’s free, but that’s an expression so back off!).

I said as much to Rachel and she just shrugged her shoulders.

“Meh, they aren’t a problem.”

Not a problem?!  How are they not a problem?  When they stink and panhandle and creep me out and lay face down on the sidewalks with no pants (I really saw that) and take up whole benches on the train during rush hour and–

She clarified.  Not a problem for her.

Well, that’s fair I suppose.  I was content to let it go after that.

Then we got to 42nd street and Rachel got off the train.  And in her place came one of the most offensive homeless people I’ve ever encountered.  He stumbled on the train, his pants, well, I can’t even describe them because I’d prefer to keep a readership–let’s just say that the open fly was the least of his worries.

He was stumbling and swinging his arms at purse level.  I thought for a minute that he might be pickpocketing people.   You know, gross them out with his stink while he reaches into their purses and pulls out their wallets.

People began scrambling away from him.  The poor women who he chose to stop in front of couldn’t get up fast enough.  Then he took a seat.  Sort of.  He kind of crawled on to the bench, causing the woman to my right to move basically onto my lap.  I let her.  And trust me, that is the ONLY time that that is ever OK behavior.  I couldn’t take the stink anymore so I got up and moved to the end of the car.  Everyone around me followed suit.

The next thing we knew this guy was sprawled out on the bench.  No easier way to clear a subway car I suppose.

At 28th street I was happy to breathe in the fresh air when the doors opened.  Yeah, you read that right.  I just called stanky subway station air “fresh.”  Does that paint a picture yet?

I was so happy to rush out of the car at 23rd and I took huge breaths the entire walk to work.

But, as I sit here, I’ve noticed something upsetting.

I got stunk up!

I’ve sniffed my hair, my coat, my hoodie–everything.  And I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.  But I can still smell the stink of that dude.  It’s been burned into my nostrils.

And that, dear readers, is a problem.

But look on the bright side, I’ve saved you all the trouble of picking up an AMNY to read about it.

2015 isn’t soon enough

This. Morning. Blew.

Every month I buy an unlimited Metro card.  It’s just easier that way.  I like not having to keep track of how many rides I have left, when I need to refill, yadda yadda yadda.  The only problem with that is that I never seem to remember what date I actually purchased said card and therefore spend 2 or 3 days at the end of the month (well, the bought month, that is) cringing every time I swipe my card, wondering if THIS will be the morning it stops working.

Today was that morning.

I swiped, I was out and I left Rachel at the turnstile to jump into the card line.  I bought my new card and pressed the button for a receipt.  Nothing printed.  After waiting a few seconds I just said “eff it” and walked away–I know how much I spent and it’s not like I’m getting reimbursed for this crap; I don’t really need the receipt.

I walked to the turnstile where the woman in front of me was swiping her card.  And swiping it.  And swiping it.  After about 4 or 5 swipes, she turned around and was all “hehehe sorry!” and I had to refrain from yelling “BITCH MOVE!” at her.  I think the visual daggers sent the message though and she got out of my way.

I walked down to the platform and scanned for Rachel.  Found her.  Just then a train was barreling into the station.  Perfect timing right?  Wrong.  It just sped on by.

No worries.  We waited, we chatted, we talked about our deep-seated love for Tool Academy and her bearded dog.  Then a train pulled in.  Too full to get on, so we stepped back.  We continued to wait.  Rachel told me that she looked up “shorty” on UrbanDictionary yesterday.  Another train pulled in.  Too full.  And yet the people who got there after us were pushing through.

“At the risk of sounding like an old person, I feel like there should be some sort of single file line sitaution or something.” I agreed with Rachel whole-heartedly on that one.

Finally, a fourth train pulled in.  It was now 8:46.  We shoved our way on to that one and wound up with awkward yet prime positions (aka we were right by a super cute guy.  Rush hour has to be good for something, and what is it better for than oggling the pretty boys in their suits?).  We crawled to 86th and then to 77th where some guy got shoved and was whining about it.  Then we heard the shover say “Well I am SORRY but I HAVE to be on THIS train!”  Yeah, dude, we get it.  You need to get to work.  So do the rest of us.  We’re not all crammed in here, getting cozy with strangers, for our health.

We slowly made it to 59th street where I realized a minute too late that I probably should have transferred to the NRW.  Oh well.  We got to 42nd street with no further incident and Rachel got off the train.  I grabbed a seat and rode to 33rd…where they decided to announce that due to delays (What? There was a delay? You’re SHITTING me, MTA!) the next stop on that train would be 14th street.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

I stepped off the train and had to immediately dodge a pile of what appeared to vomitted up cranberry juice.  Yummy.  I attempted to walk down a bit to avoid the vom pile and maybe have a chance at grabbing a less crowded car.  I was hugging the wall when this stupid cow of a person (I think it was a woman, but I couldn’t be sure) was walking towards me and just halted in front of me, refusing to move.  After a quick standoff I slammed past and muttered “BITCH” loudly enough that he/she/it should have heard me and kept going.

It was now 9:15.  EFF!  But not to worry because train had just pulled into 33rd street.  But, keeping with the theme of the morning, I couldn’t get on it because the damn thing was too full.

I waited a few more minutes for another train to pull into the station.  I shoved my way on to that one because at that point I was so over the day that if I didn’t get on THAT train I was getting on an uptown one and calling in sick.

At 9:23 I finally surfaced.  A full hour after I left my apartment.  I walked down 23rd to my office and hit the construction zone, where everyone but ONE stupid woman on a cell phone was walking against pedestrian traffic.  Of course she hit me with her stupid puffy coat and purse.  I must have groweled audibly because one of the construction guys, my bad day heroes, said good morning and smiled.

I tried to tone back the scowl on my face after that.  And then I started counting down until 2015 and the desparately (at least if this morning was any indicator) needed 2nd avenue line.

Conclusion?  2015 can’t get here soon enough.

It’s snowing and I’m busy…

…but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.

So take a gander at this chick:

Yes.  Those ARE high heels she’s wearing in the snow.

Yes.  She most likely IS missing brain cells.

Like I tweeted to Matt, “i kept hoping she would fall. why not pack the heels and wear boots? or at least sneakers? you don’t look cute, you look dumb.”

I was going to flesh out this lack of post with what would have been a very topical one of my LionConnection columns but since that Web site is now completely useless, it wasn’t online anymore and I didn’t think to email it to myself earlier today.

So consider this short but sweet post my snow day post–because let’s face it, who does work on a snow day?

Daytime vs. nighttime P.D.A., or, my day with the Disgustingtons

Saturday Rachel and I were assaulted.  Twice.  By unnecessary (and gross) public displays of affection.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate P.D.A.  Boo’s planted one on me in an empty aisle at Target or while we’re waiting for the subway.  And don’t talk to me about the goodbye kiss at the train station.  That one’s allowed, so shut up!

Anyway.

There is a time and a place for P.D.A. and Rachel and I were front row witnesses to times when P.D.A. protocol was violated.

Up way earlier than is appropriate for a Saturday, Rachel and I made our way to the Cole Haan sample sale.  We arrived at 9:10, just 10 minutes after it started and were already faced with a 30-minute wait in line.  No problem, we can easily amuse ourselves.

After about 15 minutes we noticed The Disgustingtons.  They caught my attention when the girl started complaining about how the line wasn’t moving and how “that guy should just get off his Blackberry and walk already!!” despite the fact that there was someone directing the flow of traffic to avoid having 70 people on the stairs at one time.

The next thing we know, they are going at it.  He’s got his hands all over her face and her hands are on his ass and they are macking.  Hard core.

We tried our best but couldn’t tear our eyes away.  It was like roadkill–you didn’t want to look but it was too nasty to actually avert your eyes for long.  Rachel and I decided that if they were an attractive couple we wouldn’t have been as offended.  Sadly for their sake (or I guess for ours, geeze I am MEAN) they were gross.  Girlfriend had a bleached blonde perm and sweatpants tucked into her Uggs and homeboy wasn’t much better off.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:25am.  No one has had their coffee.  Even if they have, there’s not enough caffeine in the world to make that level of tonsil hockey okay at that hour.  At that point we started debating the differences and societal acceptability of daytime P.D.A.

There never seems to be a time or place where that’s okay.  At night, we justified, P.D.A. is usually b/w drunk people at a bar and that’s not a big deal.  That’s standard Friday night activity.

I’d already decided that the morning’s events would become blog fodder.  I had planned to leave it at what you’ve just read.  The argument being that daytime P.D.A should be avoided at all costs but nightttime P.D.A. is doable.

Then Rachel and I hopped a 6 train at 9:30 Saturday night.

A mere 12 hours after our initial assault our eyes were again attacked.  The Old Disgustingtons, filling the car with the smell of alcohol and swaying, got on the train at 86th St., splitting a pair of guys who had gotten on together.  Before the doors even shut I saw the little lady (and she was quite tiny–barely up to the man’s shoulders) do the drunk “lean in, tilt head back, and groan…’sexily’”  Too bad the groan is never sexy when you’re as plastered as this chick was.  It was more of a moan…and again, not a sexy one.  A pained one.

Gross old man went in for the kill.  He was so tall that he had to bend his knees and fall forward before he could vacu-seal his face to hers.  Then hands were roaming, limbs were flailing and the doors kept bouncing back open.  Once G.O.M realized that he and his chicky were the culprits, he inched them forward and they continued their quest to gross out all the passengers in the car, specifically the dudes they’d split up, one of which had a front row seat–no options for his eyes except to watch them get it on or squeeze his eyes shut and pray to forget that visual.  I wanted to get a picture but Rachel wouldn’t let me.  Maybe it’s for the best.  That’s not a visual most of you could handle.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:40pm.

The macking continued until 59th St when the Old Disgustingtons moved from their post in front of the door to set up shop in front of 2 poor girls sitting on the bench, minding their own business.  I lost it at that point.  I was laughing hysterically, Rachel was cursing her lack of view, the lost dude, also laughing, rejoined his friend who looked totally scarred for life.  And then I looked up and saw the sheer horror on the faces of the girls on the bench.  One looked on the verge of tears.

We got off the train at 51st St and changed our stance on P.D.A.  Everything we’d thought about out-of-house macking got turned upside down in the course of 12 hours.  And we realized–daytime P.D.A. is NOT okay.  Ditto for nighttime.

Unless of course you’re good looking.

Or the people around you are as drunk as you are and don’t notice the fact that you’ve attached your face to someone else’s and are now blocking the exit.

If they aren’t, take a cab.  I hear that’s what they’re for.