Category Archives: NYC

Life In These United States, NYC

The MTA’s Very Own Buster Keaton

My usual bus driver was born too late for vaudeville or silent film. That’s too bad, because she would’ve hit it big in either genre. She has mastered the long, drawn-out visual gag, and she has just the right amount of sadism to make it really work.

The bus I take to work in the morning starts its route around the corner from where I live. So people line up at the stop, waiting for said bus to arrive. The bus pulls up, and the queue inevitably shuffles closer to the curb, even though we are nowhere close to leaving yet.

The bus driver s l o w l y hoists herself out of her seat, wraps herself up in a jacket and scarf, and then opens the door–so she can go into the Dunkin Donuts right by the bus stop, use the facilities, and order herself a coffee.

After completing these tasks–which take a bare minimum of five minutes–she returns to the bus. She opens the door just wide enough to let herself in and make it clear that no one else is getting in yet. Then she takes off her jacket. Then she takes off her scarf. Then she carefully folds them up and places them in the locker behind her seat.

And just when you think she’s totally done, oh no, not even close. Because she proceeds to engage in a million little OCD- rituals before she even dares to start the bus. Adjusting her seat. Adjusting her rear view mirrors. Adjusting her seat again. Adjusting the side view mirrors. Adjusting the rear views again.

And then, just when you think she’s ready, she notices something amiss. Like the strap of her shoulder bag caught in the locker door. So she gets up from her chair s l o w l y and fixes it, and sits back down just as s l o w l y, and goes through her whole Tourette’s syndrome ritual all over again.

Then she starts up the bus. But she is so good at this routine, she knows how to start up the bus in the most fekachteh way possible. She turns the key, the bus sputters, the lights flicker, but the engine doesn’t quite catch.

Not only is she able to do this every morning, she is able to do it and look just as perplexed and annoyed every morning. Like she’s not doing it on purpose.

But after the second or third try at starting the bus, she finally gets it going. And we’re ready to roll, right? Oh no, there are more adjustments on their way before finally, finally she opens the door and lets everyone in.

And–this is the kicker–as passengers walk in, she’s totally stone-faced. Not the least bit of recognition of what has just transpired. Like she hasn’t made you needlessly wait in 15 degree weather for no good reason.

It would be completely hysterical, if I was watching it on a silent movie screen in 1923 and not about to have my ears drop off my head from the cold.

NYC

Pick Out Somebody You Wanna Punch

Guess I’m in an angry mood this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to Jay Reatard on the way to work. But whatever the cause, I spotted four people along my commute that I wanted to hit really hard.

Victim #1: Corner of Flushing and Wythe, youngish man wearing gray trenchcoat, stovepipe pants, black/white saddle shoes and a Homburg hat. Presumably he doesn’t want to be late to his audition for a Noel Coward play revival, or the F. Scott Fitzgerald Lookalike Contest. He walks gingerly over the ice-covered sidewalk in this fey, tip-toey gait that makes me hate him even more for some reason. He could have skimped on some of that vintage wear and used the money to buy winter boots, so he wouldn’t dirty his spats by slipping and breaking an ankle.

Victim #2: Further down Flushing, by the Navy Yard. Guy in suit walks very casually down cross street. As the bus nears him, he signals it with two hands, like he’s hailing a cab. Mind you, he makes no effort to speed up in any way. He clearly expects this bus to screech to a halt and await his arrival like he was the King of Busville. To his credit, the bus driver keeps right on driving.

Victim #3: Further yet down Flushing, after making a stop the bus pulls away from the curb in a normal bus-like fashion. We are beeped at by an aggressive driver who wants to make a left into the studio entrance we are now blocking as we wait for the light to turn green. I take a peek at the car. It’s a white Mercedes. From my angle, I can just make out the driver’s left hand, encased in a leather glove, clutching a Starbucks coffee cup. I think to myself, Wow, I can only see about 5% of this guy’s body, and I hate him.

Victim #4: Off the bus, walking down Front Street. Half a block away, guy in puffy jacket and backpack doing overly demonstrative tai-chi exercise. Not in a park or on his porch, but on the sidewalk. Arms flailing, big leg kicks, like he works at the Ministry of Silly Walks. I think he must see me staring at him hatefully, because he stops doing it and crosses the street. Mind you, he was at least 50 feet away from me.

And it’s only Monday. Shoot me now.

Fashion, NYC

The New Hotness, God Help Us

One great thing about living in NYC (among many) is that you get to see fashion in progress. I don’t mean Bryant Park during Fashion Week, or guys pushing garment racks down 7th Avenue. I mean, you see the future fashions of the world exhibited by the eternal fount of all style: urban teenagers.

F’rinstance, the current steez amongst teens in this city is a sort of mutant hip-hop/punk rock/rockabilly hybrid. Ed Hardy-mania is its most obvious manifestation. Nowadays, kids in Brooklyn dress like a weird mix of Jay-Z and Mike Ness.

This hasn’t taken hold everywhere, near as I can tell, but I’m guessing it won’t be too long before it does. And I, for one, am totally on board with it. This is probably the first time since I’ve been alive that I’ve thought, “I actually like the way teenagers dress right now!”

But that train of thought came to a screeching halt this morning. Because I saw a kid this morning on Atlantic Avenue, dressed in all black (hoodie, jeans), holding a matching murse.

Not a messenger bag, or a laptop bag. It couldn’t possibly be slung over his shoulder. In fact, I would even hesitate to call this thing a murse.  It was no bigger than small grapefruit, and he held it with as few fingers as possible. It was a man-clutch.

Mind you, this kid was not even the slightest bit precious. He totally had the look of someone who would beat you up for thinking about thinking about messing with him.

I don’t hate this idea because it’s girly. I hate it because it’s so dumb and impractical. Like when punk/emo kids were doing that ear stretching thing a few years back. Do they still do that? Please tell me they don’t still do that.

Google tells me that at least some kids still do this. C’mon, kids, cut it out.

My plea to the kids of NYC: You were doing so good on the fashion front. Please do not adopt the man-clutch. Thank you.