Subway and Planes

Subway

I survived the subway.  A loud, slithering tremor under the city streets that transports urban dwellers from the best parts of town to the worst, or visa-versa.  Each person a puzzle piece of an inconceivable landscape, and maybe one that no one wants finished.  From two girls blabbering about their experiences with bad relationships and how one even lost her favorite cookbook in such ordeals to another quiet girl sitting nearby drawing me the entire trip.  I knew and she didn't.  Setting her eyes, positioning her knee as a easel, she drew the homeless-looking hipster picking his wedgie and talking to himself.  Still the wheels on the subway keep turning, with each person, each in their unique get-ups and styles, playing a different part of the city sprawl.  Climbing the city ladder or falling off; Diving deep, but making little splash or worse, drowning.  You can only guess their suffering or happiness - and play their story as you see fit.

Late one night, after multiple drinks and a comedy routine, my friend (Mikey), his wife and I were in transit back home - the R train to be exact.  I sat rolling a fresh cigarette while his wife and him talked about the night’s events.  Standing up to join them, I dropped the cigarette and proceeded to pick it back up.  “Don’t smoke that please, Bob” Mikey touted.  “I've seen men smear shit all over this place, and not with their feet.  I've seen men hand-paint this place with their shit, or we can only hope it was their shit.  Even worse, there’s a lady who carries bottles of vomit and another that chases and sneezes on you.  I've seen her move train cart to train cart making sure her sneeze connects.”  This is the subway, and I love it.  It’s a place where you realize no matter how crazy you might think you are, there is always someone crazier.

Planes

To sum up my plane ride from New York: I got caught picking my nose by the prettiest passenger and the stewardess slipped me free vodka drinks.  I also learned white grown-ups love the movie Grown Ups.  Keven James is their God, Adam Sandler their Jester, and Chris Rock makes them feel less racist.  Which leads me to my next point: I’m not sure how it happens?  You know, turning old - not by age, but by attitude.  The jump from cliff-diving a situation to looking at life as a chess board, each move precise and efficient.  I know, I talk about this a lot, and yes, it’s always on my mind with a trailing response of “Ruunnnnnn!”.  But it is scary and always near, like a disease for which the only continual acts of irresponsibility and stupidity can cure.  Maybe it’s this fear that draws me to dick jokes.  One more cock reference and I’m in the clear. Like those old cootie rhymes, Dick Dick Fart Fart, now I’ve had my adulthood shot.