Did My Eyes Deceive Me?

New Yorkers know well that the subway system hosts a whole lot of panhandlers. I'm not talking about people from, say, the panhandle of Florida. I'm talking about the people who sell, perform, or otherwise ask for cash on the trains.

When you do same commute every day (in my case, it's two different commutes, depending on circumstances), you get to see a lot of the same panhandlers. There's a dapper little violinist who, despite his playing ten hours a day, really doesn't know how to play the violin. There's a saxophonist I try to avoid on the F train. There are several mariachi combos on the 7 train. There are the kids who sell their candy, "not for basketball uniforms, but to earn a little money and keep me off the streets." There's often a blind dude at the 7 to F transfer.

During my evening commute this week, while walking down the steps to the 7 train, I noticed a dude who looked a bit down on his luck. The train was pulling into the station, and he scurried to the back car. I wandered into the second-to-last car and didn't give him another thought.

Until a seriously disabled panhandler staggered into our car. He was shaking from head-to-toe and could barely walk. He was hunched over and held tightly to the various handrails available for support. It was the same dude I saw walking down the stairs, except that this version of him would never had made it up or down the stairs.

He announced that he was going to take up the next ten or fifteen minutes of our time. This is unheard of. Most panhandlers do their thing and move on quickly.

I was listening to music, so I didn't catch everything the man said as he staggered up and down the car, very slowly, but he talked about injuries, mentioned something about 9/11, and offered to help anyone else in the car who might be hungry.

But it was the physicality that was truly remarkable. People get on and off the trains, of course, and over ten or fifteen minutes, you pull through approximately five to eight stops. One woman, wanting to catch the transfer across the platform, reached out to give him a dollar, couldn't get her money in his little bag (which he'd placed on the floor next to a handrail), and laid the bill next to it so she wouldn't miss her train. He worked desperately to bend, holding the rail for dear life, trying to get the bill until another rider grabbed the bill and put it in his bag for him.

This fella was so convincing in his physical performance that I began to question if he was really the same man I saw walking down the stairs at the station. Even now, thinking back, I don't feel so sure. His performance was that good, B&E readers.

He was doing pretty well for himself money-wise in my car, and he was still going on when I got off the train at my stop.

It was downright spooky. And impressive. Cirque du Soleil should totally hire him.

Dude, You're Totally Hot

Hello, hello, B&E readers! It's that time of year again! That's right! It's the US Open Tennis in Flushing Meadows Corona Park! And we all know what that means! Regular 7 train passengers can smell the fear emanating off the rich preppies who decided to slum it with the locals!

Alas, there are still the freaky locals, too. And a couple of nights ago, I was getting a late-ish (and not terribly full) 7 train home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a body lifted up toward the ceiling. When I looked over, it was just the man sitting a couple of seats away from me doing a chin up on the handrail above our heads.

He was quite the beefcake in his tight t-shirt and jeans, a muscly specimen of lactic acid and creatine.

I went back to my reading material, and he did another chin-up. When I looked over at him this time, I noticed that after sitting back down, he was checking out how his muscles looked in the window reflection across the car from him. He was doing a couple of flexes to check out his triceps.

This pattern went on during the long underwater passage between Grand Central and Vernon-Jackson, the first stop in Queens. That's when he got off the train.

But I'd never seen someone like this beefcake before. He was obviously very self-conscious about his appearance, wanting his muscles to look just so. But he also very obviously didn't give a shit about looking like a total douche on the 7 train.

Where'd All the Hotties Come From?

Yesterday, the AC at my office blew out, so today I worked from home. The AC was fixed by 9:30 AM. I didn't see that coming.

But because I was working from home, I did what people who work from home are rumored to do: I worked from Starbucks for a little while.

Yes, Sunnyside has a Starbucks, and for what might be the first time ever, I chose it over the Grind, which continues its relatively hapless ways (under new management). Last time I went into the Grind (maybe two weeks ago), they didn't have AC, and I was hot.

I took no chances today. And Starbucks, that predictably well-run bastard, was cold. But really, that's not my point.

A few short years ago, when I rejoined the throngs of the Sunnyside commuters after a spate of freelancing from my sofa, I noticed a distinct uptick in hipsters on the rush-hour subway platform.

Today's Starbucks experience was something different. Almost everyone who walked in - male and female - was sorta hot.

Sunnyside is along the MTA's famed #7 train. The #7, as we all know, is the ugly train (except during the US Open). People who live in Sunnyside ride the #7 train, i.e. Sunnysiders ride the ugly train, i.e. Sunnysiders are ugly people.

These Sunnysiders were not ugly. They were hot. Many appeared to be on their way to the beach. Or perhaps they were just scantily clad because it's hotter than the opposite of a well digger's ass.

Today is Tuesday. What were these people doing during prime working hours on a Tuesday strolling through Starbucks in Sunnyside looking so damned hot? Do they think this is Manhattan or something? Manhattan is where the leisure classes go to look good while strolling around while the rest of us work.

I tell you what, B&E readers... This experience shook me. It shook me to my core. Time was that I was above average looking in Sunnyside. If these Sunnysiders are any indication, bald schlubbiness doesn't cut it anymore for looking good along the #7 train line.

This isn't change I can believe in.

The Most Miserable Couple in the World

As I've mentioned before, I look at the faces I pass on the Brooklyn Bridge during my morning commute, sometimes with surprising results.

Two people I see with some regularity are a couple. Or at least I assume they're a couple since they so often walk together. They also often walk separately. No matter how they're walking - together or separate - they look miserable.

The guy looks about as defeated by life as someone can look. The hair on the top of his head is blonder than the rest, and those of us who begin fair and lose the hair know that it's just a matter of time before it stops growing altogether. He's clearly very disappointed by this problem - and what are clearly his other major problems.

The gal looks angry. She's probably pissed off that her partner is so goddamned depressed all the time. It can be difficult being with someone who's always such a downer. I suspect she's really quite hard on Defeated Guy.

When they're walking together, they sometimes argue. Or maybe because Defeated Guy looks so defeated and Angry Gal looks so angry, they just look like they're arguing.

When they walk separately, Defeated Guy looks no less defeated, and Angry Gal looks no less angry. Usually they're separated by a large portion of the Brooklyn Bridge. One morning, though, they were maybe ten yards apart. It was as if they had a fight mid-Bridge and Angry Gal walked ahead and Defeated Guy just let her.

I'd like to give them an award. Perhaps The Most Miserable Couple in the World Award. But then it might cheer them up, and they'd have to give the award back.

But every time I see them, a piece of me becomes just a little more miserable.

I Still Got It, Baby!

I've been at my current job for about two-and-a-half years now. I figured out early on that commuting via the Brooklyn Bridge was a Very Good Thing To Do, even if it took an extra fifteen minutes each way. It's a walk that keeps on giving, B&E readers.

I'm a people-watcher. New York is a great place for the activity. Walking down the streets, I tend to look people in the eye. Very few look back. It's a guarded city that way.

So after two-and-a-half years of walking the Brooklyn Bridge most weekdays, there are dozens of faces I recognize. Most of those people who belong to these faces wouldn't recognize me in a lineup because they walk in their own worlds and block out the world around them. I do it sometimes too, so I get it.

After all this time, then, there are exactly three people I now greet in the mornings. Two I see almost every day. The third I think might be a seasonal walker. Or perhaps she's among the throngs of the laid off, because I haven't seen her in months.

Greetings vary. One gets a smile and a wave. The other gets a simple mouthed "good morning," because why should we bother to actually speak when we're both wearing headphones on a very loud bridge?

A little bit of human and humane interaction adds a warm touch to a cold commute.

Yesterday, Smile & Wave Girl handed me a note. Dude. A note. It's the fifth grade all over again!

It was simple just-wanted-to-introduce-myself fare, but it also said something about hoping she hadn't embarrassed herself. And she included contact information. So it was pretty clear she was fishing - fishing for the bald specimen that is this hunk of effectiveness.

I wrote her from my work email, figuring she'd troll our site and find my bio, which mentions the missus. Even though it was probably safe to be presumptuous, I didn't feel right just saying, "Thanks for the note: I'm married."

She wrote back with an "Oops! Didn't know you were married. Sorry!" She said she'd tried to see if I had a ring during the note hand-off, but I think I was holding my hat in my left hand (the hat is the single most important element in body temperature regulation, B&E readers).

And that's pretty much it. I don't mind telling you, faithful B&E readers, getting a note from a random lady boosts the ego tremendously.

The people with whom I've shared this story admire the cojones on this woman, and I share their admiration. Seriously. Good for her. If I were single, I'd go on at least one date with her because of my deepest respect for her initiative.

The missus, by the way, is being very good about letting me bask in the glory of another woman's fondness. And I'm being appropriately insufferable about it.

Dude! A chick totally hit on me while I was walking by her on the Brooklyn Bridge!

But I'm sorry, ladies. I'm afraid I must inform you that as much as you might like to ride the elevator to the top of B&E Tower, the observatory is the sole property of the missus. You'll just have to enjoy the shiny architectural mastery from a safe distance.

Rowr, B&E readers. Seriously. Rowr...

Another Complaint About the MTA

The Metropolitan Transit Authority has gotten my boxer-briefs in a bunch on numerous occasions.

So it's surprising to me that I'm feeling their pain a little bit these days. I still think that they need to open up their accounting books (and I mean the real ones) to the City Comptroller (who will hopefully have some time to look them over while running for mayor).

But I believe that they have a budget shortfall and that they need an influx of cash from the city and state governments to keep service and improvements up. I also believe that much of the problem is their fault but accept that they are affected by the economy like any enormous organization. I hate that they're talking about raising fares when the people who rely on the subway are the people who can't afford any other modes of transportation.

These conflicting emotions are really about as positive as I get for the MTA, which I consider an inherently corrupt bureaucracy with a very confusing private company/public service relationship to balance.

In any case, I have another complaint about the MTA that I need to air, and if they're going to raise fares again, I really hope this is something they address.

MTA, your turnstiles keep hitting my testicles, and I have to go through sideways to avoid pretty serious pain.

I've played baseball, and I own a jock strap with a cup built into it. But I shouldn't have to wear it on the subway.

Please raise (or lower) your turnstiles an inch or two. Thank you.

The Nostalgia Train

Chalk this one up under "Another Reason New York City Totally Rules"...

The missus and I attended brunch yesterday at a trendy location on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a borough some people think is great.

As we were transferring from our local #7 train to the downtown B/D/F/V options, the Nostalgia Train pulled into the station. I remembered hearing about this special MTA event on the ever-reliable NY1. It's so rare that you hear good things about the MTA on the news that, when you do, the reports really stand out.

Classic subway cars, B&E readers! We rode in a 1930s number with uncomfortable seats (although the lumbar support was surprisingly solid) that was in service until the 1970s. I wasn't in NYC in the 1970s, so it was all new to me.

The MTA has the Nostalgia Train all decked out in classic subway ads, and even the locals look like tourists riding this thing: cameras (or cellphone cameras) out, smiles across the board, and interactions with strangers.

The MTA conductors seemed to be having a good time, and at least one obvious train enthusiast (no MTA identification and wearing a classic engineer's cap) was making platform announcements to let everyone know that it was running along the V line from Queens Plaza to 2nd Avenue. (Unfortunately I didn't have my camera with me.)

So if you're in New York City on either of the next two Sundays, I recommend finding your way to the V train and keeping an eye out for the Nostalgia Train.

It'll be one of the few times that the MTA makes you happy.

This morning, of course, the MTA followed up the Nostalgia Train experience with a really shitty commute. Well done.

I Remember This: It's Called Cold

Oh, yes, B&E readers, New York City has had its first really cold day, and I don't mind telling you that I like it.

Well, I like it other than the fact that it was also 54-degrees at my job today. (In case I need to clarify, we do actually work inside.) It's sort of sad looking across at all my office mates wearing coats, scarves, and knit caps (I had my cap on too).

But that brisk walk across the Brooklyn Bridge is invigorating with a windchill in the teens. Because I layered up and because I am who I am, I did manage to get a minor sweat going, so I took off my knit cap during my walk and let that icy wind race across my scalp. It's tingly and nice.

I recommend that everyone shave their heads and enjoy that feeling for just a moment. Then you can put your hair back on.

While I was enjoying the scalpy tingle, a majorly bundled-up figure on a bicycle cried out, "Bald and no hat!" with the unmistakable tone of being impressed. That's right, Bundled-Up Figure. Bald and no hat.

No hat, that is, until I got inside.

Tourists Stink

With my outer-borough lifestyle (living in Queens, working in Brooklyn), I'm not one of those New Yorkers that gets annoyed at the tourists. In fact, I'm fairly convinced that it's because of rich foreigners that New York hasn't seen the brunt of the recession the rest of the country feels (and that we'll now feel with the tanking of Wall Street).

So tourists? No, I don't think they stink in the "stop staring upward and keep moving along the sidewalk" way.

I mean they literally stink.

I cross paths with the tourists nearly every evening on my walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to get the subway home. And those hot, summer walks... well, let's just say that most of the people I walked by gave off the distinct aroma of someone who's been in the hot sun all day.

This body odor thing was something I thought would taper off as the weather cooled, but yesterday evening I noticed more nuance to the stank.

First of all the BO persists. And I'm smelling my own armpits up close, so I'm fairly certain it's not me. It's certain sweaty men (mostly, but not solely men) who are overdressed or somehow unprepared for the hot weather. That, or they just don't believe in deodorant, showers, or both.

Secondly, there's nothing Brooklyn Bridge walkers appreciate more than a tasty cigarette while strolling. Now, in fairness, some of these smokers could be locals. But I walk the Bridge a lot, and there's a big difference between the commuters and the tourists. Largely, the smokers are tourists. You might be surprised to hear that they're often French.

Finally, today, a new phenomenon. I don't know if it was because there was less breeze today or what, but the perfume was so stinky from a half dozen or so different ladies that it was almost deafening.

So tourists, a modest proposal... Come to New York and use your hotel showers. Spend your money at a Duane Reade and get yourselves some deodorant. If you're not used to deodorant, the Tom's of Maine brand is quite mild and comes in delicious flavors.

And ease up on the eau de toilette, eh?

A Water Falls in Brooklyn

First the telectroscope and now the waterfalls. New York's on a public art kick. Look out!

Some Danish guy who likes making fake weather environments decided that New York City could use some waterfalls. So the Public Art Fund and a bunch of private donors (Look, conservatives! No tax money for art!) got together to spend seven-and-a-half bajillion dollars to execute Hamlet's vision: four waterfalls along the East River, all south of the Manhattan Bridge.

From the Brooklyn Bridge portion of my daily commute, I can see three of the four waterfalls (Governor's Island, Brooklyn Heights, and the Manhattan Bridge). Naturally, the one I can't see is the one at the Brooklyn Bridge because I walk right over it. I thought it might be cool to look at it through the slats on the walkway of the Bridge, but it was decidedly underwhelming.

Which, frankly, is how I feel about the whole endeavor. The rendering posted above for your reference is, after all, a rendering. Maybe if the real thing looked a little bit like that it'd be impressive. As it is, we've got some weak-ass waterfalls trickling over scaffolding in a few locations.

A few years back, Christo and Jean-Claude did their "Gates" project in Central Park. Orange fabric floating along the pathways of the Park. It sounded sort of stupid, but I checked it out. And it was great. It drew people in and built a community around public art. It was aesthetically satisfying, and the experience of being there with New Yorkers and tourists, children and adults, black and white and brown was largely the point of the whole project.

The waterfalls have to be observed from afar. I mean, you can get relatively close to them, but you're never really sharing the experience with other people. At least not where I've been. Yes, they're terrific engineering feats. But all they do is remind me that it's been a while since I've seen a good waterfall in nature.

And maybe that's part of the point. But ultimately the waterfalls leave me feeling unsatisfied, and if that's part of the point, then there's something a little short on the "public" side of this public art.

Nothing Satisfies Like Jayson

I got a rare seat on the downtown number 5 train this morning and found myself in front of a homemade ad for Jayson the Massage Therapist.


I've doctored the photo only to get rid of the phone number. Other than that, it is exactly as I saw it.

But Jayson, I have some questions and comments for you:

First of all, Jayson, you need to think about your advertising strategy. Who is your target audience? Gay men? Lonely ladies? Anyone? I'm not sure who your target consumer is.

Second, you're not leaving a lot to the imagination. Sometimes, Jayson, the mind can conjure a better image than an image itself. Something to think about, Jayson.

Also, I'm surprised you have a 914 number. That's Westchester County, Jayson. I'm surprised and impressed, frankly.

Oh, Jayson... Has someone played a joke on you?

(By the way, the woman who saw me taking this photo on the subway this morning moved slowly away from me.)

I Have Low Expectations

The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) owns what might be the last undeveloped piece of land in Manhattan (if you consider rail track undeveloped). They recently sold it to a developer called Tishman Speyer. It was some sort of $1 billion deal. Well, Tishman Speyer backed out.

Now I'm not gonna pretend to know anything about New York City commercial real estate or the terms of the deal or who's to blame for what.

But I've been a consumer of the MTA's services for more than fifteen years now. I've marveled as they've raised fares and cut services. I've been astonished as they've cooked books and somehow gotten a free ride. I've been floored by their constant ability to redefine "incompetent management."

So no, I'm not surprised that a real estate deal involving the MTA fell apart.

The Nastiest Commuters

Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

New York City has had a bit of a bedbugs epidemic the past few years. Several people I know have had to deal with the nightmare, and I think an infestation ranks among the missus' biggest fears. They don't discriminate: housing projects, luxury hotels, working class neighborhoods, fashionable neighborhoods. They're everywhere. They're disgusting, annoying, and very difficult to get rid of.

Well, they're on the freakin' subways, too.

Don't sit on the wood benches on the subway platform, New Yorkers. At some point, they're no longer bedbugs, but... I don't know... everywherebugs.

This is Bad Even by MTA Standards

A Mets article in the New York Times leads with this:

The journey from Brooklyn to Queens is a short one geographically, but it took Nelson Figueroa 13 years to make the trip.

Looks like Nelson discovered the perils of the G train!

Zang! zzP-POW! Wocka-wocka-wocka!

Someone Needs to Blow Manhattan's Nose

I would normally have more to say on the matter, but for now, I'm just going to voice my displeasure at the brutal assassination of Mayor Bloomberg's congestion pricing plan. It works in London, and it could work here. I never thought I'd see the day that I'd agree with Joe Bruno about something. Shame on Sheldon Silver and the cowardly state assembly that wouldn't even bring the plan to a vote.

Heart

A moment of exposition for you non-NYC-dwelling B&E readers: One sees homeless people every day in New York City, on and off the subway. It's a semi-regular occurrence for one of those homeless people to be exceptionally stinky. Particularly potent cases can clear subway cars. That's a fact, not a judgment.

Today, on the platform at Grand Central sat two homeless men. One--or both--was particularly stinky in that way that clears space.

A hipster woman standing near me got that look--the look that says, "Where's that coming from?" She then did what I don't expect hipster ladies to do: She went over, gave each of them a dollar, and had a short chat with one of them. It wasn't forced, she wasn't making a show of it, and it wasn't remotely uncomfortable. I've seen hipsters (almost always men) strike up conversations with homeless people, and it's always seemed somehow... I don't know... false.

As the train arrived, she moseyed away from the homeless man to continue her commute. I noticed a button on her jacket: "I [heart] my cunt."

A New Approach to Hands-Free

Anyone who knows me knows I'm not the biggest fan of cellular telephones. The hands-free telephones freak me out. People in New York already walk around like lunatics, but when you see seemingly normal people talking to themselves, it's disconcerting. They gesticulate wildly while they talk and you can't tell they're talking to someone on their nearly invisible phones until they're upon you, at which point you're convinced that they're going to yell at you or throw punches. Everyone feels that way, right?

Anyway, since coming back from Scotland, I've seen an approach to this hands-free cellphone talking I can get behind. Most of you probably know what a hijab is. I've pictured one here for your reference, in case you don't. Don't worry, the woman wearing that one is not real.

Here in Queens, we've got a large Muslim population, and hijabs are pretty common. Ladies, if you're thinking of wearing the hijab, I can add to your list of pros. You can tuck a normal cellphone against your ear, and your hijab will hold it into place. Hands-free! And you won't look like a lunatic because a casual observer can see the phone!

I'd never seen this approach to hands-free talking prior to our trip to Scotland, and in the last two weeks I've seen three different women with cellphones tucked into their hijabs.

Hell, man, if I didn't hate talking on the phone in general and cellphones in particular, I'd get myself a hijab to leave my hands free for knitting, reading books, trying on pants, or any other of the plethora of subway activities I enjoy.

A Pervert on the 7

Apparently, over the weekend, some pervert exposed himself to a woman on the 7 train. This happens from time to time. There are millions of men living in NYC. A few are bound to be perverts. And ride the subway. And root for the Yankees.

That's right: the flasher was wearing a Yankees jersey, and the woman he flashed got a picture of him on her camera phone.

If it's 4:30am and the pervert's riding the 7 train, the pervert very likely lives in Queens on the subway line that goes to Shea Stadium, which, as we all know, is where the Mets play.

What the hell was that pervert doing in a Yankees' jersey? Fuck you, pervert.

A Tip For Commuters

Those of us that live in New York and ride the subway during rush hour know how crowded trains and platforms can get.

I learned something last night that I offer to you, dear B&E readers, for free:

If you throw up into one of those bomb-proof trashcans on the platform, your fellow riders will give you quite a wide berth.

All the space you could want. I recommend it.

Stupid Girl, They Have the Same Amount

My high school psychology book featured a series of photos in which a three- or four-year-old girl attempts to determine which glass of water has more water in it.

The first photo shows two glasses of water - the glasses are the same size and shape, and the water levels are even. She determines that they have the same amount of water. In the first photo, she is correct.

The second photo shows the girl watching one glass's water getting poured into a tall, thin glass.

The third photo shows the girl pointing at this taller, thinner glass because it's got more water in it. She's wrong.

I don't remember what these photographs were teaching us. Children are retarded?

What I do remember is the little girl's face.

I saw that little girl, now an adult, on the subway this morning. You're probably asking yourself how I know, and I have no rational explanation.

But I haven't thought of those photos in years. And I'm convinced that this 25-year-old -or-so woman was that retarded child.

My high school psychology teacher, by the way, eventually got canned for banging his students.

He did not bang me.

And My Civil Liberties Were Gone Before Lunch

I had occasion to be out and about yesterday morning, and between my commute and two meetings, I saw three men that I mistook for Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez.

The man haunts me.

Bridge, of the Brooklyn Sort

I've got a full-time job now. So I will no longer apologize for the lack of posting. I will instead internalize what I think the lack of posting says about me as a person, and concentrate on the feelings of insignificance and self-loathing.

Hello again, dear B&E readers!

I have a self-imposed rule that I won't write about my job. Not only do I like my job (and don't particularly feel like getting fired), but I don't want to become Dilbert.

I will, however, occasionally write about my commute. Commutes are infinitely interesting.

My commute takes me from Queens to Brooklyn every weekday. There's no quick way to make the trip. Even if my journey took me directly along the G train (and mine doesn't), it wouldn't be a quick trip. So instead I try to make it pleasant.

I walk the Brooklyn Bridge. Every day. In both directions. Only the rain keeps me from walking it. And even that I did once, which is why the rain now keeps me from walking it. Maybe - just maybe - in the summer I'll decide it's too hot for bridge walking. I have a slight penchant for sweating. But for now, I walk the Bridge.

It's easy to rave about the Brooklyn Bridge. But that's only because it's the coolest bridge in the world.

The morning sun lights up the bridge and the city just beautifully. I'm walking into the sun toward Brooklyn in the mornings, but I'm sure to turn around and check out the view at least once during my walk. Then on my way home, it's dark, and because it's winter(ish) and there's less haze, the view of city is crisp and clear.

The view of Manhattan itself is different than it was, of course. Until I was working in Brooklyn, I hadn't walked the Brooklyn Bridge since before 9/11. Downtown, from the bridge, doesn't look that interesting. It's impressive, yes. It's almost like one giant monolithic structure. The towers added a varied line to what is now just a lot of really tall buildings. From other angles (from the Staten Island Ferry, for example), downtown looks more varied than it does from the Brooklyn Bridge. But it's really the volume of large buildings downtown that seems impressive from the bridge.

Midtown at night looks like a theater set skyline. So quintessentially New York it's almost fake. The view of midtown from my 'hood in Queens features a prominently displayed Chrysler Building, and it's one of best the city has to offer. From the Brooklyn Bridge, though, the Chrysler Building looks tiny, and a little lonely, set off to the side. But midtown is full of color and flashing lights. And much better appreciated from a distance.

The view of Brooklyn is not uninteresting, but there's not as much to speak of (possibly because I'm not as familiar with Brooklyn). There's the Watchtower, of course, where the Jehovah's Witnesses live and print their magazines. But DUMBO (that's Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass for those of you not in the know) is mostly warehouse buildings and brand-spankin'-new condos. Brooklyn Heights looks like a neighborhood, which it is. The two-tiered BQE is a bit of a trip. And the ship-building in Red Hook offers a touch of the industrial.

My fellow pedestrians are mostly tourists. Those that aren't I see regularly. I tend to look at the faces of the people I pass on the street, and surprisingly few look back. The first month I was walking the bridge there was one woman that looked back every time. One morning she smiled at me. I smiled back. I haven't seen her since.

Boy, that sounded unnecessarily ominous.

Very few other people look back. There's the dude in the dark shades and Van Dyke with the unconnected mustache and goatee. There's the skinny chick with the fat face (only when you see it, do you realize how rare it is). There's the woman who looks like the older version of a college classmate. Come to think of it, maybe I'm an older version of her college classmate. Nah, I'm pretty sure it's not her. There's the middle-aged runner who wears pink shorts no matter how cold it is. If they looked at me, I'd probably be the bald guy who can sweat in any weather.

The cyclists go by a little quicker, but one guy rides by every morning with the child's attachment bike on the back. It's always empty. I've assumed he's a divorcee who keeps it there just in case he gets an unexpected day with his kid. Good luck, buddy.

The Brooklyn Bridge itself... Hell, it's the one thing a Norwegian will know about Brooklyn. It really is an impressive specimen. So much so, that I don't know what else to say about it. One morning, the NYPD was performing some sort of crazy-ass training exercise on the bridge. I've included a photo.

At night you can see through the planks in the pedestrian walkway down to the ground below (obviously, when you're above the water, it just looks like a dark abyss). If you're scared of heights that can be a bit disconcerting. But what the hell are you doing looking down, anyway, when you're surrounded by the most beautiful bridge in the most amazing city in the world?

They Are, After All, Typically Bald and Usually Effective

reading
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Generally speaking, when riding the subway, I catch up on my periodical reading. The Nation is really the only periodical to which I subscribe, and until recently, I rode on the subway just enough to get through the articles in The Nation I wanted to read. The next issue would arrive, and there I go.

Well, since going back to being a daily subway rider for the new job, one issue of The Nation per week is no longer satisfying my needs for reading and riding. So on Thursday, I was reading a book (not the one pictured).

I've been having mixed feelings about this particular piece of fiction, liking it just enough to continue working my way through it. But it's good for the subway, as it can be read in fits and starts without losing much in the experience. During Thursday's commute, I reached a part of the book that was actually quite riveting. I didn't miss my transfer point or anything, but I immediately went back to reading after switching trains and finished the chapter.

When I closed the book and looked up for the first time that morning on the southbound number 1 train, I came face-to-...well, tits... with cleavage.

I was raised in a household by a father who respected women and by a mother who taught me what that meant. I also have an older sister who made sure I turned out to be a sensitive man, even if it meant kicking my ass from time-to-time. So I know that I'm not supposed to stare at women's tits on the subway. It's this knowledge that made me turn my face away.

Right into more cleavage.

I'm married, of course, and if there's one thing that marriage teaches you, it's that a husband's eyes shouldn't wander to another woman's breasts. In fact, depending on one's wife's mood, a husband's eyes shouldn't necessarily wander to his wife's breasts. So with the understanding that there are very few circumstances during which it's appropriate to be staring at breasts, I once again turned my face away.

Right into the most impressive cleavage yet.

Without any other options, I began reading the next chapter in my book.

But, Wait. I Have Something to Say...

I really want to post a little ditty today, but I have to go to my job now. Hopefully, by the time I get around to writing what I want to write, the content won't be irrelevant.

Thanks for visiting. Sorry to disappoint. But there are some nonprofits that need me to write some shit for them today.

What Do You Really Want From Me?

I have one of those faces, and so people stop me to ask directions a lot. It happened again last night on the 7 train platform at Queensboro Plaza.

I try to shut off from the world when traveling. I'm not a big fan of strangers, and I don't like talking to them. Strangers are bad, nasty, evil people, as my mom used to tell me. So on planes, I listen to music. On trains, I write in a journal. On the subway, I read. And never -- never -- do I deviate. If I'm on a subway, I would never write in a journal. On a plane, I wouldn't dare read. And listen to music? On a train? Don't make me laugh. But I digress.

Last night I was reading my ever-trusty Nation magazine, when I was approached by one of these strangers I fear and loathe so much.

But I'm also unable to be rude to strangers, so if someone strikes up a conversation with me, I feel like I have to play along.

Right. So I'm in the middle of an article about how Latin America is getting all socialist, much to the chagrin of the Bush administration, when this Asian woman asks me, innocently enough, "Is the express train still running?"

"I don't know what time it is, but if it's not 10pm yet, you can still get an express."

"Good, it's not 10pm yet. What do you do?"

Shit, she wants a conversation.

"I'm a writer."

"Here's my card. If you want to buy an apartment, or if you have an apartment for sale, call me."

It takes her a long time to find her own card, while I try to figure out what my being a writer has to do with real estate. She's got a pocketful of other brokers' cards.

"Thanks."

"You must have a lot of wisdom if you're a writer."

"Well, I don't know about wisdom, but I do have a lot of thoughts."

"If those thoughts come from God, I'm sure there's a lot of wisdom."

"Gosh, I certainly hope so."

"If you have the love of God, you will be a successful writer."

"Gosh, I certainly hope that's true."

"If you have the love of God, it is already true. Express train!"

She got on the train, and I realized that this female stranger wanted three things from me in less than a minute: directions, real estate, and a conversion to Christ.

Stupid, demanding strangers.

A Strange Sighting

twins
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Yesterday on the uptown 5 train, I saw identical twins.

The custom of dressing identical twins to be identical in every way has always struck me as strange. And yet, somehow, with children, Doublemint gum commercials, and those Coors models, I can understand the impulse.

These two women were in their 50s, I'd guess. They wore identical outfits - black pants, white shirts, and black leather jacket with the same stitched pattern across the shoulders. Their hair was cut in the same style (long with bangs) and they shared the same dyed black color, except that both had exactly a third of an inch of their brown and gray roots exposed. And I'm pretty sure they were both wearing dentures. Something about the perfection of the teeth, the color of the gums, and the shape of their mouths.

They didn't speak a word to each other the entire time I was around them, on either the platform or the train.

And I was a little freaked out.

I'm Just a Country Girl...

On the subway yesterday, I was standing next to a woman who had the look that all people unfamiliar with the New York City subway system have. It's an expression at the intersection of determination, fear, and anger. She was wearing a shitload of makeup, and even more jewelry. Rich suburbanite, I'd guess. She didn't look like a subway rider. I have one of "those faces," so she ended up asking me for directions, beginning with what train she was on.

"W."
"Oh, FUCK! It's not an N?"
"Well, the W goes along the N line through Manhattan, but runs local."
"OK, but will it take me to 34th Street?"
"Yes."
"OK, thank you."

I go back to reading The Nation.

"So this will get me to Penn Station?"
"Well, you'll need to walk one long block to 7th Avenue, but yes."
"I was given, like, twelve different routes to Penn Station. Why don't you New Yorkers just give the best way?"
"Because the best way depends on many factors."

I go back to reading The Nation. A thing about lobbyists.

"And how do I know which way is 7th Avenue when I get out of the subway?"
"You'll see the Empire State Building. Keep it at your back as you walk."
"That's funny. Somebody else told me that."
"That person also gave you sound directions."

I go back to The Nation.

"My company just moved to Long Island City from Downtown because the rent's cheaper. I hate Queens."
"I live in Queens."
"It's just that it takes me an hour and forty minutes to get to work now."
"Oh, well, that sucks."
"This is the first time I've made the trip. I'm just a country girl from New Jersey."