“I’ve cracked the code in avoiding a seatmate! Buy a hot dog just before hitting a major stop. People will board, think it’s gross, and continue on.”

“Brilliant!”replied my mother.

Unless you’re vacationing in Europe or some far away land where people are actually interesting, no one wants a stranger’s rump plopped next to them on a bus/train/airplane.

I know you’re with me on this, Reader. If you settle into your space on semi-full airplane with an empty seat by your side, undoubtedly you’ll spend the entire time before the gate closes wishing and hoping that seat remains vacant. Passengers will file in behind you, glance at their ticket and search for their 2’X 2′ real estate while you pray to the Patron Saint of Leg Room that they’ll pass you by. You want your coat to live on that seat and your book to reside there, too. You want to abolish that apology smile and awkward pointing towards the bathroom when you need to go. You’re not in kindergarten, you don’t have to ask permission if that aisle is empty! If the prick in front of you elects to recline far enough to French braid his hair or perform dentistry, that empty seat is your back-up, your in-flight savior.

Buses and trains with their general seating involve sheer fate. With every station stop, I avoid eye-contact with oncoming passengers so as not to appear friendly and eager. And eye contact truly is the kiss of death. People are panicked to find a place to settle and begin their journey that if the vessel is already crowded, any hint of availability will seal the reluctant deal. Not unlike mall kiosks employees: If you can avert your gaze without tripping over a rogue toddler, then the likelihood of a cease and desist while sold a premium home security system is next to nil.

I don’t condemn friendliness, yet the insurgence of weirdos and general inconsiderations like obnoxious prolonged cell phone use is a dime a dozen; quiet roomy space comes at a premium. Yet, while appearing bulky and fidgety (puffy coat, computer equipment) is a fair strategy of deterrent, placing your crap on that empty seat is an inconsiderate dirty trick. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I hate those people. As if to say their jacket belongs to someone else and they’ll be right back. I know your scam, you cheap seat-terrorist.

Years ago, I would take the Peter Pan Bus Lines to visit my hometown in Rhode Island. Mainstream commercial bus travel* endures too many variables: accidents, traffic jams, once getting lost and once Connecticut state police boarding to arrest three convicts on the run. Sure, it’s entertaining but that noise was time consuming and if you’re trapped against a greasy window listening to someone’s life story while mentally calculating how much time you have to live before your bladder explodes, well, tedium.

So, as I sit on the New York bound Amtrak train hunched over a hot dog trying to appear sloppy and ungraceful while balancing this computer on my tray, I pray to the Leg Room Saint my aisle seat remains clear until New York Penn Station.

—————————-ADDENDUM————————————
My good friend Craig H. suggested the scent of a tuna sandwich is far more offensive and therefore more effective than the aforementioned hot dog. I concur as I would sooner donate my left femur before eating a mayo-drowned lunch. Food for thought, pun annoyingly intended.

My seaonal cold has kicked in. I blame my seasonal excessive drinking.

Afrin makes me feel cool like a recreational drug user without the repercussions of being an actual drug user.

I receive a healthy dose of spam emails each day and I’m starting to get upset with one of the biggest offenders. It’s not the standard “increase your penis size” or “lose 30 pounds in 30 days” crap. It’s something I’ve signed up for and subsequently unsubscribed from. Once the bond of trust is broken and one receives over a dozen emails from a single delinquent, it causes them to utter words never spoken in the English language ever before, “Fuck off, Oprah.”

Oprah’s online “Life Class” seemed like a smart subscription a few months back when I was dealing with my bi-annual “What the Fuck Am I Doing With My Life?” crisis. However it seems the best way to improve your life, according to Queen Winfrey, is to bake. Eff that. I need Oprah to explain why I only make .44 cents a month on my IRA. I need Oprah to remind me that three vodka & soda cocktails are OK, but five are not. I need Oprah to sit me down and tell me what color to paint my kitchen. I need Oprah to teach me how to communicate with my family without first considering suicide.

I do not, however, need Oprah to send me her pumpkin cupcake recipe. Nor do I need Oprah to tell me to take a bath with lavender scented oils. I’m allergic to lavender and Oprah should know that. I may be the sole citizen on this green earth who has been failed by Oprah, so I’ll say once more for the second time in history: Fuck off, Oprah.

I got married over a year ago and it seems to be sticking, so I figure at this point I might as well change my name. My married name would be the length of an Arab cab driver’s so I’ve been putting it off seeing as “Sweeney” has such a nice ring to it. If you say it slowly, it sounds exactly the way the Irish intended: slurred intoxication. The new name however mirrors that of a popular pre-historic cartoon family surname… in German.  So, that’s somewhat of a plus.

 

This old broad is turning 30 on Friday. Celebrate by mailing me your life savings.

With love,

Sarah

I used all my might to lift the window of my fire trap domicile, poked my head out to look below and was aghast at the sight!!

Only in New York can the love of justice blossom between a UPS man and a NYPD traffic cop woman through pilfering and petty larceny.

A man in a bar once told me, “to be a true New Yorker is to know when to hold your breath.” This kind of Confucius comment really struck a chord in me and I’m reminded of this man, who ironically smelled of lager and cigarettes, every time I mistakenly breathe when I shouldn’t.

But how can a gal such as myself transform from a slack-jawed small town mouth-breather into a true and sophisticated New Yorker if men insist on marinating themselves in nostril scorching scents like Polo or Cool Water? Biologically speaking, if I practiced this preaching, I would have been dead twenty minutes after the gent uttered it.

Perhaps my nose is overly sensitive, but it seems when forced into small shared spaces — office cubicles, bus shelters, ATM vestibules, cabs, elevators — I’m more often than not, held aromatically hostage by the over powering snout rapist who douses himself in his eau de toilette. And products emerging like American Idol’s cologne spray hardly help the situation! Grown men reeking of the musky shame and citrus disappointment only a network reality talent cologne can provide.

Worse yet, body sprays cropping up through every drug store caters to the man who wishes not to shower but simply overpower their sweat stench with the contents of an aerosol can boasting the distinctive scent of a date rape and a general equivalency diploma.

Aquaman by Rochas, which retails for $12.95, boasts “a fresh marine scent, masculine and sporty.” I gather this description alludes to the smell of an aquarium or militarily speaking, machismo republicanism and blood shed. But, I could be wrong.

The intrusion of these overpowering smells almost make me embrace the scent of good old fashioned B.O. But alas, there is light at the end of the schnoz. Jacob Beach, an unscented man of New York City proclaims, “I prefer the scent of clean skin and soap!” Why aren’t there more men who wake up in the morning, shower, and leave it at that? I promise, a few spritzes of Acqua Di Gio will only hurt man’s Operation: Get Laid. Because sometimes, there really is nothing like the smell of… nothing. Until then, I guess I’ll just hold my breath.

New York’s panhandlers kick your city’s panhandlers in the rump shaker.

I had drinks last night with friends who all commute on the same subway line as me. We spoke about the panhandlers and performers who troll the underground for money hustling their sad story or their outstanding (or sub-par) breakdancing. In New York, there’s a significant group of young men who will enter a train, four or five at a time, and shout the same war cry, “What time is it?!” And another will reply, “Showtime!” And the leader will repeat, “What time is it?” And the others in unison reply, “SHOWTIME!” whereupon their tinny 1990’s boom box flips on full blast to the hip hop song of their choosing and they each take turns breakdancing in the small entry way of the subway car. There is always one guy who can do some form of back-flip on the moving train where during the trick he will covertly slam his hand on the ceiling of the car making every tourist gasp and think, “Oh lord, he’s cracked his head!” No, no he has not Mr. Tom, Dick, and/or Harry. He’s funning you and you just dropped a dollar or two into his worn Yankee’s hat thinking you’ve contributed to his subsequent hospital visit. It’s impressive, really.

But, aside from the garden variety breakdancers and the kids who sell what appears to be a bulk purchase of Fruit Roll-Ups to raise money for their “basketball team”, New York offers amazing talent for the price of a $2.25 fare. I’ve witnessed some serious performances in the underground. I’m talking shit that that does not belong on the Bronx-bound 1 train: Alvin Ailey students, American Ballet Theater girls displaying modern interpretive dance and pirouettes, respectively.

But, few and far between gain the attention of the entire jaded New Yorker-filled car. Take this guy for example:

He boarded the train as a lone performer responding “Showtime!” to his own “What time is it?” The passengers collectively sighed with annoyance… until he began to dance. He turned up the music on the boom box and proceeded to perform the most spot on Michael Jackson impersonation I’ve ever seen. From 125th Street express down to 59th St, this kid killed it. He had the entire car awake, clapping to the beat, and some even singing Thriller along with him. Phones were out with the little cameras rolling as he Moon Walked down the length of the car. He high-fived the kids as he collected donations and his crotch-grabbing was only moderately off-putting. But what impressed me the most was when the music stopped… the people cheered. I’ve never witness such unanimous happiness during rush hour.