Celebrity Sighting

This weekend, on the N train, Fiancé and I saw the man pictured above.  Fiancé did not want me to go up and say hello to him for two reasons: 

1) In New York City, it's is not what's done with celebrities.  In New York City, you IGNORE celebrities so they feel they have a safe haven here in the city - so they don't have to worry about paparazzi or autograph-seekers.  Apparently, in New York City, the level of politeness so great it manifests itself in apathy is the least we can do.  I'm sorry, but I kind of disagree with this.  No one ELSE in New York considers it a safe haven or feels comfortable... why should celebrities?  Just because what makes them uncomfortable differs from what make ME uncomfortable doesn't mean they should have it easy.  But I digress. 

2) If you recognize the picture above, you understand her hesitation.  On his best-known show, nothing good ever happened when he was around.  In fact, you could pretty much bank on BAD shit happening the minute he was on screen.

So, I begged and pleaded to be able to go up to the guy and tell him I admired his work, and she firmly put her foot down and told me that under no circumstance would I be doing any such thing.  She told me it was because that isn't how we New Yorkers treat our famous people, but I think she was actually scared that, if we acknowledged his existance in our little world, the subway would let us off in 1967 and we'd never be able to get back.

Two stops before ours, the actor departed the train with his companion.  Fiancé breathed a sigh of relief... until he turned to walk past us, then she got all tense again.

I managed to catch his eye and smile.  I waved at him and, in this wave, said "Hey Man, you do really good work.  My fiancé and I both really appreciated the scares and tension you gave us on the roller-coaster ride that was your show, and we consider you one of the great TV villains of all time.  I don't want an autograph or anything, and I'm not an actor; I just want you to know that you and your castmates gave us hours of conversation during the last decade, hours of tears, hours of laughter, and I wanted to say thanks."

To my surprise, he smiled back and nodded.  This nod said, to me, "Hey Bro, thanks for the kind words an encouragement!  I did my best on that show and am looking forward to whatever's next for me.  Thank YOU for following my progress and supporting us for so many years, and also for allowing me to ride the subway in peace this afternoon."

To Fiancé, his nod probably came across more like, "I'm going to eat your firstborn after transporting you to a desert in Tunisia and getting you hooked on heroin."

p.s.  To those of you who don't know who he his, I highly recommend you lock yourself away for a week and catch up.

Bitter Friends

Well, it's been almost a month since the epic CYOA post, and the ideas for new things to bitch about ("about which to bitch"?  I know I shouldn't end a sentence with "about", but I'm not exactly comfortable rhyming, either...) are beginning to come back to me.

Last night, I was standing on the sidewalk with two friends, Clutch and Michelle, and they were mentioning funny subway experiences they've had.  Michelle, at one point, used the phrase, "I love crotch-watching on the subway", which is an amazing sentence and a large part of how I knew I'd be posting something today.  The sentence itself stemmed from a story I have since asked her to email me for two reasons; 1. She could tell it better than I ever could, and 2. I feel a little dirty thinking about it.  I promise to post it as soon as she passes it my way.

Before they knew about this blog in the first place, Clutch goes, "You know what?  Someone should write down all the rules of commuting and post them somewhere.  Because, in New York, let me tell you, you can talk slow and you can read slow, but you are NOT allowed to-".

This is where I cut him off, mostly for dramatic effect:  "Walk slow?" I offered.

"Yes!" he replied.

So, like a magician pulling away the curtain during the big reveal, I said to Clutch, "Dude - the name of my blog is 'I Walk Faster Than You'!"  At which point we proceeded to high-five in an effort to appear more Caucasian than we already did.  I'd imagine it worked.

So, at some point soon, I will be posting Rule #6, for which Clutch gave me the idea by going off on a rampage about tourists.  Michelle, for her part, studied her toes until it was time for her to share her crotch-watching story.  She did, however, provide me with an excellent site: "People of Public Transit", which I have linked to on this blog's sidebar.  It is worth checking out for significant amounts of LOLs.

Michelle also sent me this via Facebook:




As you can see from my last post, a blogger on The Huffington Post named Paul LaRosa wrote an article about subway etiquette in NYC that addresses many of the topics on IWFTY.  He even answered my comment telling him I promised to always raise my umbrella over his head as I walk past him should we ever encounter each other on a rainy day.  It's the least I can do for such a kindred spirit... even one from Brooklyn.

Lastly, it should be noted that I did write a post regarding the death of Osama bin Laden, I just didn't publish it.  It had a bitchin' picture of Captain America standing in front of the twin towers that Google Image Search was kind enough to provide for me, and it had fireworks and noisemakers and a waterslide and a pizza party and strippers and cake.  Fiancé listened to this epic description and advised against me publishing it on the grounds that this blog is known (ha!) for being snarky and sarcastic - why would I get all celebratory and patriotic now?  It's is a valid point, so I decided to curb the post and keep it to myself.  Personally, I think she just didn't want to share any of the fireworks/noisemakers/pizza/cake/strippers with any of you. 

For the record, the last sentence of the bin Laden post was something about his last commute involving being thrown from a helicopter into the ocean.

Subway Etiquette, or, "What's Wrong With Other People?"

It's nice to know others feel the same way. Mr. LaRosa, I vow to always raise my umbrella for you on the sidewalk, Good Sir.
Read the Article at HuffingtonPost

Queens Irish (or: "Only in New York")

NYC Commuter/Comedienne Erin "Irish" Conroy posted this over at comedianerinconroy.blogspot.com and I HAD to reprint it here.

This means that both blog posts this week were actually written by other bloggers.  Which is fine by me for three reasons: 1.  I was sick the last week, which made me a more forgiving commuter but a less frequent blogger.  The cold medicine also pointed me towards such regrettable decisions as 2. I joined Facebook this week.  So I have a lot of imaginary friends now.  Which is nice.  And 3. Quit complaining!  The Choose your Own Adventure Post was fucking EPIC!  Jesus. 

Enjoy!

***

Only In New York!

I hate that phrase with a passion. Dummies in NYC use it as a kind of weird declaration whenever something slightly cool or slightly terrible happens; as if to convince themselves that the trade-off for living in one of the biggest and therefore toughest cities in the world is the promise of odd happenings in their daily life. Happenings that their relatives in Kansas could never understand, right? LOLz!

For example, one time last summer I was standing waiting for the bus. (Like a BOSS) I happened to be wearing a new dress that I had bought and really liked, and was feeling pretty great. As my bus began to approach, I suddenly realized that directly in front of the bus stop there was a half-full Gatorade bottle lying in the street. The wheels in my distracted brain began to turn, and I started to do the math - could that bus be pulling up directly in line with the Gatorade bottle? And if so, does that mean that I'm lined up perfectly with the -

My brain did not figure this all out fast enough, and the next thing I know, the bus most certainly did roll right on top of the Gatorade bottle. The pressure of the bus exploded the top off the bottle and expelled the entire contents at such a high and fast volume that I don't even think Mr. Wizard would have believed it. ("You LYIN', bitch!", Mr. Wizard would have said.) But I believed it, because every last drop of that Gatorade bottle was emptied directly onto me and my new dress. I stood there absolutely speechless and in shock, as what seemed like the entire population of Manhattan passed by with little smirks on their faces. Only one woman stopped, an elderly well-dressed woman with pearls around her neck. She stopped, looked me up and down with her hands on her hips, and then loudly proclaimed "ONLY IN NEW YORK!!!!!". Then she gave me a wink and carried on her merry way. I wanted to run after her and tackle her and smear my Gatorade soaked hands all over her surgically-enhanced face. Because no, Old Lady - that couldn't have happened "only in New York". A bottle could have been rolled over anywhere in the United States - nay! The WORLD. Unfortunate occurrences aren't exclusive to this city, so stop trying to act like New York is the center of the universe. I hope she got mugged on the way home. Not hurt or anything - but I hope someone stole her pearls.

This phrase popped up again yesterday morning during my commute. I was on the bus in, and all of a sudden a TORRENTIAL downpour started out of nowhere. Without any kind of warning, the bus driver got on the PA system and started singing to everyone. Some original ditty about how the rain doesn't bother him, because tomorrow is Friday, and that's when he sees his girl. It was harmless - if not charming. But then some big galoot turns around to address the whole bus with, "Only in New York, am I right?!?!", and that phrase immediately soured my mood. The guy next to me wasn't impressed with any of it either, because he pulls out his phone to call his wife:

"Hi, it's me. Yeah. Just thought you should know the bus driver is singing to us. No - SINGING. Yeah. And then I got an 'Only in New York'. Yeah. Because you should have DRIVEN ME LIKE I ASKED, that's why I'm telling you."

Haha! Comments like that are only heard ANYWHERE. Anywhere that passive-aggressive marriages are still alive and well.

Brooklyn Sean

I don't have a full post worth of material for today, so here are two small things:

1.  A good way to walk slower and be okay with the world around you and serene in your morning NYC commute is to get very sick.  I've been so doped up on DayQuil the last two weeks that even the Umbrella People haven't bothered me... much.

2.  Sean's got a new post, and it would fit nicely at I Walk Faster Than You.  I've been bugging him to write a guest post for this blog, much the way Allie and Kevin did, but for now we'll have to settle for a link to his site.  Enjoy!

His new post is here.

Choose Your Own Adventure

The Commute

“It looks like it’s gonna rain,” you say out loud to your empty apartment.  You had paused at the window to check out the rapidly darkening sky as you get ready for work.  There are many things about living in New York City you like; Sunday morning foot traffic in Manhattan, the silence of a middle-of-the-night snowfall, and a cool iced tea on a shady park bench are among your favorites.  Rainstorms, on the other hand, are not.  “Ugh,” you sigh as you continue to prepare yourself for another long day.

It is your plan to go visit your friend Sean in the hospital after work.  Sean has been your friend for many years, and has always been there for you when you needed him.  Recently, citing “keeping it green” and “being all healthy and stuff”, Sean has decided to start biking to work from his apartment in Brooklyn.  When he first moved to Brooklyn a year ago, you remember having made fun of him quite a bit, calling him a “hipster” and telling him he should grow a beard and wear skinny jeans.  You’re proud to know him, though, and he takes the light ribbing well.  Sadly, it was about a week ago that Sean was biking to his job and collided with another bicyclist.  He was seriously injured in the accident.  He’s recovering well enough now, however, that he’ll grin when you bring him a package of Double Stuf Oreos™ and hear you when you call him a dumbass for biking to work in the first place.

You place the sandwich cookies in your bag and exit your apartment, making sure to lock the deadbolt behind you.  You’re already halfway to the subway station when you hear the distant rumble of a far-off thunderstorm.  You’re another fifteen feet past that when you slap yourself in the forehead because, in grabbing the Oreos, you neglected to also grab your umbrella.  You can, in fact, still see it in your mind’s eye, hanging off the door knob of your apartment’s only closet.

You hesitate briefly, considering going back for it, but the clock on your cell phone’s display reminds you that you need to be at work sooner than later.  There are eight blocks between your residence and the nearest subway station, so doubling back four of them at the risk of being late for work is simply not an option.  You decide to push on, hoping against hope that the rain holds out until you’re safely underground.  “Besides,” you say aloud, “I’ve got a hoodie on.”  Indeed, you do.

The crossing guard at the next street is not smiling today.  Normally, she’s there about this time of day waving and stopping cars from running over the schoolchildren that sporadically dart into the middle of the road on their way to school.  Today, however, she’s looking a bit concerned as she speaks with another pedestrian who stopped to speak with her.  As you get closer, only about two blocks from the subway, she looks up and makes eye contact with you.  “Train’s delayed, today, Dear,” she says, “Police activity on the tracks.”  You happen to know of a bus stop about ten blocks away that, were a bus to come, would at least get you on the island of Manhattan.  From there, it would be another subway ride (on a different line) to get to work.  Whether you deal with the delay on your regular subway line, or you decide to speedwalk to the bus stop, you begin to realize there isn’t much chance of being on time anymore.  It is at this point that the first raindrops hit you, and you further begin to realize there isn’t much chance of being dry much longer, either.

If you carry on and brave the delayed subway, click here.

If you decide to head down the street to the bus stop as fast as you can, click here.



Rule #5: Don't Turn a Blind Corner

Fiancé and I saw something funny the other day.  It was one of those moments you wish were in slow motion so it would never end.  We were walking down the street, and we saw two people walking towards the corner of a building from opposite directions at the same time.  The one walking parallel to us was a young guy who was busy texting.  The person walking around the corner from him was an old woman who was busy trying to stay upright, I think.

We literally stopped in our tracks to watch what was sure to be a head-on collision.  We also wanted to see who would step aside to let the other pass.  This was one of those rare scenarios where you could actually witness the moments before the unexpected.  We decided to watch, of course.

Sadly, the end of the story is anticlimactic.  We stood across the street as the texting lad and the old woman met face to face at the corner of the building, and unfortunately violence did not ensue.  I'm not sure what we were hoping would happen, but I think we both honestly believed it would be epic; like Godzilla or the idea of dividing by zero.  As it turns out, they stopped, regarded each other, and he let her pass while he continued to text.

I convey this story not to put you to sleep (though I'm sure I've done an admirable job of that), but to bring up a very important loophole in Rule #1.  Both of the people in the example above were, in fact, Hugging the Rail.  Had I been walking behind either the kid or the older woman in the same direction they were, I would have been pleased as punch that there was plenty of room to pass.  She being elderly, and he texting, I'm sure I walk faster than them both, and would have been grateful they were so self aware as to allow that kind of space next to them.

However, they bumped into each other.  If I had been hurtling near the corner and someone else had been hurtling towards the same corner, we could have broken each other's noses, or worse, someone could have seen us break each other's noses.

And so, it is here now, in this very post, that I tell you the secret of making sure this doesn't happen.  It's something you can do while abiding Rule #1, and it's a flawless way to make sure you don't literally run into anyone on a blind corner.  The only requirement is as much self awareness as the kid and the woman in the example above exhibited.

SOLUTION:  Flick your wrist.  Of course, you should have something in your hand at the time, otherwise it's less effective and more spasmodic.  As you approach said corner, if you are appropriately hugging the rail (walking closely to the side of the building), make sure your hand passes the corner before the rest of you.  I frequently do this while holding a newspaper or kenken puzzle, but anything (cell phone, ipod, fake dance move) works well for this purpose.  If you just flick your wrist and put your hand out in front of you as you approach a blind corner, the person coming around the bend will stop prior to calamity.  That fraction of a second could mean the difference between an awkward moment between you and a stranger and an awkward moment between you and a stranger that someone and his fiancé  across the street saw.

Extra points for making it look like a normal part of your gait and not letting it bother you that 99.9% of the time there's no one around the corner at all.

You're welcome.