happiness and jealousy

Dude was tall. Real tall. Duck down when he got on the train tall. And his face? A super long and impressive canvas for those bushy blonde mutton chops.

He swayed when he walked. I couldn't tell if he was drunk or had some kind of swagger. The bottles clinking in his "I love new york" bag solved that mystery right quick.

"I want to sit" he said, his voice raspy like a slow hacksaw moving through wood.

The guy and girl sitting down moved closer to the opposite polls and he sat between them. His knees bounced up and down. His thighs twitched open and shut. He shot looks left and right and left again. Dissappointment is what I read in his face. Then, with fingers nervously tapping his discman, he stood back up and took a couple steps down the train.

”I want to sit," he said again, this time talking to a different duo.

Like the first, they pushed over a bit to give him some extra room. He sat and, again, began bouncing his knees and opening and closing his legs. He was not being mindful of his neighbors' space at all.

The guy sitting next to him had enough. He stood up.

"Thank you," the tall man said with a sarcastic snarl, like the extra space was something he was entitled to.

He sure acted like he was. As soon as the space opened up he turned sideways so that his legs stretched and blocked anyone from sitting next to him. As if to prove his point, he put his bag on the seat.

I stared at him, intrigued, as he pulled a bottle of Brooklyn lager out of his shopping bag. Was he going to drink it? Did he have one in that little bag for me?

Holding the bottle like a delicate piece of crystal, he breathed on it and buffed it with his shirt. Then, when its level of shine reached the sparkle he wanted, he placed the bottle against his cheek and smiled.

Bliss. He was experiencing pure bliss and I was jealous because he looked happier than I could ever dream to be.

I wanted to ask him what the secret was. Was it the ripped jeans? The timberland boots that looked like they'd been handed down from his grandpa to his dad to him? Or was it something else entirely.

Had I been a braver man I would have asked. I would have questioned what it was that made him smile the way he did. As it was, I just made eye contact with the guy who stood up and shook my head in silent agreement.

wu-tang wednesday 7

alvin is hardcore, yo.

The Trackers.

Was her and him,
Estelle and Jim,
Who set the place
On fire.

Was him and her,
A dashing blur,
Who raced into
The mire.

Now me and you,
What can we do?
Why should we stand
and wallow?

Now you and me,
we'll make them see,
There's nowhere we
won't follow.

the worst world series possible

I suppose I could root for the Yankees. After all, they're from New York and aren't in the same division as the Mets.

On the other hand, I can pull for the Phillies because, well, they're not the Yankees. I've spent years rooting against the Yankees. Hell, one of my happiest sport memories came in 2001 when the Diamondbacks strung together some hits against Rivera in the bottom of the 9th to win Game 7. I even wrote about it.

There's such a different relationship between the two teams. As a Mets fan, I feel I'm always chasing the Yankees on the back pages of the local papers. Just check out this pic from the Daily News:



The Mets beat the Yankees in a game of a Subway Series. Awesome, right? But instead of the Mets getting some love for a game well-played, the Yankees catch shit for giving the game away.

Even when we win we got no love!

But the Phillies. How can I root for them? They're in the same division as the Mets. That would be like a Yankees fan rooting for the Red Sox. A Bears fan pulling for the Packers. It's just not proper.

There's an actual baseball rivalry between the Mets and Phillies. They play almost 20 times a season and chase each other in the standings. And, as a Mets fan, it's been a horrible chase. And I'm not even talking about this year when we should've stopped playing games in June (actually, I think they did stop around that time). But let's talk about the two seasons before that we were in first going into the last couple weeks of the season. You know happened both times? We blew it.

Cole Hamels went so far as to call the Mets a bunch of choke artists on WFAN. He went on our home radio station and called us out!

But he was right. We did choke. Twice.

So what do I do? Do I pull for the team I've spent my life hating or do I root for the guys who knocked the Mets off their NL East Pedestal (however short lived a reign it was) and made fun of us while doing it?

It really is the worst World Series combination possible.

You know what? I can't do it. I can't pick a team to root for. Because the Yankees are getting spanked right now in Game 1 (down 6-0 in the 9th) and that's awesome. That makes me happy.

But the Phillies are spanking the Yankees right now in Game 1 (up 6-0 in the 9th) and that angers me to no end.

I just want it to be over.



addendum: i can root for pedro. he's fun.

my train buddy

I was reading my book and didn't look up when she got on the train at Times Square. After she sat, her fire engine red wool jacket exploded in my periphery. It distracted me for a second but I easily turned my attention back to the book.

Then a sound snagged my attention.

She was filing her nails.

I looked over from my book. Her hands were dry, white, and cracked, like someone had poured a thin layer of wax then pushed down after it dried. A curiosity overtook me. What was the face that matched the fingers that were methodically moving up and down, dropping flakes of filed off nail past a wedding ring in need of a polish to the ground below?

I tried to turn my focus away. My eye went back to the book but they weren't finding any traction among the words. They kept flicking right to watch her file.
She was in control and my will power was quickly fading.

I gave in and decided to look. I was smooth, though, pretending to do a slow neck roll like I was stretching. I turned my head left then slowly and deliberately moved it right. At the halfway point I got very uncomfortable.

She was watching me.

I could feel it.

I stopped the swivel and looked back down into my book. She switched nails. Dust started collecting on a second finger. Then a third.

This is ridiculous, I told myself. There would be nothing wrong with stealing a look at her face. People check out their seat neighbors all the time. I’d even looked at the guy on my right before without any reservations. Why was this woman any different? Just because she was filing her nails? Did that really change the rules?

I gave myself a pep talk and got ready. Then she stopped. Just as I was about to look her fingers went silent. She lowered the file, looked at her nails, and blew.

White flecks of dust, sanded down pieces of nail that had been part of her body mere moments earlier, flew up and came down to land on my sleeve. My black sleeve. They stood out like an alpaca in a jewelry store.

I curled my lip and blew at the dust. It didn’t move. I flicked it off then looked up at her. Her head was turned and our eyes met. They were green. I wanted to admire them but I was having a hard time looking past the crazy. Her pupils were bigger and darker than the mouth of a cave and they were looking through me. Past me.

It was like I wasn’t even there. Her crooked smile wasn’t for me.

At least I hoped it wasn’t as I sent a puff of air out from my nose before turning my attention back to my book. Nothing good could come from having that kind of crazy focused on you.