Finger-lickin' good

The NYC subway is not a clean place. This is evident to anyone with functioning eyes. Hell, even blind people can tell you how dirty the subway is. After all, the smell of urine is not associated with cleanliness.

The stations are grimy. The floors are spotted with gum from the last half-century and if you look at the tracks long enough (less than a minute should do) you can bear witness to two rival gangs of rats re-enacting the knife-fight-dance scene from West Side Story.

The trains themselves are better, but not by much. Many an unsuspecting rider have sat down only to shoot up like lightning upon feeling something squish beneath their ass. That's why I wasn't surprised to see a man carefully examine a row of seats before sitting last week.

He was a well-kept man. Clean-shaven, not a hair out of place on his neatly trimmed head, and a suit that was devoid of wrinkles. Though his workday was finished, his shirt remained buttoned and the double-windsor knot of his tie formed a crisp isosceles triangle. Surely a man of this nature would never sit on a subway car before looking.

The seats were satisfactory. Almost. Just before sitting he bent over for closer inspection, made a look of disgust, and wiped at the seat with his hand. He looked at his hand, then back at the seat, then back at his hand. With a sigh, he wiped again, gave a quick nod of approval, and sat down.

Ok, I thought, he'd rather dirty his hand than his pants. Makes sense. It's much easier to wash gunk off your hands than off a slick-looking suit.

The train started moving and he reached into his briefcase to pull out a magazine. The Economist. How very intelligent of my finely-dressed friend! Bored by the situation, I was about to return my gaze to my knees. Then, wonder beyond wonder, the man licked his fingers and began turning the pages of his magazine. The very same fingers that wiped up the crap he was too uptight to sit in.

So the seat is too dirty for your pants, but not for your mouth?

I don't know. Maybe it didn't occur to him that filth can be transferred from an inatimate object to one's hands. Or maybe he thought that his hands were magical sanitizers that dissolved grime on contact? I'm not saying that's impossible, but if it's true he should give Lysol a call. They'd either make him their spokesman, or dissect him in hopes of discovering the secret to his powers.

I'm hoping for the latter, because I sure as shit would pay $29.95 to have self-sanitizing hands.

the bird behind bars

the caged bird sings, miss angelou
claims to know why,
well, i do too.
the bird, it lives, and so it sings
because it dreams of better things.
because it's strong,
because it's proud,
is why it sings its song so loud.
as people we too have a song
but we've stayed silent far too long;
we've lost our meaning,
lost our way,
lost our need to seize the day.
a lesson can be learned from birds
who sing their songs though life's absurd,
who maintain passion behind bars
and mock us because we've lost ours.

Something's gotta give

So this is me, and this is my answer to the pre-mid-life mid-life crisis I think I may be going through. Now, I say "I think" because I'm not even sure these sorts of things exist. I've never seen a commercial touting a medicine for it, so it can't be real. But shit, I've never seen a medicine to cure people's need to try and push you aside to get onto the subway car in hopes of getting the last seat, but I know that need exists. I deal with it every morning.

Fine. By that logic, the pre-mid-life mid-life crisis exists. And I'm mired in it.

I'm not too sure where it came from. It's not like I woke up one morning and said, "hmmm, things kind of suck," because, to be honest, things don't suck. I've got a great group of friends, a cool apartment with electricity and indoor plumbing, and a well-paying job. Not fulfilling, but well-paying.

You know what? I think we've found it. The job. The place I spend 40-60 hours a week. Now, don't get me wrong—it's not a terrible job. I don't have to stick my hand into clogged toilets or scorpion-infested drain pipes. I get paid to write. If 15-year-old Evan knew 26-year-old Evan would be getting paid to write, he'd be happy. But what if he knew I'd be writing about medicine and disease?

He'd be pissed.

I avoid science my four years at college because, well, advanced science is less than exciting. And now it's my life. Funny how things work out. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say funny? I meant tragic.

A few friends have suggested I go out and buy a sports car. Makes sense. Nothing solves an internal crisis like tearing ass down a star-lit highway with the top down on my Porsche. But if I cave in and get the car now, what the hell do I do when some years pass and I find myself fully immersed in the mid-life crisis? How pissed am I going to be when I realize I blew my load 15 years too early?

So that's why I'm writing here, instead. Gotta leave the car option open. Besides, I think a Miata is the only kind of sports car I can afford now. The last thing I need is for people to think "Evan" when they think "Miata". I'd prefer "kill-crazy ninja who's hung like a donkey and consistently triumphs over evil," but that's also something I'm going to save for later in life.