LibraryFail May 29, 2009

Today I was at the Bryant Park branch of the New York Public Library, probably one of the most famous libraries in the world. I really like going to this library, as it’s all big marble staircases, huge shelves of book and big long wooden tables that make me wish I was writing a thesis about the ethical questions in testing some Very Important medical discoveries. Or something. I don’t know.

However, usually I go there to use the free Wi-Fi signal. Yes, I am making a difference in the world one Facebook status update at a time.

So, I’ve recently moved into a seriously radical apartment in Washington Heights. It is seriously radical. Once I get around to it, I will post pictures so that my mom, Amy and my sister (the three people who read this blog) can see how radical it is. And currently there is no internet connection in the new apartment, which you would think would detract from it’s aforementioned radical-ness, but it in fact does not. So I hauled my cookies down to Bryant Park to make use of their kind service of free wireless internet.

As I walked into the Rose Main Reading Room (if you live in New York and have never been there, please go as soon as possible. I promise it will make you want to sit down and do some sort of Very Important work. Or at least write an ironic blog or something.) I saw a sign on the table containing computers for the public use of logging on the internet. I wish I had a photo of that sign, but alas I did not take one for fear of offending the person sitting next to the sign.

Bear in mind I was in one of the most talked about and prestigious libraries of this great country and the sign read, “No Labtop Docking At This Table.”

Seriously?!?

At the library? Grievous misspellings at the library? Not even a misspelling, a completely made up word.

Bryant Park Library employees, you have failed me. Good thing I wasn’t there writing my Very Important Thesis. I may have lost the will to complete my masterpiece. I was still able to sufficiently check my email and g-chat with some friends. Mission Accomplished.

Delusions of grandeur April 14, 2009

Three factors have led to my most recent late night experience. The first being my state of semi-employment which means quite a bit of free time on my hands. The second being my discovery of the first three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on hulu.com. The third being my pre-existing proclivity of overestimating my physical strength.

I have, in record time I believe, made my way through almost all three seasons of Buffy available on Hulu. I watched Buffy when it was on TV, but had forgotten how awesome she (it?) is. She is incredibly awesome. Watching a tiny blonde chick kick some serious butt (I know a lot of it is stunt doubles, but still, the stunt double is probably still on the relatively small side, right?) really pumps me up. After an episode I always want to go out and deliver a roundhouse kick to someone’s head and then make a snappy pun when they hit the ground.

So now it’s time for you to wonder what kind of experience too many episodes of Buffy could lead to. Well, I’m glad you asked. The other night I was walking home rather late from a wild and crazy night babysitting and decided that rather than walk across the 4 avenues on the bigger street that has more cars and people late at night, I would walk on my street, which is smaller and less populated. Not really that big of a deal, but I do live in Harlem, and walking on that street means I would have to walk past some housing projects. I’ve lived in Harlem for almost a year and as of yet have no encounters of the criminal kind to report (everyone please knock on wood for me) and have gained a bit of confidence when walking the streets late at night. Which I don’t do that often.

I really believe it’s all about attitude. If you look scared of getting mugged, people are going to, if not mug you, then at least make some threatening comments or something. (Note: I don’t count men saying things like, Have a good night beautiful, to be threatening. Unless of course they start following you down the street afterward.) Also, I tend to think of myself as really tough. I assume I can probably fight off any guy that would try to attack me through sheer willpower, and perhaps an adrenaline rush. Also, I used to always try and fight/wrestle with the boys when I was a kid. I always thought they were kind of weak.

So there I was walking across 127th street and I was debating with myself. Should I just go down to 125th street to be on the safe side? Is 125th actually any safer than 127th? Cutting two blocks out of my walking seemed incredibly important at the time, but now I’m not really sure why, as I love walking around the city, especially at night. Just not necessarily in Harlem. So I kept walking as I debated. I pictured a number of different scenarios that might arise. Someone following me down the street, someone actually trying to steal my backpack (by the way, when I have thought about what I would do if I were to get mugged, I think I would beg and plead with the person to at least let me take my knitting from the bag. Some things just can’t be replaced. Like the hours of my life I’ve spent knitting this:

So all these things are running through my head, and do you know what I think? I think, Well, if someone does attack me, I can kick them in the leg to distract them, at which point I will then deliver a powerful punch to the face, followed by a kick in the stomach, which will bring them to the ground. Ok, so at that point it would make sense that if I was actually able to disable someone like that I should then hightail it out of there and call the cops or something. But no, the thought process continues as follows: Once they are on the ground, I will pounce, grabbing the assailant by the shirt and pulling his head up off the ground, demanding to know who sent him. When he refuses to respond I will slam his head into the ground and make my demand again. He will finally give me the information I need, and he will be of no use to me anymore, so I pull a wooden stake out of my boot and stab him directly in the hea…Oh…wait a second. He’s not a vampire. Nor am I the one of my generation chosen to slay vampires.

It’s at this point I realize I am almost home and nothing even resembling a threat has come my way. It’s what I said about attitude. In my head I was busy pounding some guy to a pulp, so obviously I must have looked so intimidating that anyone who may have considered mugging me steered clear. That or it was only 11 o’clock at night and no one was really looking to cause trouble yet. But whatever, I still think I could beat someone up if I really had to.

They’re watching you… April 9, 2009

This morning on the train there was a man standing in front of me, who (whom?) I think may have been a CIA agent from the 60s.

He had on a slick and simple black suit, white shirt and black tie. He also had on black horn-rimmed glasses. His blonde hair was kinda of slicked back and he was reading a newspaper. These facts in and of themselves don’t necessarily make me assume a person has  traveled through time on orders of the US government, but he just had a look about him, you know?

Also, last night I was having a conversation with someone whose father was a spy in Germany in the 60s and we were discussing the tactics of “three man surveillance”. As I’d never before heard of this, I can only hope the facts I’ve been told are true, and they may have contributed to my seeing government agents from bygone eras on the number 3 express during rush hour. That, or I’m not crazy and the second gunman from the grassy knoll was on that train as well.

It’s funny, because it’s true April 7, 2009

This is probably going to make me a bad person, or least bring to light the fact that I already am a bad person, but here goes.

I was reading CNN.com and I came across an article about a cold case of a missing person. A young woman disappeared many years ago, and the woman’s mother being interviewed recently was speaking about how she felt the police did not act quickly enough when her daughter disappeared.

For instance, the house she was last seen in was not searched for two weeks after she disappeared. Direct quote from the mother, “I don’t understand why police could not search the home immediately to make sure there was no sign of a struggle there,” Hall said. “Maybe they would have found her press-on nails or hair extensions there; who knows?”

That’s what got a laugh out of me.

I then hung my head in shame. And decided I needed to share the scenario here on my blog.

That is all. Please don’t judge too harshly. Happy Tuesday.

La Maison du Chocolat March 16, 2009

Everyone knows that shopping on the Upper East Side (Fifth Ave, Madison Ave) is an experience like no other. From just basking in the glory that are the window displays of Saks Fifth Avenue, Chanel or Tiffany, to actually going inside and gawking at the goods, this is something I think everyone should experience at some point in their life.

This weekend, I heard a story from a woman who was in New York for her first time and was very excited to experience this upper crust shopping area of the city. It was a tale filled with fancy stores, snooty doormen and dirty looks. Pretty much the classic tale of Fifth Avenue shopping, which reminded me of my own classic tale.

A few years ago my dear friend Rachel and I had the grand idea to take a trip. It was a lovely spring day and we though perhaps we’d get on a train and go to Connecticut! Or Montauk! Or Jones Beach! And then we realized that it would end up being kind of expensive if we actually took a weekend trip, so we decided we’d just hop on the cross-town bus and explore the Upper East Side. (I know, I know, the excitement is barely containable.)

So we got off the bus at Madison Avenue and just started wandering the streets. We noticed a lovely storefront with the name Maison du Chocolat and immediately our attention was caught. Anything that claims to be a house of chocolate must be investigated.

Now, I thought I knew fancy chocolate. I’ve had Godiva and that kind of thing, but I knew nothing about fancy chocolate stores. This place was ridiculous. The displays were so fancy and the chocolate so pretty, and I couldn’t imagine eating something so small that was so expensive. I have to mention at this time in our lives, Rachel and I were always a bit silly when we were together (because really, we are definitely not silly when we’re together anymore…) and though I don’t remember exactly, I’m sure we were cracking jokes, laughing perhaps a bit more loudly than was appropriate for an expensive Madison Avenue chocolate store, and probably just generally being a nuisance.

The man working there was wearing a nicer suit than I ever remember my dad wearing to his job (and he is not a chocolate salesman!) and was selling lots of expensive chocolate to a lady who looked like she wouldn’t even know what Hershey or Nestle meant. (She really doesn’t know what she’s missing! I mean, M&Ms, Kit Kats?? Come on! They’re the best!) Some angry vibes were reaching us along with the whiff of dark chocolate. So we decide our time in the chocolate house is probably done and we head for the door.

Just as my hand reaches the handle I notice on the counter, where the fancy people are completing their transaction, is a lovely little tray with sample chocolates on it. My eyes grow wide and I whisper, “Rachel! There’s a sample tray. Let’s go grab a couple before we leave!” Rachel agrees and heads to the counter. She reaches her hand out to the tray and is hovering just above a few pieces of chocolate deciding which to pick when suddenly the tray is whisked right out from under her eager little paw.

The salesman, in his weird snooty way, somehow sensed what Rachel was about to do, and without interrupting his conversation with his customer or even breaking eye contact with her, reached over, grabbed the tray and slipped it off the counter just as Rachel was about to make her selection. I think both our jaws dropped to the ground and I yanked the door open, ran outside and collapsed against the side of the building convulsing with laughter. Rachel soon followed, aghast, but laughing. “He took the tray away! Why would he do that?” I had no answer but more laughter. Apparently we are not good enough for Maison du Chocolat free samples.

Rather than being insulted that the hourly employee at a chocolate store felt himself better than me, I was so glad to have had that experience in my life, because I have officially been discriminated against for a perceived lack of money.

I don’t think a New York City experience can be considered complete until you’ve had a Fifth and/or Madison Avenue employee judge you not good enough to peruse their store. So I suppose if I have to leave the city tomorrow, I can consider myself a success.

But I do hope to someday be able to go back to the chocolate house, buy some fancy chocolate and pat myself on the back for being wealthy enough to splurge on ridiculously expensive concoctions of sugar and cocoa. And as I leave the store I’m going to grab a fistful of the free samples and run. That’ll show ‘em.

Write out loud! March 12, 2009

It’s not too often that I find myself on the Lexington Avenue subway line, but it seems that whenever I do, something strange happens.

I spent this lovely, unseasonably (according to the weather people) warm evening out in Brooklyn eating pizza at Grimaldi’s, ice cream at the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, and then walking back to Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. I don’t know how it’s taken six years of being in New York for me to finally do that, but it was lovely. I quite enjoyed it.

So after getting my feet firmly planted back on the island everyone knows is the true heart of NYC, we got on the 6 train. (You’ll remember I had an odd experience on the 6 train back in December.) The train was fairly empty and there wasn’t anyone of particular note to eavesdrop on, so I was enjoying pleasant conversation with the friends I was with. We’re talking and take notice of a young hipster kid who stands up, preparing to get off at the next stop. I see that he is kind of prodding at something under the bench with the tip of his cleverly ironic Old School style Nikes, and he nudges out a green Sharpie. Now I didn’t know if this was a marker he’d dropped or not, but the person I was talking to was sitting across from me, so the nudging was happening right under her feet and our conversation became a bit halted as we watched what this kid was doing.

So the Sharpie is out from under the bench and he picks it up. My first thought was, well I guess he dropped it. But he had looked at it for a moment before picking up, with hesitation in his movements as he retrieved it. This made me wonder, is it really his, or was he wondering if a Sharpie is really worth whatever the risk is of getting hepatitis simply by touching something that has been in prolonged contact with the floor of the subway. But sometimes if I drop something on the train, I wonder if I really need whatever the object is badly enough in my life to take the hepatitis risk. (I’ve dropped knitting needles before, and I always retrieve those.)

Ok, so he has the Sharpie, which may or may not have been his to begin with. I figure he’ll just stick it in his pocket and think, sweet, I’ve got a new green Sharpie to add to my collection of multi-colored Sharpies. Well, this is where I was wrong. Our charming young hipster fellow pulls out of his pocket what else but an iPhone. He then uncaps the Sharpie, turns the iPhone over and just before he steps off the train at the next stop jots a little smiley face on the back of his $400 cell phone.

Once the doors closed my traveling companions and I all looked at each other and pretty much expressed the equivalent of WTF? One person stated that she had noticed the Sharpie when we’d gotten on the train, which was before the hipster fellow got on the train. Someone else couldn’t get over the fact that he’d just doodled a happy face on his ridiculously expensive phone. For my part, I was excited because I had something weird to blog about.

But what I think makes this whole thing even more odd is that on Friday I was having lunch with my roommate at Chipotle and as we were leaving that fine dining establishment I noticed a black Sharpie laying on the ground. I contemplated picking it and taking it with me, I like using Sharpies after all. For some reason I don’t really remember (perhaps it was not wanting to seem crazy) I decided against it, but now kind of wish I hadn’t, because then perhaps I would have found some type of kindred spirit in the Sharpie-loving hipster fellow.

I think from now on, my general rule in life will be that if a permanent marker is found in public, always take it home with you. Unless of course it’s in any type of situation where the chances for getting hepatitis are high. That’s another good general life rule to have. Avoid hepatitis whenever possible.

These have been Deep Thoughts, by Tricia Cannon.

(PS. The title of this blog is the Sharpie slogan, because when I couldn’t think of what to title this blog I went to the Sharpie website, and that slogan seemed appropriate enough. Even though I don’t really think as a slogan it makes any sense.)

Upright Citizen February 13, 2009

I spent Monday and Tuesday of this week being an exemplary citizen by serving jury duty. It was a wonderful, glorious time at 100 Centre Street, Room 1517. I spent hours and hours knitting a certain something for a certain someone. There is a deadline for this particular project, which I don’t think I would have reached if I hadn’t had all that free time to knit. So, hooray for jury duty being a blessing in disguise.

Also, it turns out that there are some people who will pretend to not speak English to get out of being selected as a juror. Such was the case with one woman who, when the judge was questioning her, could not find the proper words to answer the question of what she does for a living. She was excused moments later. Fast forward to about an hour later and I’m back in the juror waiting room and I see the same lady pick up a cane someone forgot and say, “Excuse me, you forgot your cane.” Come on! That’s not what America is about! We’re not a country of slackers who will try and use any means necessary to get out of doing the things required of us because we feel like someone else should be the responsible one to step up. Am I right? Who’s with me? Ok, anyway…

Turns out downtown near the Financial District (which I’ve just learned is called FiDi, to which I respond…wtf?? Enough with the acronyms/nicknames/whatever-the-hell-those-neighborhood-initials-are and get a hobby. SoHo and TriBeCa work because they’ve been SoHo and TriBeCa forever, basically. (Ok, I know those were a trend on their own, but they’re the originals. Get off my back.) FiDi? I mean, what? Is this area almost a dog’s name now? SpaHa for Spanish Harlem is pushing it, and I only accept DUMBO for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass because it’s so far-fetched and ridiculous and I like to think about that cute elephant with the big ears who just wanted to fly. FiDi is the last straw. I will have no more of this. Tricia has spoken, New Yorkers, please obey. Many thanks.) Umm, what was I saying?

Oh yeah, the Financial District/City Hall area is a pretty cool part of town. Lots of old buildings that have cool histories (I assume, I don’t know the histories, but I’m sure old buildings have lots of stories to tell.) I walked around City Hall Park, which was lovely despite the sad, dying plants that were lining the fountain. Another perk of jury duty, being that it’s downtown I got to meet up with someone who works in the area that I like to spend time with, so that made my civic duty considerably more joyful.

It was at this time that I encountered what was a very perplexing moment in my day. I was walking happily along and I saw a man walking toward me who was balancing a pizza box in one hand and pinching his nose closed with the other (this man was not the person with whom I was looking forward to spending time with, fyi). My immediate thought was of the little pack of tissues I keep in my purse. It’s winter, it’s cold, and I spend a lot of time walking outside. You need to be prepared for the inevitable nose run. It seemed obvious that this man was not. So I contemplated pulling out a tissue and offering one to him as we passed by. But then I thought, would he even accept a tissue from a perfect stranger? Would I? Probably not. Who knows where their hands have been?

Then I wondered if perhaps his nose was not running at all, but he merely smelled something bad. In that situation it would be inappropriate to offer him a tissue, I think. Plus I was also worried that I might startle him when asking if he’d like a tissue, and then he would drop his pizza box and I would feel terrible that his lunch was ruined. So I just watched as he walked awkwardly past me pinching his nose and holding the pizza box. It was kind of strange. But, at least it’s the thought that counts, right? I should get a few good karma points for at least considering trying to help the guy out.

So overall, I’d say my experience as a potential juror was pretty good. I got all that knitting done and was dismissed from being a juror on an attempted homicide case that took place in my very own neighborhood. When the judge asked if I could be a fair juror in the case I said it made me nervous that I might have to convict a kid whose family and friends I’d see in the courtroom every day and then could potentially see when I was out doing my grocery shopping and walking to the subway. That could be an awkward situation. So luckily, I was dismissed.

Now I’m free and clear for six years of serving as a juror again. But all in all, I don’t think I’ll dread it when the situation arises again. It wasn’t terrible, and I think being a juror on a criminal case could be pretty interesting, you know, provided you don’t have to see too many graphic pictures of dead bodies or something. But really, I kinda think that might be cool to see. Maybe I should start watching more CSI and Law and Order. The people on those shows are probably a lot more attractive than the lawyers I saw.

Then I got high February 4, 2009

Michael Phelps was caught on camera smoking pot and now everybody is freaking out about it. I know I’m a little late in joining the discussion of this incident, but whatevs.

So, here’s my thing, I really don’t care that he smokes some weed. I mean, come on, the guy won 8 Olympic gold medals! Michael Phelps high is probably more capable of athletic prowess than most of us on our very best day.

Now I know that so many people are angry about this because he’s a role model and children all over the world look up to him and all that, which is entirely true. However, here’s what some people forget, I think: Michael Phelps is, in fact, human. I know, I know. It’s really hard to believe. For a while it was rumored he was actually some kind of Waterworld-esque creature with hidden gills somewhere, but that has been disproved and the facts remain that he is human.

I am also human, though of the female variety. And while that means there are some differences between the makeup of Mr. Phelps and myself, (though we are both undeniably in shape and quite pleasing to look at) what we do have in common is that we make mistakes. Yes it’s true. I admit it. Sometimes I make mistakes (only very rarely, of course). However, I’m lucky enough that the mistakes I make generally don’t make headlines in British tabloids which then spread across the globe through the magic of the internet. There was that secret affair I had with Jude Law when I was a nanny and…oh wait, no. That wasn’t me. Never mind.

I mean, really, if some of the stuff I’ve done had ended up in the newspapers, well, that would have been quite unfortunate indeed. As it is, most of my dirty laundry is allowed to stay tucked away in the closet where it belongs. Our dear national hero Michael has no such luck.

So the guy is like twenty-three, right? Shall I name all the friends I had when I was twenty-three who were high for a good portion of their day? I won’t, since I don’t want to get sued or something, but let me tell ya, it happens. And it’s their business.

Of course Michael Phelps wants to get high! Can you imagine having that kind of pressure and media attention on you constantly?? Someone I know said that athletes and celebrities are just asking for the attention they get and the paparazzi that follow them, but I disagree with that assertion. If acting or playing sports is what you’re good at, then you should be able to pursue that career path without people wanting to take pictures of you when you drop your kids off at school, or go to the grocery store. Or, you know, smoke some weed. (People like Paris Hilton are a whole ‘nother story. I hope the paparazzi push her down and blind her with their camera flashes. Maybe then she’ll finally keep to herself and stop forcing her awfulness on the world.)

Ok, so I’ve digressed somewhat, but to sum up…cut the kid some freakin’ slack, okay? What was the stupidest thing you did when you were twenty-three? Just be glad no one was following you around with a camera, and trying to get you to do stupid things for the sole purpose of making themselves a few bucks from the photo. I know I am.

Of course, Michael didn’t need to smoke the weed, he made that decision himself. Let the blame lie where it should. But look, he apologized. He seems like a cool guy, who’s just been a regular twenty-something person. If I was the kind of person who smoked weed, I think I’d like to share a joint with Michael, I bet he’d be really chill. And if Speedo, who pays him millions of dollars a year to shill for their company, doesn’t care about this incident, then why should I, or anyone else who has much less invested in this guy than Speedo, spend my precious time worrying about it?

I know I probably haven’t really set out a well planned argument here about why everyone should just back off the guy, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t care enough. I only cared just enough to do this much. So…for anyone out there who feels more strongly about this than I do, on either side, please don’t shout all your reasons at me, because I probably won’t get too worked up about them.

Thanks for stopping by, you stay classy San Diego.

A rose by any other name… January 13, 2009

Normally I try and stay as far away from reality dating shows as possible. However, as this new season of the Bachelor starts I find myself in a unique situation. I have a roommate who LOVES watching the Bachelor and a small apartment, which means that even if I were to go in my room and close the door, short of deafening myself wearing headphones blasting some Kate Nash, I’ll still hear the drama.

So I’ve resigned myself to taking a spot on the couch with whatever knitting project is in the works (currently, Central Park Hoodie) and joining in the festivities. I try to keep my snark to a minimum (when said roommate had The Hills on DVD I had to close myself in my room, for fear of permanently damaging the roommate rapport with my hilarious comments about LC and company) and just count my brain cells as they die. So imagine my surprise when last night I found myself not only tolerating, but actually enjoying The Bachelor.

First of all there’s the man himself. Jason “I’m a hot single dad” Bachelor Dude. I could probably do worse things with my knitting time than look at him without a shirt on. Then there’s the glorified sorority house of potential wives who speak constantly about how ready they are to be mothers, while also fighting like twelve-year-olds over the last tube of Wet ‘n Wild lip gloss in Cherry Chocolate.

My favorite bachelorette is the one my roommates and I have affectionately dubbed “The Tranny.” She’s a single parent too. Ahh, it was a match made in heaven. Except she sorta looks like a dude.

Then there’s “The Jersey Girl” who claims to be from Connecticut, but who we all know probably spent her formative years in Newark. She’s the bitchiest and I love it. She got a rose last night, probably a move on the producer’s part just to make sure there’s enough drama to keep the audiences coming back for more. And who can’t forget “The Stalker.” This desperate lady has apparently done a background check and a seven-generation genealogy chart on the guy. (She’s knows his brother’s birthday. Creepy. But at least she’s prepared should a family history test be part of the requirement for a proposal.)

And the best part of last night was when one of the ladies (I use the term loosely in reference to anyone participating in reality TV dating) decided that it was more important to be with her dying grandmother than to prance around on TV in the hopes of getting a diamond from a guy she doesn’t really know. I commend her for that, I’m all for giving credit where credit is due. And at least she’s not the poor sucker who quit her job to be on the show only to fail at getting a rose last night. She’s really going home empty-handed.

I’m sure deep down these women are all very nice, genuine people who do good things. Unfortunately I just have a hard time believing it since they are on this show.

But who I am to talk? I plan on watching next week, just to witness the moment when Hot Single Dad Jason surprises Tranny Single Mom with a visit from her daughter and we get a slo-mo shot of them running into each other’s arms, and hitting so hard the daughter’s head rebounds off her mom’s bony shoulder, as shown in the previews for next week’s episode. Priceless.

Hopefully when the show is over I will have enough brain cells left to remind myself not to watch whenever  the second runner-up  becomes the next Bachelorette. These shows are some kind of black hole, there’s no escape. And I kind of love it.

For what it’s worth, I sort of hope The Stalker wins this one.

On the 6 December 19, 2008

To clarify: I am not trying to emulate the J.Lo album of the nineties by the same title in any way. I just happened to have been on the 6 train recently.

It was about 12:15am and I was taking the train home (don’t worry, Mom, I had my pepper spray). It was pretty full for being late on a Thursday night, but not too many people. When you’re on the train that late there is always someone asleep. Hell, there’s always someone asleep on the train even if it’s 11:30 in morning. My favorite is on the morning commute when someone is falling asleep doing the awesome sleeping-but-trying-not-to-sleep head bob. It cracks me up.

Anyhoodle, this particular Thursday evening there was a gentleman sitting on the end of one of the benches kind of slumped over his face pressed somewhat awkwardly into rails on the side. Now this wasn’t a homeless man. This was a late-twentyish guy dressed in a suit. If he had been homeless looking, probably no one would have bothered with him, since that’s just kind of what we do here in the city, ignore the homeless as best we can. Slightly shameful, though I’m guilty of it as well.

When I got on the train something had clearly been going on with this guy, though I’m still not entirely sure what. There was a woman standing up next to him, and she and another man were talking and looking at the guy. Then the man she was talking to went and sat down and she continued standing. The she reached out and started the shaking the sleeping guy’s leg saying, “Wake up, wake up!” Sleeping man: absolutely no reaction. Not even a twitch like, “I’m sleeping, leave me alone.”

Now I start to think, great, this guy is passed out or dead and someone’s going to have to tell the police or something and we’re all gonna get stuck on the train cause of weirdo dead guy in a suit. (Why yes, I do love feeling the Christmas spirit this time of year, why do you ask?)

The train is approaching the 116th Street stop and the woman becomes more aggressive in her attempts to wake him. She grabs his shoulder and starts shaking him more. “Hey guy, wake up. Man, wake up. Where’s your stop? Where do you need to get off?” (At this point this woman became my Thursday night hero, because obviously something happened that caused her to become concerned for his well-being and to take action for it.)

Finally the guy raises his head ever so slightly and looks toward the source of the shaking. Hero Lady stops shaking him and says, “Where do you need to get off?” He opens his eyes now and starts to look around the train. Dudes, his eyes were bloodshot. Like, he looked like he’d been partying for 6 days straight. And he was clearly high on something hard and absolutely unaware of what was happening in the world around him.

Hero Lady then says, “Do you know you’re on the train? We’re almost to 116th street. Where do you need to get off? You know you’re on the train, right?” He nods and kinda sinks back down into his stupor again. The train arrives at 116th and it’s Hero Lady’s stop, so she gives him one last look, shrugs and gets off. The guy seems like he’s just passing out again, then suddenly stands up and lurches out the doors right before they close. The train starts to move and I glimpse him slumping against the wall of the platform, eyes closing again.

So far I haven’t heard any reports of dead bodies being found at the 116th station on the Lexington line. So he’s probably just another investment banker cokehead trying to make the best of a bad situation. He probably came to a few hours later with his wallet missing and a bloody nose.

(Interesting side note: I thought for sure cokehead would come up as a misspelling in Microsoft Word, with that annoying red squiggle beneath it, but it didn’t. I find that rather sad for some reason.)