New York, I Love Hate You

I am so over this damn city.

I got on the train this morning and, honestly, there was nothing particularly special about today's rush-hour madness. I spent 30 minutes clutching my purse to make room, apologizing for my every movement and occasionally my own weary sighs, and trying to move in ways that would let the dude behind me know that we shouldn't be touching butts--you know, the usual. But I just hit a wall of Danny Glover-ness (I'm too old for this shit!) combined with Samuel L. Jackson fed-up-edness (I'm sick and tired of these muthafuckin' snakes on this muthafuckin' plane!!!) that I can't get through.

Listen, I know it's "the greatest city on earth," and I sure as hell wouldn't want to live in another city in America, but we're selling ourselves short, people! And the worst part is that these low standards are acceptable. Living in New York City and taking public transportation, I smell human excrement on a daily basis--sometimes several times a day--and this is commonplace. WTF??! This ain't Calcutta! This sure as hell ain't 14th-century England during the bubonic plague--why is there excrement in the streets?! We're worth more!

This started getting to me when I was walking to the subway and saw this homeless guy. He's tall and skinny and looks about 70 years old (thought he's probably 40) and he's balding with basically two long matted dreadlocks. When I saw him on the platform, my first thought was, "Aw, shit, this guy again. I better get a damn seat so he doesn't touch my shoulder and call me 'beautiful miss.'" Y'all, this man is not violent or loud, but he is relentless. But the point is: Why do I have a history with a hobo??? I am not, nor have I ever been, impoverished (praise black Jesus). I have never dated a hobo or performed at a hobo benefit. And yet I see this person and can immediately recall his life story and personality quirks as though he were an old school chum. I'm not okay with this! Of course, the fact that I'm annoyed by him just gets me one rung closer to hell, and I'm not proud of it, but this is how NYC gets you. You get inoculated to pain, y'all.

Yesterday after work I was getting into the train at 28th street and I saw two men on the steps, standing a few feet apart from each other. Black guy was standing further down, White guy was standing toward the top (I'm ID'ing them by race to make it easier to describe, don't worry!). On the other side, a guy was trying to exit, so I waited for the clog to clear. The guy came through but the other two men didn't move. The Black guy waved the white guy down and told him to come closer. I'm thinking these two are going to walk down so I start going down but they stop about 4 steps up from the subway platform. The Black guy reaches into his sock and pulls out a baggie. The white guy peels off some bills and hands him cash. I interrupt this exchange with, "Excuse me, um, can I get through? thank you."
Y'all, I walked through a drug deal!! LIKE I'M JUST STRAIGHT OUT OF A SPIKE LEE JOINT AND DON'T GIVE A F#?!%

I didn't realize this until a minute after I swiped my Metrocard--and that's what really got me. Growing up in pre-gentrified Harlem as the child of a mother who worked in family and criminal court, I am anything but cavalier, and I know that killers are around every corner (oh yeah, I'm a drama queen who grew up on Lifetime movies). I never thought I'd see the day I'd burst through an interracial illegal drug trade. That guy could have pulled anything out of his sock (like a weapon!) and I woulda been up in the crossfire! I need to go back to Australia so I can get my head back on straight and appreciate this place. Who's with me?

Run, run, as fast as you can from the gingerbread man!

So, remember that redheaded Aussie from back in the day (you know, two months ago)?

Well, he's headed for NYC in about 6 days.

He'd first alerted me to his visit nearly 6 weeks ago, when I was INSIDE CAUCASIA (in Sweden). I shrugged it off at the time, only to learn from a mutual friend that he'd be bringing his girlfriend with him.

Um, hello?! How could he not mention her in the email? I mean, I know he's got a gf, there is not a single part of me that wants to get with him, so why not put it out there? I also know that there's not a single part of me that wants to meet her, so if I get blindsided with a gf-bomb, I will die. Cause that's what bombs do. They make you die.

Anyway, the last time he was here (when I was down under), I told him tons of stuff to do, got him discounts to comedy shows, etc. I hope he does not come to me asking for ways to entertain him and his lover. My top suggestions would be:

1. Climb to the top of the Empire State Building, hand in hand. Look out over the edge, and then jump.

2. Walk down a deserted back alley on 11th avenue, counting your American currency. Wait to be stuck with a shiv. (Do people use shivs outside of prison?)

3. S a D, cause I hate your face.

Ugh, whatever. He asked if I wanted to meet up and I was evasive. While I know I can get through a quick drink, since it'll mostly involve catching up and pleasantries, I don't think seeing him will enrich my life in any way. The only Weasley I want to see is Ronald, on screen July 15!
If I go to drinks, I will be too worried about looking cute, seeming carefree, and touting accomplishments I have not... accomplished. I won't want to hear a word about how happy and put together his Canadian life is, and I'll be resentful. And we all know how loud and inappropriate I get after some dranks.

Sorry, I'm being grumpy. I've decided that I'm not good at stand-up comedy, and this requires a major restructuring of life goals. This ginger situation is not helping.

I'm gonna go watch "16 and Pregnant."