beheard

Thirty is this mythical number upon which I have rested all of my hopes and dreams. My friends and family have been listening to me belabor this point for years. By the big 3-0 I had intended on accomplishing a litany of goals arbitrarily set for myself with the notion that this off ramp onto adulthood was so far in the future that it would be seemingly impossible NOT to achieve said benchmarks.

Run a marathon; move back home; enroll in grad school; travel the globe. I had my sights set on a number of things I felt necessary to do when I was still young, energetic and stupid enough to want to. My question now is, how did 22 with a laundry list of things to do become 29 and a half in the blink of an eye? (Read More)

march 2011

Depending on who you ask, there is a wide array of answers in regards to when one becomes a real “New Yorker.” I have heard 10 years; I’ve heard 5. I’ve been told that the first time I pick a fight on the 1 train, I’ll know I have arrived. Now, I cannot purport to know the answer, as I am not sure there is just one. In my humble opinion, a native New Yorker is a rare breed that no transplant can ever fully understand. Growing up in New York City, especially in decades past when the danger and dirt that made New York sexy still existed in droves, is unique.

I have been in New York for over 5 years now, and still very much consider myself a Californian, however, there comes a point when you are in an environment long enough that it starts to permeate your surface. Think 'Lord of the Flies' but with overpriced handbags and $200 haircuts. Many of my friends in the city are native to it and I often get a sideways glance or a grin when recounting an experience I have recently encountered in which I seem to have acted as a native. Many of these events take place on the subway or in a cab or, just crossing the street.

The greatest social experiment ever created: public transportation. Inhabitants of the five boroughs that make up New York learn the rhythms of the trains quickly; which cars that will drop you off exactly where you need to be, and the minimum width of seat you need in which to semi-comfortably squeeze your ass. You also learn the unspoken code of conduct when an elderly or pregnant person gets on or a drunk has pissed himself saturating the plastic bench seat on which he or she is slumped. My former Spanish paramour was recently telling me a about how a man had gotten on the train and at least partially sat directly on his lap. Spanish paramour did not like this one bit and proceeded to colorfully explain to the man that cuddle time on the train was not acceptable. When hearing this tale I, of course rolled my eyes. Seated on the 1 this morning, Jabba The Hut’s long lost twin luckily choose the seat next to me; a space much better for a runway model than a Star Wars reject. Without a moment’s hesitation he and wedged his way in, leaving me little room breath and making me instantly intimate with the woman seated to my right. Needless to say it was an enjoyable ride. Jabba was only gelatinous but odiphorous and seemed to be coming down with a cold, or so the runny nose would indicate. The Petri dish of city living is sometimes beyond articulation. If homeboy hadn’t outweighed me by a full Justin Bieber, I swear, I would have taken that fool out, or at least shard my concern about the circulation in the left side of my body on which he was perched for 100 blocks.

Now, my morning was already off to a stellar beginning and after deboarding the train I had a short walk over to 7^th Avenue. While waiting at 50^th and 7^th, a short distance from my final destination, a mini bus chose the middle of the crosswalk to idle. Being the calm and rational person I am, this irritated me to no end. This was clearly a personal affront and a total lack of respect; not understanding I had places to go and people to see. My irritation was approaching fever pitch when I chose to walk behind the bus. Although the bus had not moved in minutes, it felt inspired to do so just as I was reaching the rear of the vehicle, making a turn onto fiftieth, slamming me into the newspaper receptacles and knocking me off of my feet.

That’s right. The bus hit me.

Ok, so it sounds far more dramatic that it actually was and although I was forcibly moved by the vehicle, it’s not exactly like an S series was racing down the Autobahn and hit me broadside, but still...It hit me!

As much as I enjoy being roughed up, this was not the time or place and as I was knocked off kilter by the ton of steal I reacted accordingly. I did not yell or panic or freak out. I laughed. I shook my head and smiled. A car hit me in broad daylight and didn’t stop, my fellow pedestrians barely glanced in my direction, and that made me laugh. However, the majority my amusement was found in my jackassary. I was so impatient to cross the street, that I was willing to put myself between a moving vehicle and the pavement. And why? Because I live in New York.