I THINK I'M PARANOID

Apparently it only takes a few days back in New York City to set my mind at unease.

Laura and I hustled over to Penn Station Wednesday evening to meet up with Cousin Kevin, so that we could all journey on down to the Dirty Jerz, where copious amounts of delicious Gencarellaville treats and booze were laid out in preparation for our impending arrival. Osso bucco. Jigsaw puzzles. Whiskey. All for us to consume.

We were on a mission. We fought our way through an extraordinarily chaotic and packed terminal and tried to find the ticket line. ANY ticket line. Any line. Any ticket.

Me: Laura, it's kind of busy in here.
Laura: Well, it's the night before Thanksgiving, of course it's busy.
Me: But it seems kind of weird, like something is wrong -
Announcer: Attention all...jumble...due to...mumble...there is only one track...jumble mumble...in and out...mumble...Penn Station...

No. There was not ONE train track in operation on the busiest travel day of the year. LIES. I couldn't have heard that right. There was tender veal an hour away. It couldn't be.

Me: So, hey, Laura - did you hear that? I think it said something about there being only one track going in and out of Penn Station.
Laura: No, couldn't be. Let's get in line and get our tickets. We'll figure it out.

We get in line. This line goes on and on and on and on and on. I suddenly feel as if I've been deposited in the train station of a third world country, left to fend for myself in the massive herd. No matter - I'll look at the Departures board and see what track we'll be leaving from:

Departures Board: Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled. Standby. Standby. Standby. Standby. Cancelled.

Hm. I start to get paranoid here. Wondering, worrying what might happen if there really is only one track in and out of Penn Station tonight, if that sweet, tender, juicy veal will be cold when I finally take my teeth to it.

Nonsense. We ask a guy next to us what's going on.

Guy Next To Us In Line: Oh, well, I don't know if this has anything to do with it, but did you hear about Mumbai?
Us: No?
GNTUIL: Oh, well, there were some major terrorist attacks there. And there's some sort of terrorist alert for New York right now.

This is when I whipped out my iPhone (dear, sweet electronic manna) and started reading. Oh dear. Oh jesus. Oh lord. What is the world coming to?? Those poor people in Mumbai. And what's this...credible information about a terrorist attack on New York? Around Thanksgiving? On the rail transport? ON PENN STATION?!?

Sonofabitch. I want to go. Now. I do not care about veal. I do not care about Thanksgiving. I do not want the terrorists to get me.

Oh man. I'm afraid. They've already gotten me.

I keep these thoughts to myself and Laura buys the tickets. We spot Cousin Kevin. I start having a meltdown about how we will never leave Penn Station and we will never make Thanksgiving and we will never eat veal or drink whiskey or make puzzles and I'm thirsty and I'm hungry and WHY AREN'T THE TRAINS LEAVING? DID THE TERRORISTS GET THEM???

Laura: SHUT UP, SHAWNTE

I shut up.

When they finally call the next train for the one track that was both going in and out of Penn Station, there was a massive rush of people. Laura muttered something like, "This is how people get killed," and then right away, all I could think about where those holy pilgrimmages in India where the people got killed in a stampede and if anything, it made me stop thinking about terrorists for a minute.

They finally called our train and we boarded. I sat across from Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who reeked of day-old Popov, with a hint of Coors Light. I didn't care - we were on our way to veal; the terrorists could not stop us.

And then we sat.
And we sat.
And we sat some more.

And then the conductor made vague allusions to some problem on the tracks being the reason for the delay, and once again I thought that the terrorists were going to get me and most of all that my mom would be pissed that I was dumb enough to take public transportation when the terrorists were totally waging jihad against Penn Station. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Sorry, mom.

I did not tell Laura or Cousin Kevin about any of my paranoid thoughts, because I think I came about 2 tiny little filaments of angel hairs away from Laura slapping the shit out of me on the platform, and I didn't want to encourage that trend.

We sat in silence, Kevin at the front of the car, Laura across the way, and me facing Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who was having a field day taunting the restless grade schoolers across the aisle. We had been sitting there an hour. The children went rogue; their father's head was laid gently in his cupped hands; their teary-eyed mother was searching for valium, and Mac McAlcohol-Breath was threatening to pop their balloon.

Then the train moved!
I cheered.
THE TERRORISTS DIDN'T WIN! I'M GOING TO HAVE VEAL, MOTHERFUCKERS! DELICIOUS, JUICY, TERROR-FREE VEAL!

Train Conductor: Sorry about the delay...as we mentioned, there was a fire in the tunnel, but now we're on our way!

YOU KNOW, TRAIN CONDUCTOR, HAD YOU MENTIONED THAT WE WERE DELAYED BECAUSE OF A FIRE IN THE TUNNEL AND NOT BECAUSE THE TERRORISTS MIGHT BE COMING TO GET US, I MIGHT NOT HAVE MENTALLY COMPOSED MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT WHILE WAITING FOR THE TRAIN TO MOVE. THANKS A LOT, JACKASS.

And then I settled in with Sudoku.

Oh, Dr. Z...!

If you frequent the NYC subway system in any capacity, you have surely seen the giant billboards - in nearly every subway car on nearly every line - for Dr. Zizmor ("Dr. Z," if you will).

His chubby little face smiles right underneath a gigantic rainbow, and Dr. Z (a dermatologist, it seems, and one with an unlimited advertising budget - although one that obviously does not include a graphic designer of any sort) implores us to all consider the multitudes of imperfections that our skin surely has. Wrinkles? Dr. Z'll take care of 'em. Zits? Dr. Z will zap 'em. Veins? Dr. Z will banish every unsightly mark on your skin.

Today, I was riding home in a daze from the most boring grant application meeting ever in the history of ever, and happened to look up and spot one of Dr. Z's giant rainbows. However, instead of explaining how he would rid my skin of zits, veins, and wrinkles, he was suggesting that I needed to tighten my skin to preserve my youthful appearance!

And Dr. Z's method of skin-tightening-youthfulness? Why, "a gentle cryogenic spray," of course!

Now, unless you're Michael Jackson going bonkers in a hermetically-sealed underground lair in Dubai, you gotta be slightly off-kilter (and more than hint desperate) to feel as if there could possibly be anything gentle about a cryogenic spray.

I won't be able to sleep tonight with thoughts of Dr. Z laughing like a maniac while spraying my face with the steam from dry ice racing around my brain. Someone should revoke his subway advertising license.

Can I get some eucalyptus with that?

I will say this, friends...I am beginning to hate public transporation. It is beginning to give me hives. It is beginning to make me wish that I lived on a small island in the Pacific and spent my days feasting on mangoes, lounging in rattan chairs, and enjoying the cool breeze provided by the palm leaf fanning over me, courtesy of some oiled-up poolboy named Jacques.

Ok, that has nothing to do with public transportation. I just wanted an excuse to sear into your minds the image of an "oiled-up poolboy named Jacques." My apologies.

Nevertheless, back to my contempt for public transport. Being the kind individual I am, and because I probably would have suffered some severe glares at work on Monday morning had I not done the following, I ventured into Brooklyn on a Saturday night to cover a front desk shift at work. The L train was not running, so I walked to Union Square, took the Q to Canal Street, took the J to Marcy Ave, took the B60 bus to Morgan Ave, and walked the rest of the way.

This took me an hour and I really, truthfully hated 58 of those minutes.

The 2 minutes that I enjoyed, however, were the 2 minutes in which a man lumbered up to the B60 bus stop with his buddy. He was a big tall fellow, probably in his mid-30's, Marine-type haircut, brand new kicks on his feet, saggy man-pris straddling his waist. His biceps could probably crush heads and other large objects and were overrun with tattoos of the faux-tribal, pointy, sharp, barbed-wire-y variety.

Tough Guy (that's what we're calling him here) looked at his buddy and said, "Dude, I'm gonna get laid tonight." He was confident, assured. His big tree trunk thighs would be wrapped around some ladyparts later on. There was an actual exchange of high-fives.

What is missing from the above description (which is pretty mundane, in and of itself) is the fact that Tough Guy was wearing a too-tight (bicep-enhancing, perhaps) grey T-shirt bearing a large cartoon picture of two cute, doe-eyed panda bears munching on eucalyptus leaves on the front, and the sentence "I saw the World Famous Pandas!" on the back. Cartoon. Pandas.

Probably to show off his "sensitive side," is my guess. Good luck, Tough Guy. Good luck.

Goin' Down In Chinatown

Last night I made a valiant attempt to attend a friend-of-a-friend's birthday party. I really did.

I wrote down directions and kept watch over the clock. I showered myself nice 'n clean, applied deoderant with precision, and strapped on the big girl heels. I left the house on time (sometimes a magical feat in and of itself), exactly one half hour before said event was to take place. My route was mapped out, my MetroCard at the ready. It was almost party time.

I descended to the F train platform on 6th Avenue, purse full of dollars, face full of makeup. I waited. I watched a guy warble something remotely countrified at uninterested passengers-to-be. I waited. I saw a girl dip precariously near the yellow edge of the platform, her jokey frat-boyfriend threatening to tip her over. I waited. I slid away from a guy who was surely the Valedictorian of the Samuel L. Jackson Finishing School for Badasses, as he mumbled some crazy shit in a nice, deep (and fitting) baritone. I waited.

Suddenly -
F Train Announcer Lady: "<Static.....the F train .... static .... Queens .... static ....minutes.... static ....please...static...patience."

Valedictorian of SLJFSFB: "crazy mumble...heh heh heh...crazy mumble....i'ts HOOOOOT out there!...crazy mumble....heh heh heh....."

The train eventually came, after I was coated with a slick layer of grimy sweat, and I had about 2 minutes to spare before I was due at the restaurant. No biggie, I thought. There's really a 15-minute cushion built into all party arrivals. 25, if you come bearing gifts. Oh, wait....I didn't have a gift. Shit.

Ten minutes later, I exited in the middle of Chinatown. I know my Chinatown. I know my Chinatown.....I know my.....aw, shit. I don't read Chinese. It's nighttime. It smells. I don't know my Chinatown. I am somehow now 20 minutes late. No gift.

I will call a cab! Yes! Cab....cab...cab....why are there no cabs in Chinatown? Why are there so many dark alleys in Chinatown? Why are there so many suspicious-looking men hanging out on the dark corners near the dark alleys in Chinatown? WHY ARE THERE NO CABS IN CHINATOWN!?!? I am somehow now 30 minutes late. And I am developing a blister on the heel of my well-shod right foot.

Walk, walk, walk....cab! Cab pulls over! Cab lets me in! To the corner of Orchard and Canal, I say! YES!

(8 minutes later)-

Cabbie: "Fuck, miss. I do not think Canal and Orchard join."
Miss: "Yes, they do. My friend's text message tells me so. Please take me there."
Cabbie: "Oh, wait, I am going the wrong way. You take one dollar off! One dollar!!!"
Miss: "Oh....ohhhhkayyyyy...."

(another 8 minutes later, after 2 loops through the edge of Little Italy) -

Cabbie: "Fuck, miss. Fuck. Construction! Fucking construction! I can't do my fucking job...insane cabbie mumble...fucking construction!"
Miss: "Uh, you can let me off here."
Cabbie: "Fuck. No, I get you there. Five dollar! You only give me five!"

(another 5 minutes later, after swerving OVER a curb to avoid hitting an old man on a bicycle)

Cabbie: "Fuck! Look out! Fuck, miss. I can't take you. Five dollars."
Miss: (Realizing that "purse full of dollars" meant "purse full with 8 dollar bills") "grumble....Where IS Orchard and Canal?"
Cabbie: "3 blocks THAT way..." (meaning: 7 that way, 2 that way, and 1 diagonal....oh and, oh, the restaurant is unmarked and ridiculously hidden....)

Lesson 1: Subway platforms are hellish; even more so after 20 minutes of no air
Lesson 2: Count your dollars before you leave the house
Lesson 3: It's best to get out of the cab before the cabbie utters his tenth "fuck"
Lesson 4: "Going down to Chinatown" is not as cutesy as it sounds


Total time spent traveling to party: 80 minutes

Total time spent at party: 30 minutes

Everybody Fung Wah Tonight

There are a few things a person generally does before boarding a crowded bus for a 4-hour ride, and those things almost often involve personal hygiene.

But perhaps I generalize, perhaps not everyone thinks this way. No, perhaps there is one dirty M.I.T. nerd out there who would be so bold as to reek of B.O. while poring over his fucking Astronomical Geophysics From Mars Advanced Algorithms book during said 4-hour ride back to NY. And not only would this man - so bold - reek of B.O., but he would also have the goddamned worst breath ever breathed on the planet, and he would exhale through is mouth every time he turned a corner on an astronomical geophysics from Mars advanced algorithm. It would sound like this: "huuuuuuuuuuuffffffff" and smell like this: uuuuuuuuuugh.

And that said, when it seemed as if he could assault the olfactories no more, stinky M.I.T. genius gently ruffles a small red bag and produces a bagel. With peanut butter on it. The most goddamned potent peanut butter to ever exist. And now the peanut butter is mingling with the B.O. and the uuuuuuuuuuugh and there is no room to breathe. None.

And to cap it all off, dear friends? To cap it all off?

He slowly turns his head to the window after polishing off the putrid peanut butter bagel and lets out the slowest, squeakiest, motherfucking smelliest fart to ever emerge from a person's sphincter.

This is when I literally sat with my head in the aisle, my finger cradled under my nose, praying for Conneticut to speed by a little faster.