Until today, I had a very clear ranking in my bum stories (bums being homeless people who harass others, not homeless people in general). They were:

#1: Winter 2001-2. Lunch hour, walking along 25th St, returning to office. Homeless lady walks up to me, kicks me in the shin, tells me, "watch your white ass"

#2: Winter 2002-3. Waiting on bench on a crowded downtown NQRW platform at 34th St. Suddenly, I am hugged from behind and have to bellow and push to be released. Homeless man spends remainder of time following me up the platform as bystanders give me "if he touches you again, I'll help, but for now . . " looks; he explains that he thought I was Lucia, but I am prettier, though she is not as fat as I am. Nice. Even crazy guys who reek of pee have something to say about my ass. He does not follow me on the train, though, so it's over.

. . . OR WAS IT?

This morning, who should walk onto the Q train at Canal St. but Crazy Huggy Homeless Guy. And what should he do but once again fix on me? He stood beside me singing a song of his own devising. It went:

I love you barely
I'm hooked on your love

over and over again.

So my question: does encountering the Huggy Bum again elevate story #2 to first place?

Maybe the MTA should disable their feedback form until they pull their heads at least partway out of their asses. My use of their form:

Subject: Would you settle with the union already?

As a member of the fare-paying public, I would like to express my intense dissatisfaction with the MTA's shoddy, bad-faith negotiation tactics and the strike they have precipitated. Your insistence on a two-tiered benefit system is unreasonable, as you know quite well that its adoption could ultimately break the union and disenfranchise its workers entirely down the line; good for your perennially catastrophic and inaccurate budget--perhaps, in the short term--but bad for the subways and bad for the city. The union has made concessions, you can amply afford their offer (or certainly could if you troubled to, say, take the highest bid on your next auction of public land), and as one of your customers I want to make it very clear that I do not hold the union responsible for this outage. I hold you responsible. Kalikow--whose going out to dinner on the night the initial deadline loomed has to be the most calculatedly insulting act possible for a man who supposedly has the public interest at heart--needs to get back to the negotiation table and work this out. Now.

A long time ago, I got a voicemail from a woman named Naia who was looking for another woman (named Kimba) so that custody of a child could be transferred. Now, my voicemail greeting very clearly says "Adair". Not "Kimba." So it should be obvious to any caller at that stage that there is no Kimba to be found. That was problem one. Problem two was that even if I had wanted to call the angry-sounding woman back and tell her the mistake she'd made, I couldn't--her number was blocked from caller ID.

So I just ignored it.

Then, a while later, I got a follow-up voicemail. A voicemail of such surpassing brilliance that I saved it every three weeks for OVER A YEAR. It's not high quality, but I've finally managed to digitize it for you, my reading public:

If embed fails: The Glory of Naia

Good news! It appears that my sirenlike attraction for (not to) the unstable homeless of the city is undimmed. Saturday evening, I was traveling downtown on the 4-5 with one big bag and one small. Because I am a conscientious subway traveler, I placed the big bag on my lap and the smaller bag on top so that I did not take up more than one seat. My efforts to not be an asshole were rewarded when a particularly scented homeless gentleman came from the next car over and sat down next to me. Not the best my nose had ever been, but he had a right to be there; so far, no problem.

Then he started chattering and doing this weird leering thing. Whatever.

Then he turned on a diagonal and pushed his legs into me. I looked over to decide exactly how confrontational I could be about this, and he got his lighter out and started trying to light my bag on fire. Fortunately, his lighter was out of fluid, so no harm done.

The funny part is that I wasn't scared or angry. I was just annoyed, put out that I was being hassled. My thought was basically, "Great, now I have to give up my seat. Asshole."

It would appear that after Homeless Kicker, Huggy Bum, that guy who screamed he was going to make a coat of my skin, and, of course, the legions of subway onanists, I have become a shade less sensitive. Yay?

IT HAPPENED AGAIN.

Tonight, after I had dinner with friends who are at the tail end of a NYC visit, another of our friends wanted a photo of the group. So we asked a man who was waiting for his SO and lined up. It should be noted that this means there were five of us plus the man, plus his girlfriend who came out, plus other passersby, and that I was standing next to my friends' brother.

The man was about to press the shutter when a homeless woman walked up with a bag open to beg. Before we could even deny or give leftovers, she grabbed my stomach, twisted, and said "goochie."

THERE WERE FIVE OF US AND SHE PICKED ME.

I HAD SAID NOTHING, DONE NOTHING.

I WAS STANDING NEXT TO A GUY WHO WAS AT LEAST 5'10".

SOMEBODY WAS POINTING A GODDAMN CAMERA AT US AT THAT VERY MOMENT. (Alas, no photo was taken.)

It was funny at the time. Over dinner I'd been telling my friends about the various encounters I've had with less stable members of the NYC population, so the first words out of my mouth (after the natural reflex action of bending over and backing away) were, "A-FUCKING-GAIN!"

She kept moving and that was that. I don't think it was meant to be harmful. But
a. it actually hurt
b. I don't like strange people touching me
and
c. I'm tired of this shit.

I really don't know what it would take for me not to be accosted by homeless people at this point. Time of day, safety of locale, presence of other people, degree of bitchface I am wearing . . . none of these seem to have any effect. I have been kicked, hugged, sung to, propositioned, subjected to would-be arson, and now grabbed. (If we count the non-homeless population, I've also been screamed at and made an involuntary confidant of suicidal tendencies.) I can't figure out what the fuck it is about me that makes people--particularly those who are a heady combination of crazy and unclean--feel entitled to touch me, but I want it to stop. This disturbing yet tiresome crap is happening with greater frequency, and I'm beginning to consider it less a possibility than an eventuality that I will meet an insane person with the ability and desire to do me serious harm.

It's time for me to come into a giant pile of cash and become a hermit in Duluth. I will spend winter--otherwise known as nine months of the year--in the warm embrace of a cozy home and cable TV, emerging only to kayak in the summer. If I meet any angry hobos on my way to the lake, I will hit them with the kayak.

Until that heap of money comes in, I'm going to be brainstorming other bum-proofing strategies.

Scene: Park and 26th. I am about to cross south with a walk light. I am on the right and walking at a good, healthy city speed. As I am wont to do. A cyclist coming up the sidewalk behind me--which is totally fucking illegal; this dipshit is supposed to be on the street--almost hits me. The following exchange occurs:

Cyclist: I said "Woooo" and you walked anyway!
[Side note: "Woooo"? This is the new "on your right"? WOOO?]
Me: I walked because I have the light and this is a sidewalk.
Cyclist: I have the light too!
Me: [Walking away because he's wrong and I'm busy.]
Cyclist: [when I am across the street] Maybe if you weren't so overweight you could get out of the way! [bikes off]

End scene.

Had I been in closer proximity at the time of the insult, I might have sounded off. "If I weren't so overweight, you might have to find a more creative way to be a douchebag." Or, "If you weren't such a shit-for-brains, you might be able to fathom this crazy 'road' system they've come up with." Or I might have just been stunned and missed the opportunity to retort, as the rudeness was so unexpected, what with him being completely wrong and all. We shall never know.

So I guess the lessons are:

1. Laws don't apply to cyclists.
2. The size of my ass is everybody's business.
3. If said size does not meet general standards, I deserve to get hit by cyclists on the fucking sidewalk.

I had actually been having a pleasant day, despite the stress currently coming from every direction. I hate people.

Doesn't she just rule?

So I'll write the whole I've-moved-and-am-now-mostly-sane post at some point, sharing the wonders of my new neighborhood and glossing over the time spent on the edge of an anxiety attack. But for now, I've got some righteous indignation to write out.

When I first started working, I was in a building on Park and 26th. To my delight, my coworkers introduced me to Lamazou, an amazing cheese shop on 3rd Ave by 27th. Thus was born a beautiful lunchtime friendship that has endured for over five and a half years, despite my no longer working in quite the same neighborhood, despite the weather, despite my periodic abandonment of other lunch regulars due to boredom.

To illustrate the degree of my devotion to this place:

-- Aziz, the charming proprietor, has met every member of my immediate family except my brother, who does not live close and seldom ventures into the city. Plus almost all of my friends.
-- I have a song I sing in my head when I go. It's to the tune of "Bus Stop":

Cheese shop, nice day [or wet day, depends on the weather], Aziz's there, I say
"Please, one-half Milaaaaano"
Turkey, lettuce, vinaigrette, s'lami
And that provoloooone

No other sandwich makes my stomach quite so glad
Sometimes I'm shocked
To know just how much I care
The ciabatta's soft and crunchy, the ingredients are fresh
Oh no other lunch is ever so delish

You get the idea. It's an awesome place, with awesome food, and--I cannot overstate this--awesome people. Not just Aziz, but his wife, Nancy, their daughters, and the guys they have working in the shop--two for the whole time I've been there, another for just the last couple of years. They are all incredibly friendly, learn your face, what you like, and greet you with a smile. If you're a regular, Aziz will occasionally throw some free soup in your bag (free AWESOME soup), or if you forget your wallet one day, will simply insist that you pay him the next time rather than either leave your purchase or call with a credit card upon returning to your desk.

In a city of Duane Reade pharmacists who can't get a precription right, taxi drivers who will kick you out for going to Brooklyn, and department store clerks who view customers as a problem, this shop is an oasis of warmth, light, great cheese, and all that is right with the world.

So you can imagine my outrage today when, while paying for my oh so delectable sandwich, I espied a construction crew outside prepping to pour concrete over the walk, effectively trapping everyone in the shop inside. One of the counter guys, a particularly friendly young man, went outside to intervene, asking them to wait two minutes so that he could finish ringing everyone up. After some bitching, the man he was speaking with agreed. Fifteen seconds later, the sons of bitches started pouring the concrete anyway.

Naturally, the Lamazou employee was upset by this. He opened the door, and--in a voice loud enough to be heard over the equipment, but not so loud as to be abusive--asked what they were doing, and said they only had to wait two minutes.

A different guy on the crew starts arguing with him, saying, "Am I yelling at you? DON'T YELL AT ME!"

First off:
1. Yes, you were yelling at him.
2. He wasn't yelling at you, unless talking in a foreign accent automatically constitutes yelling.

Construction guy proceeds to yell at Lamazou guy some more, even though he's the one who fucked up, and he only did it to be an asshole, and we all know it. Instead of saying, "Look, I'm sorry, we had to, but it'll be ready and the ramp will be back in two minutes", he kept arguing.

Then he crossed the goddamn line.

He said to the Lamazou guy--who did not yell, did not swear, and was, after all, looking after his customers:

"Go inside, slice some salami, have fun."

I can't do justice to how rude the tone was, on top of how rude the content was. I only wish I'd thought to get the contact info off of the truck so I could tell his boss what a shit-for-brains he was. Instead, I must settle for this:

Dear Asshole,

You arrogant, offensive son of a whore, who even I can tell is doing a shitty job on that sidewalk, you are lucky I did not leap over the wet concrete to seize your equipment and beat you about the head with it. You were in the presence of one of the best things in this city, a place where everyone does good work that makes people happy, and you denigrated the work and the people who do it. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

And the horse you rode in on.

Get fucked,

Adair

So yesterday, my sister Alanna ran in the NYC Marathon for the second time; it was her fourth marathon overall, and we are immensely proud of her.

My mom and aunt came in to stay with me Saturday night so that we could spend Sunday hopping about and trying to catch sight of her as she ran. This meant that after the celebratory dinner back in Alanna's neighborhood, we returned to my place to gather their bags, then turned around to get to Penn Station.

A bit of dialogue from the ride out to my place, wherein my mom seeks out a way to keep me from having to make the round trip:

Mom: Is there a train you can put us on that will take us right to Grand Central?
Me: Since you're not going to Grand Central, no.
Aunt Madeline: Oh, God! Please don't leave us alone!

If you saw my On Notice Board, you know that walking on the right is very important to me. There're a lot of pedestrians in this city, dammit, and it's only gonna work if we all adopt some basic guidelines:

1. Walk on the right
2. Pull over if you have to stop (don't just stop dead)
3. Walk at whatever speed you want, but make sure you leave a lane so I can pass you in your zombie stagger.
4. No spitting! I don't care why you think you need to! NO SPITTING!

As you can imagine, my fervent belief in these rudiments of urban civilization leads to a great deal of frustration as I walk along 23rd St. each workday. And as you may have noticed, I have what some might call a stubborn streak.

Each morning, these combine in what I call the Enforcement Challenge.

It's fairly simple: I walk the one avenue block from 6th to 5th, beginning as far to the right as possible. I then count how many times I come face-to-face with an offending left-walking dirtbag, and how many times I succeed in making said dirtbag cede the sidewalk to me and move. over. already. (Naturally, other right walkers, the disabled, or people entering/exiting buildings do not enter into this equation.)

On a good day, I'll go 2 for 3. Maybe 3 for 3. But today! Today I was challenged as never before--5 direct confrontations!

AND I WON ALL FIVE.

Mars, b!%&hes!

I forgot the fifth rule!

5. Smokers-only rule. Note: this isn't about actual cigarette smoke. It's outside and I don't care. My issue is this: That thing in your hand? IS A STICK ON FIRE. Could you not swing it around as you walk along, completely oblivious of the crush of people around you? Christ on a crutch.

Late last night as I headed home on the F train, I espied this gentleman:

The best part was that he was reading a book called The Greatness Guide at the time. While I can't claim to have read that volume, I have to believe that it contains no directive to be completely fucking disgusting on mass transit. But it's just possible that it fails to tell its readers not to do so. So please, readers of this undoubtedly fine work, consider this a supplemental chapter:

Thank you.

Not a lot of time for discursive entries as finals make their demands. So, in quick digest format:

What I Have Learned This Week:

1. The word "faggot" is still a sufficiently incendiary insult that it can instantly escalate a simple snowball fight into an actual punching-people-on-the-subway fight. (This one was quickly broken up, fortunately.)
1a. Recent events notwithstanding, the conductor on whose train this occurs will be more concerned about the door being blocked than about the two teenagers battering one another.

2. Nothing in one's dress, appearance, or conduct can help one escape being called "a hot little number" if the other party is sufficiently drunk and inexplicably fixated. Eugheugheughgghghghgh.

3. There is no relief in completing one exam when two more are in the barrel.

I had this whole thing I wanted to write relating my horror at this New York lottery commercial with a case we read in Con Law where the court was so offended at the mere notion of gambling and lotteries that it could not shut up. Instead, I will apply a principle from Torts: res ipsa loquitur. (The thing speaks for itself.)

New York Lottery's latest ad:

Now that it has spoken for itself, I would like to reply, "FUCK YOU VERY MUCH." I can't even decide to whom it is most offensive, but really, there are no winners here.

Dear Jerk,

I'm sure you spend a lot of your life being called "entitled", and because you are an idiot, you probably think that means you are actually endowed with more rights and privileges than others. Allow me to clear this up for you: people are using that word to avoid calling you an asshole. That, however, is exactly what you are.

Having thus provided you with needed information, I now feel entitled to ask you a question:

Did you really think that when I saw you, on a reasonably crowded F train, taking up a whole three-seat bench--with your spread-out legs, perpendicular elbows, and bag of crap--I wouldn't do something about it?

There were other seats. There were even other people violating the common laws of the subway--pole huggers, door blockers, etc. But your conduct was so appalling I knew I could not look away, could not possibly approve of myself if I did not do all in my power to put a stop to it.

This is why I deliberately sat on the nice end seat by the door, giving an insincere "excuse me" as I forced you to move over and take up a mere two seats. It is also why I made eye contact with the next person who got on the train, gave a head tilt, and got her to sit on the other side of you.

You are an asshole, and I will combat your socially unconscionable conduct wherever I encounter it.

I hate you.

And tonight, I defeated you.

Next time, act right.

Adair

Yesterday morning, before we had managed to travel a full stop, our subway train stopped with an announcement that somebody was injured on the tracks. The power was shut down (auxiliary lights came on) and we sat still for 27 minutes. It wasn't that bad, just strange; even when trains are stopped, there's usually a hum of speakers and paused engines. It's rarely that truly quiet.

The conductor herded us up the length of the train to a car that was in the station and we were then free either to wait for the situation to be resolved (if, you know, you had a spare few hours) or to exit the station and make our way as best we could. This led to my favorite snippet of dialogue from the day:

Cop to querulous member of public: Do you have to wait for the train? No, you can do something else.

Dear Sir,

You may not intend any harm, but repeatedly staggering up and down the same cosmetics aisle with dead eyes and a slack jaw is, well, creepy. Especially with that tube of hemorrhoid cream in your hand. Please go away.

Best,

Adair

In this "I'm not a feminist, I'm an equalist" era, I know what I'm about to say will make me sound shrewish and vile and--nightmare of nightmares!--not "sex-positive", but I have to say it anyway:

Could we please stop pretending prostitution is glamorous? Or that a woman who becomes a prostitute is "making it"? (Yes, ha ha, I get the pun.)

Even if we were magically transported to a patriarchy- and misogyny-free land where sex work was just like any other kind of work, it would top out at just that: work. Drudgery. As it is, the prostitution industry is linked with a lot of violence, exploitation, addiction, human trafficking, and pretty much every other shittastic idea the human race has ever thought up, including the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Reasonable people can disagree about whether the solution is to "écrasez l'infame!" or to fight for the dignity of sex work--to try to make it so that the high-priced call girl with full agency and excellent medical care is not the Sasquatch-rare exception but the rule. But in neither case should pin-up glamorization play a part.

My hatred, it bubbles over**. And this clinches it: I am never subscribing to Showtime.

** Except at whichever of my neighbors did this to the poster in my subway station. To that person, shiny unicorn rainbows forever!