Audio! (Apologies on the sound. I left my fan on like a pussy.)
This is a mushy mush of three different subway inspired rants. Enjoy.
I have a great disdain for yarmulkes. Again, AGAIN I must express that I am not anti-semitic. But just imagine seeing someone very attractive walking down the street then they unzip their hoodie to reveal a shirt that says “I will never fuck you. In fact, you may as well consider myself a eunuch, because you have no chance.” It’s kind of buzz kill. It’s even worse than a wedding ring. They aren’t entirely and completely off limits if your morals will allow. And with our divorce rate you don’t even have to settle with being the secret floozy. Just wait. A wedding ring says, “You have at least a fifty percent chance of fucking me in the future.” But no. A yarmulke says, “I’m not just Jewish by heritage. I don’t just have cute dark hair and a come hither nose. No. I don’t eat fucking shrimp. I make a whole holiday dinner about eating with my invisible friend. And I don’t. Date. Outside my religion.” Fuck you jews.
But no. Other than hating jews on the subway I often find myself looking at what everyone’s wearing. Sometimes I wonder where I get off criticizing people’s fashion, in my head… I’m not a total dick, when I’m such an avid t-shirt and jeans girl myself. It seems a little hypocritical. But then I remind myself that just because you have they eye, doesn’t mean you have the body, wallet and time. Okay, take it back. I must be a dick, that was certainly a dick thing to say… I’m alright with hat I think. Regardless of guilt or snobbery, if you’re entering the summer wearing a brown dress with a brown jacket with a brow bag, brown fucking shoes and to top it all off the mousey brown hair of your sadly misguided genetics? Then your wallet, body and time have gone to waste, girly. There was one stripe of turquoise running down the line of the dress like a lost string of taffy being stretched through Wonka’s frothy chocolate river. But that’s only a reprieve on the dress designer part and not the uninspired automaton who is running under the, mistaken, impression that she can dress herself in the morning.
In defense of this catty diatribe, I really only give such thought to those who are trying. There’s a language in fashion and so often the only words it knows how to speak in human is, “I think I’m better than you.” Followed closely by, “I cost way to fucking much.” I’m not going to mentally berate the middle aged woman in her stretch waist jean capris and oversized Tweety bird t-shirt. She’s doing her thing and that’s fine with me. I merely match condescension with condescension.
While we’re on the subject. Men. If you ever find yourself in the position of being successful and requiring a suit of some kind remember this. On par with ol’ Augustus Gloop over here is the high powered business men/lawyer/executive/insert corporate title here who looks like he’s playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. Tailors. Please!
Fashion criticism aside, a ride on the train generally has no shortage of life lessons. A few seats away from me there’s a man, demonstrating the importance of life’s little pleasures. He’s jovially munches on his breakfast. The look on his face is as if that small brown paper sack holds his dearest treasures. And each time his hand dips within it and pulls out a luscious chunk of blueberry bagel slathered in cream cheese! It’s a triumph! A triumph that is deposited into his grinning maw and chewed ever so gingerly. I would hazard a guess that half the people on this train have not experienced such jubilance in weeks as this man enjoys as part of his daily morning ritual. He then retrieves from his crinkled depths a plastic cup of frothy orange. He sucks it down like a wanderer through the desert coming upon a juicy oasis. Just like that the meal is finished. The bag is empty, but the memories remain with him as he settles back into his seat with a contented sigh. Is this the happiest moment of his day or does he attack all activities in his life with such fervor? I might be forced to guess the former because the man’s face has now fallen into line with the other work week drones. Must’ve been a good fucking bagel.
