Discarded Mattresses

This time of month, i.e. the 31st (or 30th, or even 28th or 29th if it's February and/or a leap year), one might encounter many mattresses on the sidewalk. I'm a nervous type. I try to avoid the mattresses, in case they have bedbugs. Some of my friends occasionally think it's funny to hump on the mattresses, for kicks. I stay away. At least four feet, which seems to have been emblazoned in my mind as the maximum jumping limit for lice. That's right, lice, not bedbugs; apparently in my mind the limit applies to all parasitic bugs. Whatever. Anyway. People are moving. There are people that are leaving New York, and there are boyfriends and girlfriends that are moving in together, and who needs two mattresses? I think the latter is the more likely reason for these poor, abandoned mattresses that get humped on by random passing drunkards. There's a lot of that going on in this city; the moving in together. The premature moving in together. The death sentence for a young, fun, blossoming relationship. Did I type that out loud?

I Ran Out of Ketchup

I just finished off a "family size" bottle of Nature's Best Organic Tomato Ketchup. Ketchup is one of those refrigerated condiment staples that you (I) never think you'll (I'll) run out of, least of all the family size for god's sake, when you're the only one using it, and mostly just for scrambled eggs, and not even that much on them. Lord knows when I even picked this bottle up, though, which probably means that it's time was [over]due. But did it have to come at the beginning of fake hot dog season?

Fucking Jesus, and a banking douchebag

As I was waiting to cross Canal Street to go to the bank, an older fellow walked by in front of me and the few others who were also waiting to cross. He seemed calm enough, but as he passed in front of us he said quite clearly, "Fucking Jesus". He sort of stated it rather than exclaiming or groaning it. As if to remark on the act of fucking Jesus, not on the fact that referring to Jesus requires such a strongly negative expletive in front of it. The man beside me was obviously shocked, and I couldn't help but giggle like a little girl in church.

I stood, bored, in the bank line, waiting for one of the two tellers to free up so I could make the deposit and shuffle back to the office. In walked douchebag cell phone guy. He was talking loudly when he came in, and asked his partner in cell phone douchebaggery to speak to the bank manager about some deposit issue. As he spoke, he was motioning to a man in a suit standing behind one of the tellers. The man finally came over to a window near the douchebag, who immediately launched into a confusing and annoying tale of his inability to make a deposit. The man in the suit replied, "I'm in training." HA! HAHAHA!! Stupid douchebag man! That'll teach you to be a rude asshole. Was everyone around here raised in a barn??

Poetry v. Music

I've always said I hate poetry. Aside from Richard Brautigan, but he's in a category of his own as far as I'm concerned. Maybe it was the Spoon River Anthology in high school that bred this scorn in me. But the thing is, lyrics are essentially poetry. And I'm very forgiving of lyrics when good music is there to back it up. There are song writers and poets who would argue that the two are unrelated as far as the creative process goes, but I say, screw them. Poetry is lyrical, and lyrics are poetic. Song lyrics happen to be set to music, but they weave the same types of tales as poems. Tales of love and woe and happiness and life in general; composed with rhyme and without, with metaphor and without, but always with a rhythm and harmony. There are songs that I love that, if read or heard as a poem, I would scoff at. And there are likely poems that I would love if set to a tune I enjoy. To be quite honest, I'm appalled at some of the music I'll listen to in spite of ridiculous lyrics. I suppose I take them as a part of the music; the voice as an instrument whose sounds are random words that don't quite register beyond being a part of the greater harmony of the song. Is that forgivable? Jury's still out.

Voyeuristic Tendencies

Eight hours of my Sunday were spent traveling. Tampa Airport to Newark Airport, airtrain to NJ transit station, NJ transit station to New York Penn Station, A train from Penn Station to West 4th, F train from West 4th to Delancey. Ahhh, Delancey. Anyway, it's West 4th that I'm concerned with at this particular moment. It's the only subway station I've been in that has cameras trained on the tracks and the people at the edge. Why West 4th? Why not, I guess. At 10 on a Sunday night, waiting sort of impatiently for the F, they certainly provided some entertaining visual stimulus. People get so anxious and fidgety waiting for the train. It's hilarious to watch them! Especially when they don't realize they're being watched. But hey, the cameras are hardly hidden so no guilt here.

My favorite was a man standing about twenty feet away from me. He had on a baseball hat that either had the intertwined letters "LA" or "UK"; I really couldn't distinguish and he really didn't look like either an LA or UK type guy. He was a normal/geeky looking man, wearing a white t-shirt and khakis. He REALLY wanted that train to come. There were a bajillion people craning their necks every five seconds to see if it was coming yet, but UK/LA guy seemed to be the only one talking to himself about it. It reminded me of an episode of Seinfeld where Elaine is stuck on a subway en route to a wedding. You see the anguish in her face as her voice over speaks her pissed off thoughts. That's what this guy was doing. And he just kept doing it; I couldn't really make out the words he was mouthing, but imagine the dialogue went something like this: "Fucking bullshit. Where the fuck is this fucking goddamn train. Shit! Where the fuck is it?!? How long have we been here???? It's been two HOURS!! Goddammit! Fuckkkk!"

He walked out of the shot, and then got on the D train when it arrived before the F. I was thinking about posting in Missed Connections to find him. Angry Subway Guy.

How Do You Spell Moist? T A M P A

As soon as I walked out of the terminal, it felt like I was stepping into a swamp. That's what Florida is, really, a swamp, but I didn't quite expect to be slapped in the face with Tampa's sweaty palm. At 8:30 pm, when it should be breezy and delightful out, it was miserably muggy. I haven't been here in the spring or summer since I moved to New York in 2004. January in Florida is gorgeous. May is...wet. Not refreshingly, rainy wet. More like moist wet. Like, you walk out and are instantly moist all over, in an unpleasant way.

I do admit, though, that there are things I miss about living here. I miss having a car. I would never want to have one in New York, but I miss driving it around in Tampa. It's like your own private, traveling karaoke room. My car was the only place I could really belt out the tunes, and doing that makes me really feel the song, like the way it's meant to be felt. I've been listening to Arcade Fire and TV on the Radio. Playing them in the car and singing along, it's almost like they're completely new! I also miss being close to water. Rather, CLEAN water. Beautiful, clean water that the sun shines on and nearly blinds you as you drive over the low bridge.

Today when I was walking on Central Ave in downtown St. Pete, I saw an old woman riding side saddle on her scooter. She was carrying a fan on it, so she had to hold her legs to the side. It was amusing to watch. Downtown is pretty quiet. Not dead quiet, just quiet quiet. It's not like the financial district type of downtown, it's like shopping, dining, strolling downtown. But there wasn't a whole lot of that going on.

Babbling Brook

The season of some blossoming tree seems to have come to an abrupt end; when I was standing outside a second hand store on Delancey this afternoon, thumbing through their used books (I got a bedazzled dress there), I heard a sound that made me half expect to find a little stream or waterfall behind me when I turned to look for the source. But it was millions of dried petals brushing against each other and the sidewalk.

In other news, and on a completely unrelated note, May is a month of national celebrations! Not only is it Bike Month (go bikers!), but it's also Masturbation Month! I would be remiss if I let a May go by without sharing the good news, and you'd be foolish to think I might forget (though the last couple of years have been near misses!). So if the fun of it wasn't reason enough, now you have an official endorsement.

Welcome to Your Day!

I haven't met Tank Top Tom's replacement in apartment 1, but I did notice the "Welcome" mat when my new neighbor moved in a couple of months ago. What I didn't notice until this morning, though, was the orientation of said mat, which I'm certain I would have noticed had it been oriented in such a manner before, as that's just the kind of thing I tend to pick up on. See, the mat is facing toward the apartment door, rather than away. Instead of welcoming guests, it welcomes whoever emerges from the apartment. Welcome to the world! What a great way to start the day. Like being born every day; emerging to a welcoming audience, or at least a welcoming apartment building. All I have at my door is a super faded welcome mat that I got at the Gemstore three years ago. It used to have a Mallard duck on it. But now that the Gemstore closed down, I can't part with it.