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September 14, 2006

903: All the things you love. All the things that you loathe.

It's a rainy day in NYC, which means that every fool in Manhattan is toting an oversized golf umbrella, meandering down the middle of the sidewalk and making life hellish for anyone in the surrounding area -- bashing into other people's umbrellas, taking up too much sidewalk, poking out eyes, etc.

Men are more often than women guilty of golf umbrella offenses, perhaps because women often shop for umbrellas and therefore end up with umbrellas of a more reasonable size whereas men will use whatever umbrella happens to enter their lives. You'll notice, of course, that the offending golf umbrellas are normally freebies -- something given out by a corporation as part of an event or simply for promotional purposes. Men receive massive umbrellas from, say, Citibank and use it because, hell, it was free and they're not considerate or reasonable enough to think, "This is an insane umbrella. I would be a jerk to even think about using it." And then they do just that!

So, the sidewalks were filled with these morons this AM as I headed to the subway. Once inside the train, I knew the next inconsiderate, insensitive crap from my fellow work-goers would be the drippy umbrella -- when a person so distracted by their freebie rag that he or she doesn't realize that his/her umbrella is dampening your belongings, your clothes, and your body. I managed to get a seat which was a blessing and a curse; I'd get to sit rather than stand, but I'd be more likely to get dripped on by such umbrellas.

Resigning myself to this fate, I let my mind drift back to an article about the Son of Sam I'd been reading before I left the apartment. I was wondering if the Jewish serial killer (now an imprisoned Jesusfreak) had been baptized when someone stood in front of me with a magazine.

I noticed that he placed his reasonably-sized umbrella between his calves to keep it from bashing into anyone or dripping onto any innocent bystanders. With one hand, he held onto the bar above our heads to steady himself, and with the other, he held a magazine. From under the cuff of his dress shirt I saw some tattooed script. A moment later, I saw that it said, "Sing Your Life."

Did I stare? I must have, because he glanced over the top of his magazine at one point. Without a thought, I lifted up my iPod to show him what I was listening to -- which, of course, happened to be The Smiths.

Somewhere in the city, some other kid is thinking about how, on an otherwise crappy day, in a city full of jerks and fools, he saw one of his own -- me.

Posted by ashley at September 14, 2006 10:19 AM

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