Lesson #4,576: Find Your Own Crazy

The other night at a party, people were re-counting their drunken and sometimes, even sober (ha! who is ever sober anymore?) escapades through Manhattan.

Of course, these tales included the anecdotes from late night/early morning walks to the subway station and subway rides, which are inevitably (at that hour) filled with people who are the crazies. The loonies. The well-meaning, but slightly deranged. The chaps who are coo-coo for cocoa puffs.

At this point in our party's conversation, a question was raised: How do you get the crazies to ignore you? (Because nothing can kill a buzz faster than a homeless man sliding next to you, singing "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" (with a lisp), and then asking for money. And folks, that's a true story.)

"Well," one party-goer raised his glass and shrugged. "Just act crazy."

Our heads snapped to him in question.

He explained that when he finds himself alone in the city late at night, he takes on his crazy persona. "I zip up my hoodie," he explained. "shove my hands deep into my pockets, stare at the ground, and do this." He then proceeded to almost gallop around the room (with a quite purposeful stride), shake his head wildly from side to side, and incoherently mutter some type of argument that he and the voices inside his head were having.

It was quite an effect.

"You see?" He stopped and grinned at us. "When people see me doing this, they figure I'm crazy too! So not only do the crazies leave me alone, but normally I get a whole section of seats to myself on the subway." Fair enough.

So dear readers, I leave you with these two gems of advice:

First, refine your crazy talent. That way, the next time you find yourself in a precarious situation, you will be able to dig deep into your soul and bring out your own crazy (you know you have it) to ward off potential predators.

And second, when you next see a crazy, a looney, a gleefully odd person, do not be alarmed. Sit next to him, perhaps even extend a hand and make a friend. Sure, he might be insane. Yes, he may try to serenade you with a Frank Sinatra song. But chances are he's harmless, he's your average joe, and he's just trying to make it through the night.

Just like you.

Look Ma, no hands!

Goodness, I've left you all hungry for public transportation tales, haven't I! (At least, in my fabulously delirious world, you were....ahem). The week long absence is partially because I left the world of public transportation for a while, and had the delight of riding in a car for a few days. Yes, a car!

But alas, we must all return to our true selves. And for me, that means the Path, the subway, and the like. Of course, with routine, one falls into auto-pilot. During this past exhausting week, I especially felt like a zombie (or a really drugged out rocker).

Wake up. Get dressed. Walk to Path. Wait with crowd. Inch to front of crowd. Lean back as Path arrives. Walk into car. Nudge teetering high-heeled girl out of the way to get a seat. Sit. Fall asleep. Wake up at stop. Walk to subway. Wait with crowd.

And so it goes.

It takes very little to knock me from my routine. Even when the girl sitting four people down from me has her iPod on SO LOUD that I can hear it, even that doesn't annoy me. Really. It doesn't.

But today, something did knock me, did make me look up from my book, and focus on the scene before me. The reason?

Take Your Kid to Work Day.

In case you didn't know (or just have a general hatred/fear of small children, as many understandably do), today was the day when parents could take their wee ones to work. To show them real life. To explain what they will be doing in 10 years. To quietly whisper, "Stay in school for as long as you can, so you never have to enter this world."

As it was TYKTWD, children were on the Path. And in one in particular caught my eye. A cute kid, a boy, dressed in a striped blue and grey shirt, with a knapsack (labeled with his father's work logo) slung over his back. He stood with his dad in the center of the Path, holding onto a pole, his eyes large as he took in us weary travelers. The boy focused on all of us for a bit, and then, turned his attention to balancing.

As the train flew forward, he slowly let go of the pole with one hand. Then the other. He spread his hands out at his side, palms down, and braced his feet like a surfer. The boy stared at the ground, his brow furrowed. The train swerved this way and that, so he leaned this way and that. A few times, he lost his balance and stumbled, but quickly re-gained. Once he got the groove for about 15 solid seconds, he looked up with wide eyes.

And grinned right at me.

It was the glee he had, this child. He took the daily routine that we all blindly stumble through, and he found the magic in it. The thing that we all (decades ago) would have also found. And even though moments after he grinned at me, the train turned and subsequently threw him into the pole (eh, don't worry, he bounced back), for about ten seconds, he found pure joy in the mundane.

And, not to get sappy, but couldn't we all use a little more pure joy? A little nugget of glee (and no, I don't mean as in Sue Sylvester....though I would take a little Matthew Morrison) to carry with us for the day?

So do yourself a favor. Go out there and let go of the pole. Even if it's for five seconds.

Balance with no hands.

Need. Food. Now.

When it's 10:30pm, you're headed home on the Path, you haven't eaten since lunch (and thus, are STARVING), who do you always end up sitting next to?

A guy eating a very delicious, juicy, meaty sandwich.

I think I salivated the entire way home.

Food now, more blogging later.

Men, be aware of your shoes. We are judging them.

I know, I know. I'm supposed to spin my fabulous tale of the complimentary oxygen mask - but my Path ride home today was just too good to pass up.

I managed to get a seat (score!) coming home this evening - and even, lucky me, there was an empty seat next to me. Two stops in, a slender, bookish man and a taller, broader business man get on. Bookish sits next to me, Broader across the train. I looked up from my Kindle.

"Oh, do you two want to sit together?"

Bookish shakes his head loosely, and opens his mouth to speak. I can already smell the alcohol. "Thankss, but no." He smiles, pushing up glasses haphazardly. Bookish was in that wonderful early drunk phase, where one doesn't yet realize that when they speak, it sounds as if they are talking through a mouthful of cotton.

I smiled back, then return to my Kindle. A moment passes. Bookish nudges me on the shoulder, a faint lisp appears in his words. "That was sweet of you." Pause. "To offer." Pause. He leans in to me, flicking a wrist towards Broader. "That's my brother. We're just finishing up an argument, but we're fine now."

Broader shakes his head. "Way to tell her too much!" He's tipsy, but not a lightweight like his brother.

I blush for a moment, wondering if indeed they are brothers or actually lovers, and just playing with me. Broader has on wedding ring, I notice. And Bookish does not. Brothers, I decide.

I nod, smile, and go back to my book.

Bookish sighs. "Larry, where are getting off?"

"Third stop."

"Oh." Pause. "Do we have to switch trains?"

"Nope. Look at the map." Broader points upwards.

"Oh, oh, ohhh, I see!" Bookish's voice escalates a bit higher, landing in my own register. "I see....Larry, so we don't have switch trains?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

I should comment that this conversation was not annoying, as one would think, especially since they were talking loudly on a mostly silent (and packed) car. But it was also hardly entertaining. For the moment.

Bookish snorts. "Larry, where'd you get those shoes?"

"Come on." It's clear that Bookish is the fashionista of the family and has commented on this issue before.

"Yess. Those." Bookish's mouth is getting fuller of cotton every moment.

"Linda gave them to me."

"Hm. Linda. I don't care, even if she's a women. Tell Linda I don't approve." Bookish sniffs, then looks at me. "What do you think?"

I look. Black, with a little buckle. Eh, they're fine. "Eh, they're fine," I say.

Broader leans across the way and pumps my hand. "Thank you!"

"Just fine," I add.

"Thankss!!" Bookish exclaims. I smile. He takes this as a sign. "Now, I mean, what is up with men's shoes?" His mouth is basically all cotton now. "Men! Shoes! I mean, Larry, how old are those shoes."

"Four years."

"Pffft! Four years. See, see?" Bookish leans in to me. "Men. They just don't get shoes. The fashion goes out."

I cock my head. "Sometimes fashion comes back."

"Not those kind!!" Bookish pauses, looks at the man next to Broader. "Look at his!" The man politely puts his gym bag in front of his feet. Bookish moves on; he's on a roll. "See that man down there?" he stage whispers to me. The entire train is now fully aware of our conversation. They're trying to hide it, but amused glances bounce our way. "Why is he wearing those? No, no, no. Oh, but those are great. Mmhmm."

The conversation continues. Bookish critiques all of the shoes of the men riding the train. We commiserate how poor their choices are, and discuss the evolution of men's shoes' fashion. He points out that men always put comfort first. I point out that women rarely do. We decide that he should teach a course for men on how to pick shoes. Then we decide that really, if men have already gotten a girlfriend or partner and work in any area other than fashion, they're just fine in comfortable, unfashionable shoes. We triumphantly deliver our verdict to Broader.

He sighs with a smile. "Thanks."

Pause.

"Larry, is this our stop?"

"Yup."

Bookish rises and leans down to me. "Have a good night, hon."

He walks away. I realize that he is wearing flip-flops.

Somedays, I just wish I had a car. (Or a lot of money.)

Oh my dear readers, I've been absent the past few days (.....if there is anyone crazy enough out there to keep reading this blog, that is. I could just be writing for the voices in my head.)

Regardless, I have spent the past 24 hours flying to and from Pgh International Airport, yet again. And do I have a fabulous story (or two!) to tell all of you.

But that will have until tomorrow, when my brain is working a little better.

For now I will just say that there are moments - like this evening, when I got off the plane at LGA, totally fatigued, and had to schelp my way into the city to take the Path back to Jersey - when I desperately wish that I had a car. Or a lot of money to have a driver. How easy life could then be!

Alas, our struggles make us stronger.

Time for bed now. A teaser from tomorrow's story? Oxygen masks are complimentary.

An Old-Fashioned Tale of Chivalry

Once upon a time, in a kingdom that was settled on an island, a silver and blue chariot prepared itself to sweep its countrymen away from the island and to the faraway land of Jersey.

Menfolk and womenfolk boarded the chariot, tired from a day's work in the field. A handsome young gent happened to sit across from me. The chariot filled with people, all carrying their bushels, until no seats were left. Right before the chariot's conductor announced in a sublimely royal (and nasal) voice, "Doors are closing. Watch out," a young lass rushed on board.

She eyed the gent and let out a burst of glee, for you see, the lass had recently met the gent on a night out on the kingdom with fellow townsfolk. He spotted her and smiled graciously, then swiftly jumped to his seat, and out stretched his arm for her to sit down.

She do did, and the they talked and blushed the whole chariot ride home.

And so, another happily ever after ending find its beginning.

Find your own urban fairy!

May I start off by giving a big hello to our dear friend, Summer. She has arrived a bit early (and catching us completely off guard, as those early guests normally do), but she came with a gorgeous present of splashy sunshine, blue skies, and general happiness (and so, we forgive her).

Yesterday morning, dressed in an obligatory insanely bright sundress to celebrate Summer's arrival, I pranced through the Herald Square subway stop. The station was quiet for the morning rush - probably because everyone was already suffering from the thick, muggy air that was creeping its way into the belly of the station. But nevermind that! Summer was here, and New Yorkers were in full-on celebration mode.

Flowery skirts, halters, tube tops, flip-flops, short shorts (okay...no one should really ever wear those) - and all on April 7th! Madness, everyone is saying! Madness!

(....have we all never heard of global warming? Is Al Gore not sitting in a lawn chair somewhere, pina colada in hand, sunning himself, and humming to the tune of I told you so?)

But yes, even I jumped fully onto the welcome wagon for Summer. And as I shuffled along the quiet, pale-skinned riders (we all could use some perking up from the sun, that's for sure), the most beautiful sound tickled my ears.

A sweet chime, twinkling with hope and pinging with a zing of excitement, echoed around the dirt-encrusted subway pillars. I turned to see the installation musical art, Reach: An Urban Musical Instrument (an instrument that plays various tones when your hand is placed in front of it). It was erected in the 34th Street Subway Station in 1996 (for more info, click here), and thus, I've seen it for years.

But never until yesterday had I really paid attention to it. But yesterday, as we all floated around in our summer clothes, trying to soak up the warmth of the day, Reach sounded like little fairies, giving me a sense of other wordly-ness. (Yes, I know. What fairies would be found in New York in a dirty, cramped subway station? And why the hell am I talking about fairies? But go with me on this.)

It was unexpected, this urban fairy sound. It pinged out of nowhere with a flash, touching a smile to my face. And as I drifted past Reach, and got onto my subway car, that feeling stayed with me, my secret weapon for the rest of the day.

We all need one. A secret weapon to get us through the hot city, the sweating, the panting, the desperation that sneaks out as we try to keep up with life. And if the sound of little urban fairies is what gets me through, I'm not going to question it.

So go forth, dear reader! Find your own urban fairy and use it well. Use it well.