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Alcatraz in New York

13 Feb

Give us your tired, your hungry, your poor, and your prisoners.

New York City prepares you for everything.  Seeing people intentionally slam into each other?  Seen it.  Bathrooms so gross you would rather die than touch the doorknob?  Seen it.  Guy in a blue taffeta dress walking down 42nd Street?  Saw it last weekend.  Yes, New York takes the shock factor out of almost everything, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that nobody acknowledged a prisoner walking down Madison Avenue during rush hour a few days ago.

But it did.

Under typical circumstances, I might understand how people would overlook him, seeing as how it was rush hour.  But, this wasn’t typical.  It wasn’t a hunch; it wasn’t racial profiling; and, it certainly wasn’t a Colombo-style act I can take credit for.  No, right there on the sidewalk was a man in a bright orange jumpsuit with a black number plastered on his chest, holding a black garbage bag I can only assume was filled with his “personal items.”

Really, New York?  You scare me more than felons.

They day we start overlooking America’s Most Wanted is truly the day I question ourselves as a people.  A people so focused on staring at the sidewalk while walking that they don’t bother to see that the man who just brushed their shoulder is wearing a jumpsuit that practically glows in the dark and screams, “Freeze, and put your hands where I can see them!”  Perhaps we’re just liberal.  Or, perhaps, New Yorkers really have seen it all.

Hand Washing 101

3 Jun

Perhaps if learning how to wash ones hands became an admissions requirement, NYU could feel confident in the sanitary nature of its students.

NYU is a highly selective school, which makes me think that only relatively smart students make it through the door.  Well, smart students and legacies.  Regardless of how a particular student made it into the “yes” pile, I’m sure the university feels pretty confident that he or she can succeed in the classroom and later in the workforce.  Students prove that they can survive philosophical theories, theatrical critiques, and hundred page theses, but the one thing that seemingly holds them up is washing their hands.

Yes, according to the recent hanging of “Hand Washing 101” posters throughout the NYU library, the nation’s eighteen to twenty-one year olds can run the world by computer but cannot master the same mundane task that five year olds accomplish on a daily basis.

If that doesn’t keep you up at night, I don’t know what will.

How is it that any human being can actually make it to eighteen without knowing how to wash his or her hands?  Is that even possible?  And, on what planet is washing one’s hands a six-step process?

I must say, though, that the first step is what really got me.  Only the brightest in the nation would make step one on a how to wash your hands poster, “wash hands.”  Bravo.  At least if you’re going to make a how to poster for the one of the easiest tasks a person could possible accomplish, make it legitimate.

Tell me what you think.  Here are the steps.

Step 1: Wash hands (see, I wasn’t kidding)

Step 2: Soap up

Step 3: Scrub hands for 20-30 seconds thoroughly

Step 4: Rinse well under running water

Step 5: Dry hands

Step 6: Use your towel to turn off faucet

If a student is “misguided” enough to not know how to wash his or her hands, this process can’t possibly help.  Think of the task from the mind of such misguided students – all the questions that could run though their minds!  How much soap should I use?  The entire bottle?  Scrub hands with what?  Wait, water?  You need water to wash your hands?  What?  Dry hands with what?  My shirt?  What if I used my shirt to dry my hands, should I leave the faucet running because I don’t have a towel?  Washing hands is too confusing – I must get back to reading Darwin.

Seriously NYU?  I’m sure you could have found something better to do with the space on the back of the stall doors.  Like teach students how to pee in the bowl – now that would be an accomplishment.

The M35

24 May

Sundays are for rest and relaxation but not for Manhattan women who have the unfortunate luck of being trapped on the M35 bus.

I must preface this by saying that there’s nothing wrong with the bus.  As a general mode of transportation, buses are fine.  Generally speaking, I support their overall impact on our environment and…insert whatever other politically correct statements I need to make here.

All that being said, the M35 is scary as hell.  There’s no other way to describe the voyage from Manhattan to Randall’s Island than with disturbing adjectives.  This has nothing to do with the initial awkward pause during which I can’t figure out how to insert my metro card in the machine or the distinguishable smell of pee looming beneath an unidentified seat – most likely the one closest to wherever I am.  It has everything to do with the mysterious people who ride the bus and the overall ambiance of an insane asylum.

Let me explain with some visual aids…also known as my co-passengers:

The Imagineer: Imaginary friends are fine for children.  Imaginary friends are not okay for adults, especially those within arms reach of yours truly.  Someone needs to tell this to the man who spent twenty minutes talking to the window both through hand gestures and in a language that only he can understand.  Sadly enough, frequent bursts of laughter made me think that this man’s imaginary friend is funnier than most of the real people I meet on a daily basis.

Los Violatadores: I’d truly like to give a shout out to the two men who stared awkwardly at my sister and I for the duration of our travel.  Never in my life have I felt so disgusted by gaze.  Bravo.  And, by the way, we both speak Spanish – we know what you said right before you licked your lips, and it made both of us want to vomit, take showers, and go deaf.  Really, well done.

The Connoisseur: Only a true connoisseur would understand the classiness of drinking a beer in a brown paper bag through a straw while riding along 125th Street.  I guess there’s nothing like channeling one’s inner frat party to obtain maximum benefits of a Bud Light by sipping it like a toddler.  Apparently, that’s how the big guns chug-a-lug, and I’ve been doing it wrong for years.  Noted.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear for my life on the journey towards the island that God forgot.  How could I not be with all the leers in my direction, the accidental losses of balance that resulted in hands grazing my right hamstring, and the general feeling that I was someone’s dessert?

There are times when it’s nice to get the visual once over – like when you’re dressed up at 230 Fifth or wandering the streets of Meatpacking.  But, the moment you’re trapped between a grabby-handed 5’3” man who’s boob height and a 6’5” man reeking of liquor and garbage, getting ogled is the last thing on your mind.  The first thing?  Running for your life.

Overchicked

20 May

Does the new term have men’s self-esteem running for cover?

I live in a model casting call.  Apparently, all the five foot-eleven inch, size two women in the world set up shop within a three-block radius of my apartment.  It’s ridiculous and threatening.  I try…passionately, but I can’t compete with the Heidi Klums of New York City.  They appear flawless with their Chopard diamonds, Weitzman shoes, and Chanel bags.  These women know how to accessorize; yet, when it comes to the most important accessory of all – a boyfriend – they select men that don’t necessarily complement their shoes, if you know what I mean.

Have you ever walked down the street and seen a smokin’ hot girl with a mediocre man and thought “mismatch?”  I have, and whether you want to admit it or not, you have too.  It’s natural; go with it.  When you see such a couple, you’re likely to think the man must be bringing something non-physical to the table like money, charm, or a Will Ferrelesqe sense of humor.  You think, “How else could he have landed this woman?”  Well, you’re not the only one noticing these couples, and the streets of NYC have spoken.

To those men who find themselves having romantic dinners with women towering over them on the attraction scale, I have one thing to say – you’re overchicked.  That’s right, you’ve been labeled.  This new term describes a man paired with a more attractive woman and directly brings attention to the attractiveness discrepancy.  Although women are bound to find the term complementary, men are likely to be torn – uncomfortable about their inferiority and proud of their conquest.

The emergence of the term, “overchicked,” has me wondering why there isn’t a comparable term for women dating hotter men.  It’s not that I’d ever want to be “overdicked,” but what the hell, don’t women get a word?  Then it hit me, women would only need a word if attractive men dated less attractive women.  Be honest, how many men do you know that date down?  I can think of…um…none.

Although I’m a big supporter of the new term – I’ve been using it for a few days now to describe my friend’s relationship with her new man – I’m slightly disappointed that there’s no need for a female oriented word.  I guess I’ll have to wait until men are no longer driven by physical appearances.  Don’t worry – I’m not holding my breath.

Death by Umbrella

13 May

Disaster lurks in every crevice of a New Yorker’s life when raindrops keep falling on our heads.

I fear rainy days in New York City.  Anyone who’s walked the city streets amidst falling droplets can attest to the fact that people take lives into their hands when navigating through a sea of umbrellas inconveniently held at eye level.  It’s as if the entire population of Manhattan has been given a mission to take you out one eye at a time.  And, as the world attacks with nylon, a woman is left defenseless, cold, alone, and frizzy.

I hate frizz.  What’s to love?  It’s uncanny ability to transform a wonderful hair day into one with a hairstyle resembling a series of small, blond rodents on top of my head?  No.  Frizz is the bane of my existence, and yet, I always try to protect against it.

As rain pours down, I grasp a tiny umbrella with one hand and my hair in the other to defend it from descending moisture.  I incessantly fail because, as it turns out, rain doesn’t just fall down.  No, rain has to beat my system by falling like the Wonkavator – upways and downways and front ways and back ways and sideways.  There’s no way to protect against it…without a poncho.

A poncho!  That’s a bigger fashion don’t than any rain-induced hairstyle, and I refuse to go rocking a yellow, Disney World cape as I stroll up 8th Avenue.  Ever.

I’m forced to continue onwards and against the elements – half wishing I didn’t care about ponchos ruining my outfit and fully cursing the rain for, well, everything.

Then my phone rings.

Of course it does.

My phone can’t ring when I’m waiting for a guy to call, but of course it’ll ring when answering it seems harder than scoring a date with Derek Jeter.  And, God forbid I let the call go to voicemail.  I have to answer it because, in my deluded mind, whoever is calling is calling about something really important.  Never is.  It’s always someone I’m really happy to hear from though – like a researcher who wants to know if I have five minutes for a brief survey about global warming.

When it’s about fifty degrees and raining in May, why would you call anyone to ask about global warming?  Like tons of people are going to say they’re obsessed with the unseasonably low temperatures we’re experiencing?  Please.  Luckily, the researcher regretted calling me as much as I regretted answering upon his listening to my master plan to make Americans release more CFCs per week and increase New York City temperatures.

Take that research analysts.

After our brief discussion, I hung up with him and took my eyes off the crowded sidewalk for approximately three seconds to put away my phone.  Three seconds, and yet, when my eyes returned to front, I felt like a female Frogger, trying to dodge colored umbrellas as they attacked.  I thought umbrellas were meant to be defensive protective agents against rain, snow, and crime, not combative tools used to fight harmless women trying to make it home during rush hour.  Did I miss something?

Then it happened.  At 5:24 PM, I fell victim to an umbrella assault when I took one to the face.  I saw nothing – nothing but a purple blob hitting my forehead, drenching the only dry portion of my hair that remained.

At least a cab didn’t splash me with an eleven-inch puddle of water…this time.

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