It was a typical New York subway ride for me yesterday morning, which of course meant that there were:
Umpteen slick stockbroker types tapping away on their BlackBerries in a possibly coke-addled state!
Rowdy teens! (I think I’m more afraid of teenagers than I am of anyone else on the subway; they’re hormonal, impulsive, and always showing off for each other. Not a good combination.)
A man (from a place adorably named “The Balloon Saloon”) carrying a GINORMOUS bag of helium-filled balloons twisted together to look like flowers!
Nervous-looking tourists, crowded over a tiny, laminated subway map! (I could practically SEE the collective thought bubble dancing above their heads, like so many puffy white clouds. The knitted brows, crossed arms and hands draped protectively across their Nikons are all universal tourist body lanuage for: “Is this how it’s all going to end for us? Are we going to get knifed and/or mugged? Right here? In broad daylight?”)
Two women (who clearly commute and work together) complaining about their boss and then, randomly, Victoria “Beckman"! I initially thought Victoria was another of their colleagues, but one of the women helpfully elaborated that she is “The Spice Girl girl with the fake tits married to the soccer player.” (Incidentally, they don’t like her because: “Who does she think she is? The Queen?”)
3 normal people! (I humbly include myself in that group.)
A very pregnant lady who IS STANDING BECAUSE THE COKEHEAD STOCKBROKERS ARE PRETENDING NOT TO SEE HER SO THEY CAN KEEP THEIR SEATS. I SEE YOU, ASSHOLES! (Gah. I see this constantly and it irks me to no end.)
I’m sure it will not surprise you at all to know that the crowd of people on my subway car included a hobo making his way through the crowd.
You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting about them as much as I used to. That’s not due to any increased maturity on my part; goodness, no. Rather, it’s due to the simple fact that the real crazies haven’t been around Manhattan all summer; I have no idea where they went (a cottage in Nantucket? A summer share in Southampton, perhaps?), but in any case, the hobos are back, my friends, and they are bringing it something FIERCE. Tyra’s bitches ain’t got nothing on them.
This particular dude was grimy as hell, but seemed relatively harmless, by which I mean he was only talking to himself, as opposed to sharing his particular world view with us (as "my" hobos are wont to do).
Apropos of nothing, he decided to give us a little performance.
And by “little performance,” I mean unbuckling his pants stripper style for some reason, so that we got juuuuust a glimpse of his hobo ass, and then treating us to a song. The song, which he performed in an unnatural and creepy falsetto, was nonsensical, and centered around words that end with “un”. I tried desperately to surreptitiously write down as many as I could on a crumpled receipt, but all I got was something about how he was in training to be a nun/can he have some money for a sticky bun. The tourists, possibly fearing for their lives, clapped over-enthusiastically.
WHY IS NO ONE EVER WITH ME WHEN THESE THINGS HAPPEN?
In other news, I cannot believe this or this.
Now, I NEVER post first thing in the morning, so...um...have a smashing, hobo free-day!