The Unkosher Guide to Subway Survival

There's nothing I love better than not having to pay car insurance, deal with mechanical failures or release pent up road rage by instead allowing public transportation to do the brunt work for me. However, the daily commute let's loose a whole new kind of rage that could drive some to the brink of bodily harm.

Thus, I'd like to share some coping guidelines that I've learned (or am trying to anyhow) on surviving the New York subway experience:

Walk swiftly, and don't stop in the middle of the walking paths on the platform, looking like a lost orphan. People, ie me, have places to go, faster than it takes you to figure out that you're on the wrong platform or to look at your shoes forlornly. If you don't move, then there will be nothing to hold against me when I accidentally push you off the platform. Which brings me to my next point....

Stay Away From the Edge of the Platform. Seriously, it makes me nervous.

Especially if you have kids. Why, as a parent, you are allowing your kids to venture any more than 1 foot in front of you in either direction, let alone screw around near the edge of the tracks is beyond me. And I'm no mother.

What To Do If You Fall on the Tracks. You won't, because I just told you to stay away from the edge. And if you went down there to get something you dropped, you're an idiot.

Subway Etiquette
Regardless of chivalry, good manners and all the other morals that humans should uphold, the subway-riding experience is more akin to the cutthroat ravages of the wild. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. There is a delicate balance that must be found between the human and animals instincts within us.

Sitting. I don't care how much you've convinced your delusional mind on the size of your "package;" if you're sitting in a seat with other passengers, your legs should be reasonably equidistant from one another, not spread out like you're ready to hump the poor person who is forced to stand directly between them. If this person refuses to accept the fact that his dick can't possibly need that much breathing room, then even a female passenger seating beside him has the right to obnoxiously take up more leg space than needed until they close that shit up.

Eating. I've done it a few times myself, so I won't go so far as to condone eating on the subway; however if you must, please mind what your mother taught you. Don't eat with your mouth open (that's gross anywhere, at anytime). Also, anything that requires a utensil or sloppy enough to require a bib is absolutely NOT cool. It already reeks of BO and urine; do you really need to eat right now?

Loud Music. When dealing with a passenger who's trance/hip hop/death metal/Whitney Houston music volume is blaring through their headphones, I encourage the use of pre-made signs as an initial polite request:

If this method fails, feel free to use the following retorts:

If you'd rather not spend the time making communicative signs, there is always the possibility of beginning to dance in an obnoxiously spastic way, relative to the passenger's music of choice. If they are not dense, they will soon understand that you are making fun of their shitty music, to the delight of all other passengers.

Violence/Harrassment. If this is happening to others, don't be a hero unless someone is in serious danger and you have the balls. If the violence/harrassment is happening to you, verbally or physically, you MUST have the balls.

I won't speak for everyone, but I know that personally, if anyone utters any disrespect or purposely lays an extremity or other unwanted substance on me, there will be hell to pay. Subways are shitty places to begin with, and I can bet that at any point in the day I am not in the mood to deal with assholes. I will not hesitate to react. I'm not sure how, but let's just say I'm most likely taller than you, equipped with nails, and have at least 25 years of pent up rage waiting to be unleashed. Try me. I dare you.

Musical Subway Chairs
You deserve to sit down on your long journey. Why?
Because you've done a shit load of walking.
Because you're pregnant.
Because you didn't have time to do your make-up.
Because you're old and feeble, or have a lame leg.
Because you worked until almost midnight and need to catch some sleep before you go back to doing it all over again.
Because it's a free fucking country.

There is most certainly an art to finding a seat on a crowded subway. This often becomes a meditative study on human behavior, where one must "hide in the bushes" - metaphorically speaking - acutely observing any possibility of flight, in order to pounce at the most opportune moment.

Here are a few key observations to make whilst scoping out the next possible open seat:

Sleeping Passengers. Granted there is a BIG difference between fully conked out/drooling on oneself to simply closing one's eyes. Most likely, a person won't be getting off at the nearest stop if they aren't alert and awake. But then again, I'm the best at maintaining a state of half-conscious awareness which allows me to intuitively know when I need to open my eyes, stop dreaming about killing the person next to me, and get ready to bolt at the next stop. So don't completely rule out the sleepers.

Reading Passengers. If someone's stop is coming up, they will almost ALWAYS put their reading material away beforehand. Watch for movement.

Anxious Passengers. Many commuters will glance anxiously outside the subway car doors at each stop, making sure they haven't reached theirs yet. They will also glance at their watch or curse under their breath in frustration.

By Occupation. I don't want to make generalizations about all suits working in midtown, and all students going into the village, and all Asian bag ladies getting off at Canal Street. Okay, I am.

By Frequency. Get to know the people that you've seen leave seats early on previous morning commutes. That's your best bet.

The hardest time to grab a seat is rush hour times and in the middle of the subway car sections (where traffic usually gathers.) Also note that standing close to the chairs and hanging on the above bars will place you in an ideal position to grab any seats that free up along the edge of the car. If you decide to stand against the door or in between the door area, there's no way in hell you're getting to an empty seat fast enough.

And lastly, a note about manners. If you are one of the few who still have them, good for you. You will stand up for the elderly, disabled or with-child. But these are the only times when you should let your guard down and the politeness in.

The majority of the general public doesn't give a crap about your gender or physical state; they will take a seat in a heartbeat, regardless of whether you think you're entitled or that you're standing directly in front of it. Remember, kill or be killed. You will dart over the feet of others, push through the idiots who think it's okay to stand against the poles, cut in front of the asshole who tries to trick you into thinking he just needs to get to the door, or if needed, throw your bag/coat/whatever you have in your hands onto the empty seat before someone else's ass hits it first.

We all gotta survive somehow.

This Is Not About the MTA, Is It....?

I have anger issues.

I realized this over the previous weekend after bitching out an MTA employee. Usually, I would maintain the belief that anyone who works for the MTA deserves this, as they seem to care nothing about anyone, and generally have no soul (except of course those guys who announce the stops like they're the radio jockey for Lite FM. Those guys got soul.)

But granted, they do work long hours and get screwed by the system (let us not forget the recent strike.) And this isn't my first time bitching someone out. Since I've started living in New York and grown some balls after a highly awkward childhood, I've had many a hot-headed encounter with persons of authority.

First there was the small incident of being reprimanded for unpacking my NYU dorm boxes from our family truck on move-in day. The police officer (or "traffic cop," which though sightly less intimidating is probably the most accurate) sternly instructed me to move our vehicle from the side of Water Street, as it was against standing room policy. I, dripping with sweat and already freaking out over carrying six large bins of crap up to the 15th floor (while mom complained about ridiculous amount of said crap) promptly began to yell my exasperated rant on the corner for all to hear:

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CAN MOVE THE CAR NOW??! NO ONE IS HELPING US, NYU COULD GIVE A CRAP ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE THIS EASIER AND THEY TOLD US TO PARK HERE. YOU CAN'T YELL AT ME! IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM TAKE IT UP WITH THE DAMN SCHOOL!"

Needless to say, mom was quite startled that I had the gall to back-talk a police officer. He did leave us alone......but that's probably because he thought I was crazy.

The next time I flew off the handle, was in Ohio. Ryan and I had rented a car to drive back to NY with all his stuff (why do I always seem to be in the process of moving! No wonder I'm so stressed...) Everything was all reserved a month in advance and I was feeling dandy as we approached the Avis counter at the airport....until he informed me that my credit card was invalid.

Me: Why is it invalid?
Indifferent Employee: Because it's a debit card.
Me: Yes, but it's also a credit card.
Indifferent Employee: The system won't read it as such.
Me: Why didn't they tell me when I was GIVING MY CARD INFO OVER THE PHONE A MONTH AGO??!!!
Indifferent Employee: I don't know.
Me: I NEED THIS CAR TODAY! I have no other way of getting back to NY! How can I pay for it?! I can give you CASH-
Indifferent Employee: We don't take cash, only credit cards.
Me (to Ryan): Maybe we can use your mom's card for now....
Indifferent Employee: But she would have to be the one to drive the car if it's in her name.
Me: WHaaaAAAA???!!!^%(^&#*^)#$*@($)!#(!!!????

Cue ballistics.

In a slew of tears, swear words and most likely some crazy spastics, I chewed the indifference right out of that mofo. That's when he called airport security. Ryan, meanwhile, hid behind the counter and tried to forget he ever knew me.

You can call it rebellion, or PMS, or even temporary insanity. I call it lack-of-patience-cause-I-live-in-freaking-NYC. And yes, perhaps, I have a bit of a problem with managing my anger.

Can you really blame me though? After years of being so eager to please, the exemplary student that was just scraping by, I wanna get mad. If you push me, I'm gonna push back.

But I think that sometimes, things can get out of hand. And it's gotten to the point that my fuse goes off without me even thinking about, or realizing that I'm acting out of raw, raging emotion. My bout with the MTA is an example of that.

It was the night of the torrential downpour. It was 2am. We were tired and waterlogged. Luckily, we caught a Q and were making our way back to our lovely Kensington cockroach-infested abode. The Q stops at Atlantic/Pacific to this announcement:

"Due to a downed tree on the Q line, all service is suspended until further notice."

That's it? No other alternatives? No "sorry we're leaving you in the cold and rain tonight to fend for yourselves"? No sympathy for those who cannot afford a cab?

I was fuming.

After exiting the train, I marched right up to the MTA man in his reflective vest, a train attendant standing nonchalantly behind him in her sunglasses (?), and commanded him to tell me how the hell I was supposed to get back home if there were no freaking trains running to where I needed to go.

He looked at me with no emotion whatsoever and shook his head. "I don't know."

Damn I wish I could use the phrase "I don't know" for every single answer to god-knows-what!
"Do you know how to do your job?"
"I don't know."
"Well gee, sir, I'm sorry to trouble you with such a silly question; as if you'd know, wearing that shitty MTA yellow vest and everything."

If people don't think I know, they'll leave me alone! I bet this is what this guy was thinking. I wasn't settling for that.

"Where are you going?" he finally asked, once I wouldn't shut up. A crowd had formed around me: I was speaking for the masses!

"I need to get to Church Ave, the Q stop. To Kensington"
"You can take the IRT line."
"That WHAT? What are we in the fucking '80s? What the fuck are you talking about."
"The 1, 2, 3 line, number lines. Take it to Brooklyn College."
"Are you on crack???! That is nowhere near where I just told you I'm going!"
The woman behind him just stared on. I couldn't tell if she was just enjoying the show, or if she was in fact dead inside.

I stormed off, cursing and thanking him for being such an asshole. Ryan stared at me as if I had unleashed my inner She-Hulk. I had actually convinced myself that my confrontation was nothing more than an exasperated plead for advice. But, according to Ryan, it was more like raging-bitchtastic-spit-flying-tirade.

After sharing a cab ride home with a very nervous Jewish waiter/ex-personal trainer (which happened to calm me down a bit - I was upstaged by neuroticism) it finally hit me. I was uncalled for. I was out of control. I was angry. And it made me feel so awful inside, that I could turn into such a monster of a person. But I don't think it had anything to do with the MTA....but perhaps it did have to do with Authority.


So, wherever you are, sleepy-looking MTA employee. I hope that you can forgive me for my harsh behavior. Please don't throw yourself in front of a train: I'm sure you were just over-worked and pissed off by New Yorkers, like you are every day. Just like me.

Moses Supposes

Someone asked me if I was Jewish on the subway today.

This could only have been due to the following:
a.) She was reading a Hebrew book, and thought I was reading along intently as I was forced to  strap-hang like a vulture over her seat.
b.) She's lonely and wants a Jew-friend, or is a bit odd and wants to spread the Jew-word
c.) She thinks I look Jewish.

I will have to assume here that c.) is the most probable here, since I have much experience in being perceived as a Jewish-looking gal. This is the entire basis for my documentary; for the theme of this blog even. I think I can tell when someone is intermittently looking up from their beloved book of Hebrew-isms to get a glimpse of my face, which, with my glasses on usually looks something like this:

Minus the 'stache. Even though I am Italian, my hair is concentrated on areas other than my face. Unfortunately, the Italian nose remained.

I hate to say it (and I'm including myself in this horrible stereotype here, even though I am a goy), but if you've got a big nose...maybe a little bump on the bridge....a hook or a bend...people automatically assume you're of Jewish decent.

I have proof:

In my doc, I asked about 10 strangers to tell me why they thought I was Jewish. About half of them pointed to my nose, regardless of common courtesy. I didn't ask them to judge based on my appearance....and none of them stopped to ask if I even was Jewish to begin with, or why I was asking them a question that couldn't possibly be answered based on a purely superficial conjecture.

I don't get it; no other ethnicity or religious group seems to be so publicly inquisitive. It's not like someone would come up to you and ask, "Hey, you Hispanic? You're not by chance a Muslim, are you? Let me ask you something, are you black?"

And what do you say to a Jew who asks essentially asks, "Are you just like me"?

"Sorry."
"No, but I could be!"
"Yeah...funny thing about that.." Then run.
Punch them in the yarmulke.
"I actually believe in Jesus....er, at least, I used to...I mean....shit."

From now on, I'm just gonna point to the shnoz.