The Amazing Race

Down to the final three teams on The Amazing Race. Who will win the million dollar prize? Will it be Eric and Danielle, Dustin and Candace, or Charla and Mirna?

The teams face the same challenges, but react completely differently. Some teams bicker and blame and crack under the strain (Eric and Danielle). Others have fun (Dustin and Candace). Some are unable to hide their foibles (Charla and Mirna).

Sometimes the awful people stay in the race (Charla and Mirna). Mirna is condescending when she tries to be nice. Will they see themselves on the air and cringe? Probably not.

Its easy to criticize from the sofa. Imagine the jetlag they feel through the entire race, traveling 5000 miles or more at a crack just to do it again the next day. I like that they have just one goal: to perform the Roadblock, the Detour or make their way to the Pit Stop. That's the best part of traveling: no multi-tasking.

Another Way Home

I am happy leaving work almost on time on an unusually sunny afternoon.

I will be home in a half hour, so G. starts dinner. But at 23rd Street, the train stops in the station. Stops and stays. Debris on the tracks at Rector; this train is not going to South Ferry. You can transfer at Chambers, the conductor promises. But he can't say when we will be moving again. Sorry for the inconvenience, he says. But he doesn't sound sorry, he sounds annoyed.

I listen to my French for Beginners podcast and I am content for awhile.

A young man dressed in jeans and t-shirt is visible agitated, standing in the open doorway trying to make eye contact with the conductor. Stepping back into the car, pacing, stepping out again.

The car is almost empty now and I reluctantly get off the train in search of another way home.

Staring at Subway Shoes

The girl sitting across from me wears orange rainboots with tiny white dots. She is writing in a journal too. About me? Hardly. Not with that serious look on her face.

Often I look only at the shoes and pant legs of my fellow passengers. Round, black-suede toes curtained by cuffed, frayed jeans replace the orange rainboots. Could be male or female, but I sense female.

The best thing about the last car of the train is that people mostly get off, not on. By the time I'm near my stop, only one or two people remain on with me. I don't like being with just one other person. I feel more comfortable with two others, or no one at all.

Subway at Night

Its late, its quiet, and I sit alone on the subway platform bench. I wish for the bustle and quick arrival of the trains I hated this morning.

A woman with white shoes sits in the furthest seat from me on the same bench. I can't see any more than her shoe, her crossed leg moving up and down. I hear a wrapper crinkle. She must be sucking a hard candy.

Three trains come in rapid succession now: an uptown local across the tracks, an express zooming through the center track, a beeping local running fast, too fast, but I still think it will stop. The lady and I rise from the bench and walk quickly down the platform. The train's horn sounds like a laughs as it sails past.

Now I see the lady in the white shoes and she is surprisingly young.

McGreevey: Bi Any Other Name

So former New Jersey governer Jim McGreevey is slamming his ex-wife for referring to him as "bisexual". He calls her comment "disdain" for gay americans and a "form of homophobia".

Jim, take it easy on her. She is the one person in the tri-state area who must be forgiven for thinking that you go both ways. You married her, you slept with her, you fathered her child. Can't you see the absurdity?

She witnessed you in the act of sleeping with a woman. Even if it was just once. Killing a man only once still makes you a murderer.

Stinking Subway

I walk onto the subway platform. I have a choice of two benches, each seated with one person. The guy on the closest bench looks moderately normal. The further bench is much closer to where I need to get on the train, but holds a person of unknown caliber. He or she is sitting in an odd fashion, semi-curled. Bad sign; I don't want to take a chance. I sit on the first bench.

I notice a smell; it smells like . . . pee? Definitely pee. But mixed with something else. I recognize the smell of a farm, like cow manure mixed with hay, like the agricultural barns at the Wisconsin State Fair. I look on either side of me, there is no sign of the source.

A girl approaches and sits between me and the guy. There's still an empty seat on either side of her, it is still a safe choice. She looks like a normal college student. She and the guy seem oblivious to the pee/farm smell. It is so strong that I consider commenting on it to her. But I decide not to. Maybe she thinks its me.

The Subway Home

I stand zombie-like against the wall of the subway platform.

Ten feet away, the pay phone rings. I can't remember the last time I heard an un-ironic, old-fashioned phone ring. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone using a pay phone. I imagine myself walking over and picking up the yellow receiver. Hello? It will be a wrong number or a prank. I imagine answering it, but I know I won't; I'm not that curious.

My head has that spinning feeling from too much input over the day, too much stress, too much thought. I wonder if I should get up early tomorrow and use the elliptical machine we bought impulsively this weekend.

The train pulls in the station and I see coats mashed against the plexi. As the passengers file off, the train elevates with the lessened weight of each person emerging. Its like a clown car.
I am so tired, I feel like I'm having a nervous breakdown. Why can't I manage all my tasks? Why can't I prioritize? I need more energy.

Almost home, one more stop, and dreading the nine-minute walk from the station to home.

Another Rainy Day in New York City

The subway riders wear rainboots, plaid and plain--all have given in to the torrent. Streams of rain break the ancient seals of the subway roof.
We look like the wet rats who run free, the squatters in the subway, the real owners of these tunnels.
Umbrellas. The five-dollar ones drop to the subway floor; nicer brands dangle from wrists. The king of umbrellas, those unflappable, unfoldable ones are protected by one hand clasped over another and used as chin rests.
I see more rainboots across from me. This pair is royal blue with pink cherries and green cherries. I wonder why rainboots are all shinier and more childlike than everyday shoes?
Combat a dreary day with some bright boots.

Subway Breakfast

Eating in the New York subway is like eating in a dirty bathroom.

This morning I see a man eating like an absolute pig sitting across from me. Coffee held high in his left hand; pastry held high in his right. Each bite torn from the pastry sends boulders of crumbs rumbling down the mountain of his lap.

A crumbled brown bag sitting in his lap falls to the floor. Without a free hand, he leaves the bag lie and allows it to become trash. Occasionally, a big crumb or nut springs from his pastry with no obvious provocation, commiting a suicide jump of sorts.

Now the man is finished gorging and the crumpled bag, a coffee-stained napkin, and an overturned dribbling paper coffee cup lie around his feet like dead soldiers. He is oblivious to them.

He brushes crumbs from his windbreaker and lap, but misses a good many of them. A few crumbs cling for life in his bushy mustache, but they wonder if its worth the trouble and peacefully, resolutely, they let go.

A Whole Lotta Berries

Yesterday the Blackberry network went down for twelve hours and all the media featured stories on the outage. The media tried to illustrate that a lot of people are hooked on their devices. Charlie Gibson, ABC News anchor, felt compelled to declare his abstention and tease his colleague for his addiction. So what if people like to stay connected?
To me, the real issue that emerged: what is the plural of Blackberry the hand-held device? Is it the same as the plural of blackberry, the fruit? Have people never written about the Blackberry in the plural before? ABC News opted for "Blackberries" and the New York Times used "Blackberrys".
I agree with the Times. Blackberrys are not fruits.
If I had a Blackberry, I could have posted this sooner.