tiny bird

I generally don’t like it when it rains. Yeah, sure, it’s great for the green stuff and it legitimizes staying in your pajamas and on the couch for long stretches of time. But I don’t like staying on the couch for long stretches of time. While acknowledging that this might be abnormal, I think that most people, aside from those bastard freaks who prefer cold weather to hot and salty foods over sweet, would agree that rainy days generally blow.

First of all, they are depressing. I don’t know why --- something about lack of sun inhibiting vitamin D production (just a guess) --- but I do know that they are especially depressing when you are a Brooklyn-NYC commuter heading into work on the F train on a Friday morning. My tiny, wretched, $5 umbrella dripped water all over the leg of one of my fellow subway riders; that made me feel badly.

In fact, just looking at my umbrella makes me feel badly--- it looks like a small, frail black bird with a broken stick leg. Umbrellas are horrible in general. I always feel like I am going to cause someone’s eye to get poked out when I use one, especially when trying to maneuver through the cramped streets of NYC.

Becky said that her friend David only uses those big transparent umbrellas that are dome-shaped. These umbrellas kind of coat your body and better protect your top half from the rain. They also allow you to see through them, minimizing the chances that you will eye-stab a fellow pedestrian. The downside of this umbrella model being that you look like a big wanker when you use one. But, function must trump fashion when it comes to rain protection. Or must it? I mean, there must be an umbrella-maker out there who is cut from a bigger, more grandiose cloth--- an umbrella maker with a greater vision. There must be an umbrella maker who can see beyond pretty colors and designs to create a modern umbrella that is hot to look at and highly-functional as well. But, perhaps he/she is plotting an even bigger breakthrough in the umbrella market. There could be mood-elevating umbrellas on the way! Tanning booth umbrellas! Umbrella jump suits! Umbrellas with rear view mirrors! Umbrellas with motion sensors! The possibilities are quite simply endless.

love train

Through several reputable sources, with New York magazine and Becky both being high on the list, I have learned that the F subway line has been officially dubbed the “love train”. And apparently, it is the first car of the F train in particular that serves as a hotbed of lust and love connections for single-but-looking NYC commuters.

I have traveled the F train many a time and after hearing the lore, have even boarded the first car, with a gleam in my eye, hoping to witness a make out scene akin to that of a frat house after hours party. But no luck- I’ve never run into anything close; not even someone macking (is that how to spell?) on someone else. The closest I’ve come to seeing F train love happened this morning, when I had the good fortune of being seated across from a new, in-train advertising campaign for Bud Light. It’s really provocative work, featuring ethnically ambiguous young adults in sexually-charged poses centered around various Bud Light bottles (e.g. women stroking enormous stand alone Bud Light bottle while man next to her holds second, smaller but erect, bottle and looks on). All of this goodness against an airbrushed blue background with sliver of moon, meant to capture the essence of the Bud Light logo, which lights up the characters’ world.

let there be love

New York is a concentrated city and whether you are on the subway or in the street, sometimes it’s hard not to overhear conversations being had around you. More often than not, the topic is “relationships”, with various personal anecdotes teetering around this fulcrum point.

That's a realization that came to me a few weeks back. I was in Prospect Park at the time and jogging uphill, fittingly, right before the turnoff at Grand Army Plaza. I passed a couple of women walkers who were thoroughly entrenched in discussion about an email correspondence with a male friend (“so, if he signed it “best”, does that mean that he’s trying to keep me at arm’s length?”). I instantaneously rolled my eyes but then caught myself, realizing that their conversation sounded a hell of a lot like too many that I have had with my own friends. I am an over-analyzer to the core, as are a lot of women and perhaps, a lot of men as well. There seems to be no sport more enjoyable, more inherently alluring, than over-analyzing interactions between members of the opposite sex, whether they be face-to-face, on the phone, or online.

I got to thinking that perhaps these days girls and guys are doing too much talking, too much thinking, and not enough doing. At that point I had just moved to Brooklyn and didn’t know any better. After being here for about a month, I have come to realize that there are many happy couples in the world, and they have all congregated in this particular borough, with plans to procreate.