Oops, um, apparently it’s been more than three months since I updated my Examiner.com column on NYC public transportation. Luckily, I saw the best little bus fight last week and am going to stretch the story of it into a two–yes, two!–part series like reporters used to back in the days when they were getting paid per word. Here’s installment one:
In the new buses the MTA is rolling out, there’s a special, single seat that only the luckiest person on the bus gets to sit in. The older buses have single seats, sure, but those are in the middle of the bus like every other seat. On the new buses, the single seat is up on a little platform directly behind the driver, separated from him or her by a thick grey plastic divider.
Even better, though, is that the seat is also separated from the other passengers by a thick grey plastic cabinet that I imagine contains some of the bus’s inner workings. And even better than that is that the wheel housing is immediately beside the seat, and the thick grey plastic covering for it creates a little table where the seat-sitter can rest her bag, umbrella, extra pair of shoes, book, coat, and other items that are usually totally obnoxious to other passengers on the bus but are entirely out of everyone’s way when placed next to the single seat.
It’s funny, growing up. When I was a wee lass of 18 at college in Columbus, freshly released from my dad’s worries about my venturing into strange neighborhoods in the big city, I’d buy show tickets months in advance. I’d skip classes to be one of the first in line. I’d be happy leaning against the stage for hours waiting for my band to appear. I didn’t mind suffering through three or four terrible local openers, and I didn’t mind waiting around in the rain and the stink of a back alley to talk to the band afterward. If I couldn’t find someone who wanted to do these things with me, I’d go alone. I saw my favourite band more than 50 times between 2000 and 2005, but that number doesn’t even begin to elucidate the sheer amount of shows I saw as a whole.
I know that I’m old because none of that interests me anymore. I don’t want to sit in a car for fourteen hours straight just to see one of my bands open for someone else in places like Georgia and South Carolina. I don’t want to stand around and listen to a band for three hours anymore, let alone the three hours before the show starts when everyone’s pushing to get to the front and I can’t drink anything lest I have to pee and the club’s playing some unknown crap over the speaker system that’s not even in the same genre of the band I’m there to see.
So last night was perfect. I went home after work, watched my “Criminal Minds”, and then took the bus down to the Mercury Lounge in the Lower East Side to see one of my long-time favourites, Damien Jurado.
Kamran met me there at 9:15, and we pushed ourselves against the wall the best we could for the 15 minutes until the doors opened. The bar area is basically just a long hallway, so everyone was touching everyone else, and there was nowhere to escape and nothing to do, and all I could think about was how miserable I would’ve been had I been there alone. The show started soon after, and we were right in front, and we hadn’t been waiting around for three hours, and we were happy.
Damien is just sort of an amazing guy. He sings these incredibly sad songs, and he comes off as so thoughtful, but there are these moments where he’ll say something so bashfully joyful that it kind of makes you wonder if his whole songwriter persona is a put-on. Last night, he told us about sitting next to a girl on a plane who was listening to music; at first, it was David Bowie, but then suddenly something even more familiar came on, and he realized it was his own song. She sat there listening to his entire album and had no idea she was sitting beside him. I just love thinking about how that must have felt.
He was wearing his Seattle uniform of flannel shirt, lumberjack jeans, and moccasins. The woman doing his backing vocals, Melodie Knight from Campfire OK, was wearing black leggings, a black tunic, a black shawl, black strappy wedges, and a black bowler hat. I said, “I think she’s dressed the way she thought New Yorkers would be dressed.” Kamran said, “I think that’s how they dress in Seattle.” I said, “That’s how they dressed in New York in the 80s.” Kamran said, “That’s how they dressed in Seattle in the 90s.” So then it made sense.
I know I won’t be able to explain how good Damien is with dynamics, the way he can have an audience straining to hear him one moment and how he can fill an entire room with just an acoustic guitar the next, and how something as simple as a foot tap can change an entire song, so I’ll just link you to some songs instead.
Here’s my favourite recent song of his:
Here’s my favourite song of his of all time:
And here’s the song that made me cry last night, because it’s so clearly written about me:
I would wonder why a man from Seattle has multiple songs about Ohio, but it just seems so obvious why.
I’ve never worn a bikini. I burst forth from my mother’s womb at 145 pounds, already wearing footie pajamas to hide my shame, so my beach attire has always included one-pieces and t-shirts. Well, my friends and I are soon going back to the Hamptons beach house we rented last year, and I’ve been actively searching again for the perfect swimsuit after last year’s tankini disaster at Laguna Beach.
I think I finally did find a suit that I’ll like, but more importantly, I was reminded that everyone else likes the wrong suit. For reference, here is the only person who should be wearing a bikini:
I don’t mean to be anti-feminist here, but seriously, if you don’t look like that, why are you wearing one?
Do you just looooove the way the water feels on your stomach? Hey, guess what; water actually soaks through swimsuits right to your skin!
Were you hoping for some awesome bikini tan lines? TAN LINES ARE NOT SEXY.
I imagine you’re not doing it to show off your love handles or the fact that no amount of padding will give you sideboobs.
And I kind of doubt you want people noticing that your midsection’s shaped less like an hourglass and more like one of those fat pencils we used to use in kindergarten.
You know what hides love handles, weird foam padding, and your giant potbelly that sort of reminds one of a poisonous growth on a treetrunk?
ONE-PIECES! For me, even models look better in them:
I guess I’d just rather see less and imagine perfection than to be assaulted by how imperfect everything is. And don’t try to tell me that imperfections are beautiful, you bikini-wearing sap.
Remember the 80s sitcom “227” starring Jackée Harry as Sandra and Marla Gibbs as Mary? Well, Kamran and I both grew up watching it, and now he loves to say “Mary” in the way that Jackée used to on the show. Which is of course something more like MAAAAAAAAAAY-ree.
And every time he does it, it CRACKS ME UP. It’s never less funny to me.
So we were on our way to our so-so dinner at Flex Mussels the other night when we spotted this doorway and somehow thought it was so serendipitous:
Of course, as soon as we took it, we realized that there’s a 227 on basically every street in NYC. But still!
While I was walking to Kamran’s from work a week or two ago, this cover of mist descended and blanketed all of the tall buildings around me. I expected to be soaked at any moment, but it was evidently just a veil of clouds too lazy to fly any higher.
The most impressive sight for me along the way was The Corinthian, an apartment building I’ve been admiring for years. I love Kamran’s building, but if he had to live anywhere else, I’d want it to be The Corinthian. The impressive name entirely suits the 54-story, avenue-block-wide building made to look like cylinders lined up asymmetrically. It reminds me of stacks and stacks of pennies on a rich man’s desk.
Because having a lot of pennies makes someone rich in my mind, apparently.
I’m just so in love with the idea that everyone in the building has a giant bay window overlooking the East River. Even the cheapest studio has one.
Of course, the cheapest studio still rents for $2,200 a month. And the cheapest apartment for sale right now? $650,000 for a 629-foot one-bedroom. The most expensive is a 1,666-foot three-bedroom for $1,740,000.
I'm Katie, a farmgirl originally from Ohio who moved to NYC in 2005 for no apparent reason. I like vintage-looking things that are actually new, filagree everything, people who don't make me feel awkward, meaning it when I say "no sleep till Brooklyn", and not trying too hard.
