Category Archives: living in new york sucks so hard

You’re Only as Badass as How Far You’re Willing to Get Out of Your Car

Posted by plumpdumpling on July 9, 2009 – 10:06 am
Filed under living in new york sucks so hard
Tagged as ,

I was coming out of Grand Central the other afternoon on my way to Kamran’s apartment, crossing to the south side of 42nd Street, when I noticed a businessman on a bike yelling at the cab driver behind him. They were stopped at the red light, and the bike rider was turned around, one foot on a pedal and one foot on the ground, yelling over and over, “Get out of the car!” He had his suit pants rolled up to expose his dress socks pulled to mid-calf and his leather briefcase strapped to his back. The cab driver was leaned back in his seat, hands gripping the wheel, yelling out his open window, but I couldn’t understand him. A driver in a car to their right leaned out his window, looking confused. Everyone on the street watched them, waiting to see what would happen when the light turned green.

I stopped at the corner to wait, and as expected, when the cars around him started moving, the guy on the bike just stood still, foot still planted firmly, looking smug. After maybe five seconds of this, the door of the cab behind the bike rider flung open, and a blonde girl about my age leaned out and yelled, “If you don’t move, I’LL MAKE YOU!” But then, you know, she sat back down and closed the door. Evidently feeling as if he’d proven his point and knowing that plowing over bikers is an everyday occurrence for cabbies, the biker started moving, weaving in and out of cars as he made his way leisurely across town.

And that’s why I ride public transportation.

(also posted to Examiner)

Scammed!

Posted by plumpdumpling on May 27, 2009 – 9:19 am
Filed under holidays don't suck for me, living in new york sucks so hard, my uber-confrontational personality
Tagged as , , ,

All New Yorkers are assholes, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

Case in point: on Monday afternoon, Dr. Boyfriend and I celebrated Memorial Day with an entire pitcher of sangria on the patio of Dos Caminos. Because sangria is from the Spanish meaning bloody, and there’s no better way to mourn the loss of all our fallen combat soldiers than to drink fruit-filled blood in remembrance of them. Or something.

So anyway, we left the restaurant and walked toward Rockefeller Center, where he was going to work for a couple of hours while I went shopping. On the way, we decided to stop at an ice cream truck and continue mourning the loss of all our fallen combat soldiers by eating . . . frozen milk. Whatever. At the intersection right outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, there were two trucks with identical markings parked across the street from one another, so we just sidled up to the first one without bothering to do any bargain comparisons.

A 30-ish, Israeli-ish, purposely-bald guy stepped up to the window inside the truck but went about not paying attention to us while he talked on his cellphone to someone about his gambling debts. At least that’s what Kamran tells me he was talking about. I, of course, was too busy trying to decide between cone and cup to notice. But long after I’d chosen, he was still on his phone. Had we been basically anyone else, we probably would’ve walked across the street to the other truck at that point, but it was a holiday, and we’re patient people.

Finally, the guy took my order: one scoop of vanilla in a cone with multicolored sprinkles for Kamran and one scoop of vanilla in a cup with multicolored sprinkles for me. He even showed me the cup to see if it was to my liking. He didn’t tell us how much it was but just waited for his money, so I handed him a $10 bill. (Kamran had paid for lunch, for those of you non-feminists who may be crying foul at this moment.) He took it, disappeared into the depths of the truck, and then came back and said, “That’s it. $6 for the cone, and $4 for the cup.” Bewildered, I said thank you and made way for the person behind me to order.

But two steps later, Kamran and I turned to each other to ask, “What the hell just happened?!” The cone he’d gotten was this kind, the soft serve kind, the kind you can get at McDonald’s for $1. The kind you can buy from any other ice cream truck, from even the most expensive truck at Coney Island on the hottest day of the year with all the sprinkles you could ever hope for, for no more than $2.50. And yet I’d just paid $6.

I was torn between being pissed off at him for thinking I was some tourist who doesn’t know how much ice cream costs and pissed off at myself for looking like some tourist who doesn’t know how much ice cream costs. I was pissed off that he had put black electrical tape over all of the prices on the side of his truck so he could charge whatever he wanted and was getting away with it. I wanted to march back to the truck and put on my mean New Yorker face and splatter my cup of vanilla all over his designer graphic t-shirt.

But I didn’t, because not only do I not have gambling debts to pay off like he apparently does, but it was also the best ice cream truck ice cream I’ve ever had. (And that includes the gourmet Van Leeuwen ice cream truck ice cream I had last summer.) Maybe it’s one of those things where paying more for it makes it taste better, but maybe it really was $10 ice cream.

What I’m left wondering, though, is: what would’ve happened had I handed him just $5 instead? Would he have demanded more, and what would I have done?

Utica Ave. Panhandler Screwdrives Cop, and I Rethink My Charitable Subway Givings

Posted by plumpdumpling on May 4, 2009 – 2:35 pm
Filed under fun times on the subway, living in new york sucks so hard
Tagged as ,

A couple months back, Dr. Boyfriend and I were headed downtown on the M15 bus, which is perpetually crowded during going-out times despite it being articulated, meaning that’s it’s hooked to a second bus with this accordion-like segment to make it doubly long. The entire back row of the second half happened to look empty, though, so I made my way back and sat down.

Only upon sitting, I noticed a transient-looking fellow with wild hair and ripped clothes lying across half of the row, but I decided to play it cool. Because as I told you, I try not to overreact about homeless and obviously insane people like most people do. But Kamran took one look at the guy and made me move, mouthing to me as he pulled my arm, What are you thinking?! What I was thinking was that no one pulls any kind of crazy killing shenanigans on public transportation. Because evidently things like the Canada Greyhound beheading only stick with me for a day or two.

But then this crazy panhandler had to go and stab a cop of all people in a subway station. And now every time I tip a mariachi band on the subway, I’m going to wonder if they’re concealing sharpened screwdrivers in the pockets of their ponchos.

Melodramaticism in Downtown New York

Posted by plumpdumpling on April 28, 2009 – 10:02 am
Filed under living in new york sucks so hard
Tagged as ,

Things that are great about working in downtown New York City:


The view from your boss’ corner office, which you secretly consider your own,


watching the Staten Island Ferry roll in and out from the conference room
as you take the afternoon off to play your Nintendo DS

Statue-of-Liberty-gazing in Battery Park,
pretending you’re Patrick Bateman in American Psycho at Harry’s Steakhouse,
watching tourists cup the bull’s balls near Wall Street,
and so on and so on.

Things that are not great about working in downtown New York City:

Giant planes flying two millimeters from your office building and your security department coming over the loudspeakers to tell you that lots of other nearby buildings are evacuating but that you should sit tight and hope to not get smashed into.

Even not greater is that you happened to be downstairs at the building’s Starbucks getting your expensive iced coffees when the announcement was made, and you didn’t understand why all of these businesspeople were crowding the sidewalks until you came back upstairs to mass hysteria.

Also: your company’s facilities department is ordering facemasks and hand sanitizer for everyone in the office due to the swine flu outbreak. You’re trying to keep it a secret that you both were raised on a pig farm and had pork for dinner last night.

There’s a Reason That Train Car is Empty

Posted by plumpdumpling on April 15, 2009 – 12:05 pm
Filed under fun times on the subway, good times at everyone else's expense, living in new york sucks so hard
Tagged as , ,

I love riding the R train because of the complete lack of other people using it. Even though it’s one of the slowest lines with some of the oldest trains, its frequent stops and guaranteed room for sitting make it perfect for playing some New Super Mario Bros. on my Nintendo DS on the way home.

Yesterday afternoon made me question my love, though. When I stepped into a car near the end, I was met with the overpowering stench of excrement. Terrible smells are par for the course in New York, so I tried not to overreact and took a seat. But the odor was SO BAD. I looked around me and noticed people covering their noses with their hands, burying their faces in their coat lapels, so I knew it wasn’t just me.

Then I looked around some more and noticed that everyone was crowded at one end of the train car. Some boys had rushed by me in a hurry to get to the opposite end of the car as I’d taken my seat, but I didn’t think anything about it until I realized that literally everyone but me and a man across the aisle were huddled together against the door leading to the next car. I craned my neck to see what they’d all run from and realized that a person, a man, was lying down on one of the sets of seats at the far end of the car. Evidently his stench was so overwhelming that it’d filled the entire place.

I like to consider myself an understanding and nonjudgemental person, so I decided I would stay planted where I was, showing the world that I accept homeless people and know that they can’t help the lot they were given. If fat people can take up two seats, by God, filthy people can stink up entire cars! But then I started thinking about the canvas bag full of clean clothes I had with me and how all of them were going to be soaked through with the worst smell imaginable by the time I got off at Union Square.

So at the next stop, I hustled out of the car, onto the platform, and into the next car with everyone else. I yelled to a man who was entering the foul car, “DON’T GO IN THERE!”, and he scampered along with the rest of us. From there, it was as if we had all survived a natural disaster and were brought closer together because of it. People were being polite and actually laughing with each other, and the boys who had rushed by me in the smelly car now stood in the aisle of this clean car and watched people at every stop as they entered the realm of the rankness, scrunched up their noses, and ran back out onto the platform.

When I got off at 14th Street, I walked past the cars and saw that all but one of them were being filled like normal by commuters. And there in the seat where I had originally sat was one lonely woman, mired in the stench, looking as if she was about to pass out.

(x-posted to my Examiner)