Subway no Way

I need to tell you. I'm exhausted. Not just a little tired, no, I'm like the walking dead. Sure, on the outside it's all fabulous parties and dinners at Matsuri in the Maritime hotel with two emerging French artists (who have a great show up at Max Lang) but when you're on the 4 train again a mere 10 hours after you got off it, things all start to feel a little much. In fact, I think I have a better understanding now of why New Yorkers are notorious for those nasty outbursts. It's the subway. All those people jammed together, stuck underground on trains that slow down CONSTANTLY for "train traffic ahead of us'. Oh sure, if you don't live here, you probably think the subway is some fantastic adventure - all mariachi bands, breakdancers and lounge singers. But take the subway every day and you're exposed to the underbelly, and let me tell you, it's not a pretty one. Case in point, the fellow who sat his entire ride making a star pyramid out of popsicle sticks, or chin-up guy who was actually working out on the bars that keep us all standing ( I know none of us have time to get to the gym, but COME ON!). And then there are the kids in fancy jeans and nice haircuts who walk through the cars selling candy for a school trip to Europe, or the Latino woman who hawks the latest Hollywood releases on DVD, or, my personal favorite lint brush guy, who in his old sweatsuit all the way from 138 street to Union Square rolled himself all up and over (and went through about 5 sheets in the process). I want to know. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? You fascinate and infuriate me and maybe that's why all of us on the subway keep to ourselves, reading our books or staring up into space, or if you've had a few too many late nights, catching up on our sleep.