bystander intervention af

New York in summer, with its millions of people crammed together like sweaty sardines in an ancient, oily tin, is a veritable wonderland of idiosyncrasies, outbursts and xenophobia. On the other hand, it occasionally provides opportunities to spot moments where one can step in and make this city a little less of an angry, festering butthole. I tend to walk away from these sorts of occasions both encouraged and disturbed. For example:

Yesterday I was walking to the train from Central Park (yep, my ass was in Manhattan on a weekend. I feel like I deserve a freaking award), through the remnants of the Bastille Day celebrations on 60th Street (Now that I think of it, I was given a free pastry just for walking by a dude that was breaking down his tent, so I guess I did get a reward for being in Manhattan after all) and I saw these two dudes smoking a cigarette and staring across the street, chuckling. I turned and saw a woman about my age stumbling with really tall shoes, sort of aimlessly, and I learned from ONE ACT that to not be a total piece of shit, you need to take care of other women, even if it means seeming nosy. Also, fuck those dudes. So I stopped and leaned against a wall to watch her and see if she needed help, and she crossed the street to stand next to me, which is a weird thing to do in New York. It scared me because it made me think something happened to her. She seemed emotionally fine, but she was so drunk or high that she couldn’t meet my eye. Long story short, I got her into a cab, but like, fuck whoever left her alone, and what if something did happen to her? I wanted to ask, but I also didn’t want to pry.

Today, a lesbian couple got on the train and sat across from me, and this older dude sitting nearby started complaining loudly to these two poor Asian tourists that same sex relationships are disgusting and two women can’t make a baby (joke’s on you, dude – that technology is almost here) and two men can’t make a baby and all this garbage. Once I realized what he was yelling about (I had headphones in at first) I asked him to stop yelling hateful language. He was obviously a massive dick about it, but fuck if I’m gonna let this lesbian couple sit here being shouted about while no one even tries to defend them, and plus I grew up with same sex parents. It’s hard to know what to do in these situations, especially if the person being shitty is also a member of a marginalized community, which in this situation was the case.  If it’s a ostensibly cis-het white dude, I will open up a can, but when it’s not, it’s so much more complicated.

Man, hat was a downer. I did have a post all ready when I had my period during the 4th of July, but was too lazy to finish it – here’s how it started:

Last weekend I was lounging in my white underwear and blue shorts and my vagina was like, “Bitch it’s 4th of July. Imma make your ass patriotic as hell right now,” and swooped in to give me the color scheme I needed to make this holiday memorable.

You have to give it to my vagina for spotting an opportunity and seizing it. Get it?? Eh? Spotting? Ugh h8 myself. Joke’s on her, though, because blood stains brown. Anyhow, my underwear is ruined.

my-blood-is-red-white-and-blue-quote-1

Hopefully that punderful anecdote will make it worth reading this whole post. But seriously, y’all, we have got to take care of each other.

Advertisements

Summer

It is that time of year again when I am at greatest risk of accidentally having my slightly hairy thigh make contact with a far hairier, far less conscientious thigh due to the careless proliferation of body parts that characterizes men on the subway (and also, everywhere). I think it’s great that everyone is wearing shorts. I think body positivity is wonderful. But your thigh is just objectively gross, and keep it the fuck away from mine, k? As the age-old saying goes, “Your balls are not that big.”

It’s also the time of year when my comfort would be exponentially greater, given the sticky, sweltering heat that gathers all the streets of New York into a sweaty mass of metropolis that smells like an overturned garbage truck, if I could wear dresses every day, but when I still choose jeans and a t-shirt to avoid both the visibility of my crotch to everyone below me on any given subway stairway and unwanted attention from shitty dudes.

Sir, my ass is not there for you to ogle at like you’re watching fucking Chef’s Table. It is for me to sit on and for me to poop out of. Next time I see a dude staring creepily at a woman’s ass I’m going to get really close to his ear and whisper, “She poops out of that.” If he’s really being gross, I’ll be like, “She has explosive diarrhea out of that.”

See also:

  • Copious tourists, whose tanned arms emerging from singlets bearing the acronym “YOLO” inexplicably string across two poles on the subway, giving me the option of jabbing said singlet-bearing torso with my elbow or ducking under disgusting-ass, blond hair-covered armpits;
  • forgetting my office sweater at home and attempting to covertly shove my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher in order to warm them up in the Arctic office atmosphere;
  • Riding my bike to Coney Island, getting sand in my butt crack, riding my bike home from Coney Island with sand in my butt crack;
  • Chafing

What I Learned in SoulCycle Is

So, believe it or not, I returned to SoulCycle yesterday for another free class (after which I headed straight to the movies to see I Am Not Your Negro – can you imagine if James Baldwin was around for SoulCycle?), and spent much of the class pondering whether Shinzo Abe felt this same agonizing stretching of time, like a string of putty that refuses to break, as he shook hands with Donald Trump.

lookatme

Look, I’m sure Mr. Abe has had his share of unjust political actions, but no one deserves this.

Anyhow, SoulCycle. Seriously, how can a documentary about James Baldwin and a Britney Spears-themed spin class that costs thirty five bucks exist in the same city – in the same world? I’d love to hear what James Baldwin would make of SoulCycle – “sequestered rooms of imitated slavery, spawned by a desire to reduce guilt over true slavery and to deduce that the real slavery was not, indeed, so terrible.”

Like, my first bike in New York was 150 bucks. Five days of SoulCycle costs more than this. After I bought that bike, I proceeded to pay it back and then some by working as a bike messenger, delivering groceries, meals, and rent checks across the city. I made my living this way, and ate dollar pizza for almost every meal – I was hardly ever full. I couldn’t keep pounds on. Forget Trump – in what kind of dystopian world do we live if people will pay for SoulCycle when they can literally just get on a bike and go somewhere? And get paid for it?? I literally can’t even.

I’m not writing on this blog as much because I’m writing a something longform at the moment – and no, it’s not erotic world leader fiction. My mom told me it was offensive to write about a black man committing adultery.¯\_(ツ)_/¯

erotic world leader fiction

I’m starting to think that Erotic World Leader Fiction may be my calling. If only there were more good looking world leaders. North America had that shit on lock, and then the United States had to fuck it all up by electing the World’s Most Hideous Man to be its world leader.

Maybe I can survive the next four years (or maybe the next four days, the way it’s going right now – fuck yeah ACLU!) by delving into the past. Barry and Justin’s steamy romance will keep me afloat in these dark times. If any of y’all are interested in that, let me know.

Speaking of letting me know, I’m always looking for feedback. So far, I get the most traffic on recurring posts, like reviews of music, books and movies, and my period posts. My blog has no theme (a friend calls it the anti-blog), so I literally have no direction. I’m like one of those homing pigeons with a magnet tied to its head for experimental reasons, just flying around in circles until I drop out of the sky from exhaustion. Too dark? Get used to it, because Donald fucking Trump is the president, in case you haven’t noticed.

On that note, enjoy these photos of world leaders that may or may not fire up your Air Force One.

cobk-v4xeaak6rk
hoo! *fans self*
36AE2F2D00000578-3713405-image-a-68_1469737173440.jpg
meeeeow!
JohnMccainYoung2.jpg
who, me?
politicians-young-booker1.jpg
bow chicka wow wow
http-%2f%2fa-amz-mshcdn-com%2fwp-content%2fuploads%2f2016%2f03%2fstalin-14
k sry but like come on
maxresdefault.jpg
my god
2D99BB9E00000578-3280490-image-a-4_1445427671470.jpg
like, are you joking
20131123_amp003.jpg
jesus take the wheel
young-barack-obama.jpg
i’m dead bye

The end of an er(otic)a

For a brief, shining moment in history that will never be forgotten, all three North American leaders were hot dudes. And I feel like we didn’t take full, or even partial, advantage of it! Where are the photoshopped kisses between Obama and Trudeau? Where are the steamy fan fiction threesomes? Where is the secret plan between Peña Nieto and Trudeau to exclude Obama from NAFTA out of jealousy of Michelle? Maybe Joe Biden could even have made an appearance here and there. And we missed our chance! Now, sandwiched between two sexy minxes of the north and south, is our new ball of pus of a president.

obama-trudeau-bromance-e1457718561498
“The White House” is obviously code for something else.

I mean, come on! Tell me the legalization of gay marriage during Obama’s presidency was a coincidence. Look at these two!


“Come on, Barry,” Justin whispered as he tugged playfully on Barack’s tie. “Just one more minute.”

The two had already been in the bathroom for over five minutes, but it sure didn’t feel like it.

“Justin, this has to be the last time. When I was out of breath before the State of the Union, I’m certain Michelle looked at me differently. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she knows something is going on.” He drew his eyes downward, trying to hide the film of tears collecting in his water line. He knew he had to be strong. For Michelle. For the United States of America.

“But Barry!” Justin’s playfulness had dissolved. “I need you.”


Tell me you’re not dying to read more! Not because of my writing, but because of the compelling nature of their forbidden relationship. Maybe I should make a career out of erotic world leader fiction.

Go see a star war

I was unable to take my Lexapro twice over the weekend because my garbage can psychiatrist didn’t get back to me in time, so I’ve basically been a black hole with legs this entire week so far. Hairy legs, to boot. Good thing it was fucking gale-ing outside like the whole goddamn world was ending (which it is). Just the cherry on top of my shit sundae.

I’m only now starting to feel like I did prior to the weekend and missing those doses, and my gratitude for having access to this medication has been deepening throughout the day. Was that how heavy everything felt before I started the Lexapro? I think perhaps I’ve been feeling a combination of that, the inauguration, and my frustration at work.

Plus, everybody else is all fucked up, too. Since the inauguration I’m certain I’ve seen less patience and more desperation in the people around me. I didn’t think New York could become a more suspicious and self-serving place, but it feels as though it has done so. Or perhaps I’m projecting onto the people around me.

Either way, there are a million things going on and I’ve barely been writing at all. I thought of turning this into a once-a-week blog, but I’m not going to. I’m supposed to be writing every day as a rule, not an exception. I should be writing about that dude that lit a cigarette next to me on the subway and the mom and daughter tourist duo that ogled as everyone else on the train actively ignored him with nonchalant intensity, like only New Yorkers can do. Or my thoughts on the women’s march and those who attended, many of whom had never marched in a protest before. Or how I went to see Star Wars and the dickheads behind me chatted the whole time like they were raised in a fucking barn.

anigif_enhanced-buzz-31092-1369081284-6

I wanted to make some joke about “alternative facts” but everyone else has already done a better job. Good luck out there, all of you.