With Deep Regret

After sharing this morning's commute on the L train with a group of teenaged girls talking and laughing loudly, and last night's commute home with a young couple who were teasing, laughing at, and tickling each other over the duration of the ride, and yesterday morning's commute with two schoolboys excitedly recounting stories to their mother, I am sorry to conclude that on the subway, normal and healthy affiliative interactions constitute antisocial behavior.

Thus, my dear fellow New Yorkers, in the future I would ask that while riding the subway, that you please remain in a state of psychic isolation and refrain from reality-testing, gestures of physical affection, and other forms of life-enriching social intercourse until you have exited the train, and ascended the station stairs.

Thank you.

Impulse Control

As of yesterday, the L train was continuing its uninterrupted week+ record of consecutive days with delays. I was blessed on Sunday when I just missed getting onto a packed train... which ended up getting stuck in the tunnel for 15 minutes or so. Never been so happy to miss a train, because there's nothing more miserable than being packed onto a stopped crowded train, having no idea how long you're going to be standing there.

With all the development in Williamsburg, it's only going to get worse, and I see potential for daily commute-catastrophes when you squish grumpy, insufficiently caffeinated people together like that on a regular basis. Why, just yesterday, riding in on the usual sardine-a-palooza, I was forced to stare at the crown of this short guy's head for the whole ride, and he had this one, thick, grey hair sticking almost straight up, all by itself. My hand was already moving, and my fingers already formed into a pinch gesture before I realized and stopped myself from plucking the little rogue right out. That could have been ugly.