ah, new york

It was a night of crazy people on my commute.

First, there was the guy who camps out at the 51st Street station on the V and the E trains. The one who likes to make proclamations about Black People and Women and The Mayor. Tonight was all about Women, and what they're doing to Ruin Men.

"If you see a woman with out a man, it's because she IS a man," he proclaimed, as I headed down the escalator (not falling on my ass this time, thank you very much). "The only reason a woman needs a man is when she's looking for a heart TRAAAAAAAAAAANSPLAAAAAAAAAANT."

I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that somehow, this guy gets my hackles up. If I met him in a bar (and he smelled less crazy and wore actual shoes instead of paper ones) I might argue with him. He speaks with kind of a twinkle in his voice, like he knows he's going to piss people off, but he just kind of wants to see what he can get away with. Like a kid who pushes his boundaries, knowing he'll be punished and yet still found adorable. Sometimes when he rants about the city or the MTA, I agree with him. When he gets on Women, though, and how we're the Scourge of the Earth, it gets kind of tired.

The doors on the subway closed on his rant and I was greeted by the guy who always sings Ain't to Proud to Beg or Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. I didn't see him all Christmas this year, and was, in fact, a little worried about him. He's got this voice that comes directly out of his nose and aims straight into your brain like an enormous pipe cleaner. It's unpleasant, and yet, oddly enough, his presence on the train was reassuring. Like running into old classmates, only they've gone totally batshit and are always singing songs that get stuck in your head.

Unfortunately, once he was through the car with his blind man's cane (which he doesn't need, by the way), two stops later, a guy got on with a saxophone (or metallic oboe?) and played a beautiful song. Too bad most people were cashed out for the night on Chestnuts.

The last guy of the evening was the one who, I think, was secretly -- and yet deliberately -- peeing in his pants. I can't be sure (and, actually, don't want to know) but I think he hid in his coat in such a way that he undid his pants, got a bottle in there, peed in it, and then put it in a pocket, zipped up his pants and got on with his night. And as unpleasant as it was that this happened a mere three feet from me, it's better that than openly peeing in a corner, no?

Or maybe I've just lived in New York too long.