Posts Tagged ‘Overheard’

Overheard/Witnessed: MBTA Car, Inbound, Ashmont to Alewife, 8:15 AM

September 21, 2010

I could have forgiven the whole thing if they were wearing this...

This one was actually pretty short but it bears writing about.

Dramatis Personae:

The Dancer. Youth, early 20s. White sweatshirt, designer jeans, black plastic sneakers. Braids.

In The Moment. Youth, early 20s. Black hoodie. What looks like harpoons in his face.

The Dancer boards, holding on the pole to the left of me. He has ear buds in, and it is loud enough to hear the hip-hop joint that he begins DANCING to. Not crazy-ass dancing (I once saw a girl in NYC do a pole dance to the music only she could hear on her iPod, it’s one of my favorite NYC moments) but there is some bobbing, some ass action, and some challenging an imaginary adversary to a dance-off on the floor. Except we’re on an inbound MBTA car, son. Oh, and did I say the adversary was imaginary? Not anymore!

In The Moment boards. He looks like he has seen the other side and it’s not exactly halcyon up in there. His handheld device is BLARING some kind of combination nu-metal/rap concoction. Worse than say Linkin Park or Korn (is that possible?). He is without ear buds, he is just LISTENING to his phone play shitty music. And making the rest of us do the same. My morning trip to Venice (I finally got around to reading The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt) has been ruined. The city has already been sunk for me.

The Dancer (still dancing) dances to the other side of the car, directly opposite In The Moment. Their eyes lock. It’s a spaghetti western. Correction, it’s an asshole western. In The Moment closes his eyes tightly, brings the handheld device (still blaring “You Thought Metal Was Bad But We Added Shitty Rapping To It” by Suck) to his chin and freezes. He is In The Moment. He is lost in shredding guitar riffs and bellowing. The Dancer begins to bump his ass against the doors directly behind him, angry that In The Moment has chosen passive resistance. He wants to throw down, but what he doesn’t get is that In The Moment IS throwing down. Because this music is SO good he simply has to FEEL it. The Dancer puffs his chest out and club steps in place.

Is this the shitty remake of Fame? Is this a fucking Droid commercial? Can they tie their wrists together and knife fight and do us all a favor and hit the right artery at exactly the same moment? At least Scott Pilgrim had cool effects during this scene and Allison Pill on drums!

This is not your performing arts high school! It’s really loud on this fucking train now! This is not the dorm or your living room. People have books and ear buds for a reason so everyone can keep whatever they’re into to their goddamn selves. This is Boston. People’s lives shouldn’t get splashed all over each other! No one wants this. This is not a rebellion, these are challenged people!

Anyway – no one won. In fact, I think we all lost a little this morning.

The only way I can forgive audible music on the subway is if it’s coming out of a boom box that lights up and it’s 1983 and someone’s named Lazer.

Overheard: MBTA Car, Inbound, Ashmont to Alewife, 8:25 AM

September 7, 2010

Dramatis Personae:

Some guy, late 20s, maybe on a couple of Percocets, t-shirt, dirty spikey brown hair, cotton sweatpants (not gathered at the ankles, but not sure why he didn’t go there given his personality),completely self-involved, not cute.

A quiet MBTA car. His phone rings.

(The following is NOT verbatim, but I’m going to make it look like it is cuz’ it’s more amusing that way. But it’s pretty accurate. Picture a phone conversation taking place as if we were the surroundings in his living room. Which I would assume to be plenty of empty prescription bottles with the labels scraped off, some seeds on the scarred coffee table, and some empty Papa Gino’s boxes.)

“Hi honey. HI! Yeah, the T. Yeah, did John call? JOHN!…”

(Let me interrupt for a second by mentioning I thought at first he asked “did the john call you” and I was over-the-moon delighted because that meant he was a pimp, she was a hooker and we were going to get a fascinating behind-the-scenes look into the daily workings of a pimp and his ho. Alas, no, John’s some guy who was late.)

“Yeah, no. 7:45. Well, no I’m on the T. I SAID I WAS ON THE T! JESUS CHRIST! Yeah, oh, well, call me when he gets there. So I’m looking at the Metro…”

(He’s got The Boston Metro open on his lap, and I would have given him a pass if he just called to read her one of the amusing animal stories they run because that’s just funny that he chose to call her to relate a story about a dog that put out a house fire or a Capuchin monkey that can do long division on the commute to work(?). But no, it wasn’t a funny animal story. At this point, the woman seated in between us turned to stare at him when he began relaying the contents of the newspaper to the non-prostitute on the line. It was a long stare, too. However, it was completely ignored. How do you ignore the person beside you staring at you?!? Simple – Percocet and a complete disregard for, well, everything.)

“…and that guy we met in Southie is in a picture in there! Southie! The barber shop? Remember the guy who worked at the barber shop that got in the fight with Louie and thought he was mad cute? Yeah, him. There’s a big picture of the barber shop and this guy Wally. WALLY. Nah. So yeah, it’s here in the paper and I’m like ‘holy shit I know that guy.’ No, it’s some section of the paper where they, ok, “..daily we throw a dart at a section of the community and bring you…” it’s just some part of the fucking paper. Yeah, they have barber chairs and shit…I know, it’s crazy.”

(He still has the Metro open on his lap and is excitedly relaying how it works to her. He has chosen this moment to explain to his non-lady of the evening the various sections of the Metro, and how it serves us as Bostonians. It’s really touching, it’s like Newspapers in Education on this train. What a resource this man is. At this point, the woman beside me has broken her stare and taken out her texting device and hurriedly begun typing away to anyone who will read what she thinks about this dude. I try like hell to see what she’s typing but our outer thighs are already touching, and any more contact would be obscene and perhaps misconstrued.)

“So, what are you doing…”

(And with THAT question, all the eyes on the train rolled so hard that we almost derailed. Staring Texter Lady began to reach in her purse for her razor. This could be a looonnnggg conversation if she didn’t squash it. I would have lied for her in court.)

“Oh, you gotta go to the bathroom? Ok. Ok. Yeah, I’m on the T. Near JFK. Ok. Love you. LOVE YOU. I love you. No, I love you so much. LOVE YOU.”


Everyone breathes a sigh of relief, and silently thanks the sadly non-world’s oldest profession worker for her pressing bladder issue.

Staring Texter Lady withdraws an empty hand from her purse, takes sort of a combination annoyed neck roll/deep breath and settles back to her book. There will be no violence on this train today.

Overheard: MBTA Car, Inbound, Ashmont to Alewife, 8:20 AM

August 30, 2010

It’s really early. And everyone’s just trying to read their book, or make faces at that free newspaper with the daily insane animal story, or listen to their iPod while making plans to kill their husband and blame it on a faulty garage door opener. And unfortunately for those people, I am on this T car. Because whenever I ride the T, something annoying happens in the form of Today’s Crazy.

Two youths board the car, standing in the direct middle of the aisle, allowing the motion of the car to cause them to stumble in circles while baying loudly at each other using foul language.  They refuse to hold on to the poles, instead choosing to jostle the people around them. Are they drunk? No. High? Maybe. The guy’s jeans are dirty on the front, I note with disdain. It looks like Pig Pen mistook him for Santa. The girl is tall, wearing a short grey jersey dress with a small leather jacket over it.  She is screaming obscenities. I don’t mean she’s angry. In fact, this seems like an average day for her…boarding the train to engage in a conversation at a decibel level so high that seagulls are exploding.  I have a mouth like a Times Square strumpet but no one should be dropping fuck bombs at this time of morning when people are barely awake. No one needs this twat alarm clock.

All I can think of is C7 on the snack machine at the office. C7 is my morning breakfast of mini-choco chip cookies.  Yes, I have the code memorized. All I can think of is those cookies and how I can’t concentrate on my book because two people are screaming at each other and making everyone uncomfortable. They are ruining this morning’s anticipation of C7 for me.

I always have the fear that a T Crazy will catch one of my quick angry glances at them, and turn their nutty on me. And because I have no happy medium when it comes to confrontation, I will turn Bernard Goetz 2010 and start swinging my canvas bag at them and screaming “SHUT UP! DIE! SHUT UP! DIE!” and I know it won’t end well because the water bottle and iPhone charger in my bag aren’t enough to render anyone unconscious. Which is why I hope the T Crazies of the Moment do not note that I’m stealing quick volcanic glares at them.

Oh, you probably want to know what they said. It was a looonnngggg, screamed conversation but here are some AMAZING snippets:

On Tiana, and how she’s holding up people’s lives:

“Tiana’s all up on my DICK, man. I gotta get to FUCKING WORK!”

(Note: The GIRL unveiled this jewel. And at the emphasis on “dick,” about seven people including me looked up, widened their eyes, and looked back down. Praying for her death. And Tiana’s. We all blamed Tiana. And wished that the girl’s work was land mine detection by jogging in Croatia. )

What happens when you tell someone their cousin was “rolling up on em'” and you are mistaken?:

“Muthafucka, don’t you TELL ME what my cousin’s bout! I know my MOTHAFUCKIN COUSIN!”

Sometimes signals get crossed, and people’s feelings are hurt:


When a sista doesn’t take care of her eyebrow situation:


(Ed. note – I don’t get that one. Were they messing with people’s eyebrows at the funeral? If you go to a sasquatch funeral, is there some sort of reverse spa situation in which they bushy up your brow? Is this some sort of tribute to Bigfoot? His last wish, perhaps?)

Signals uncross, and flirtation takes place (and the cousin is downgraded from thug to thyroid issue sufferer):


This screaming (of which I have only given you but a sip) took place in an otherwise silent T car. There was no need to get on the car and start screaming. He could have heard you if spoke in a normal tone.

For the second half, the ignorants sat on either side of a young girl and screamed over her head at each other. The girl kept looking for the emergency straight razor to drag across her wrist. I felt for her. I wanted to hold her as she wept on my shoulder. I know, dear, I know. They are gone now. The dirty lap man and the dumpster-mouthed woman are gone.  Ooo, child, things are gonna get easier.

In conclusion, I hate people.

Overheard: In The Gym Parking Lot

July 20, 2009

Vodpod videos no longer available.

more about "Overheard: In The Gym Parking Lot", posted with vodpod

The two things that people seem to enjoy checking out the most (besides posts about LeeAnn Rimes‘ gay husband Dean Sheremet, seriously, those posts have the most hits out of any…I’m at a loss) on this blog are Unqualified and Animated Arguments With The Boyfriend. People love watching cute little animated re-enactments of things. So I thought I would start another feature in which I animate something. Overheard will be a animated representations (via the awesome site Xtra Normal) of amusing scenes that I am privy to in my day-to-day existence. Enjoy.

True story. This was overheard in the gym parking lot today. Two black gentlemen were preparing to enter, and one was locking up his car.

p.s. I fully realize that your first reaction to this post might be “that bitch went to a gym?”.

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