Archive for October, 2003

This morning, I actually got to the L early. I know I was early because I saw the Train People I only see like twice a month. Everything was normal, then between Lorimer and Bedford the heating element in my car CAUGHT ON FIRE.

(Now, not to brag, but when I first moved to Williamsburg, the G train was ALWAYS on fire. It was like the Christine of the MTA.)

I actually had no idea what was happening as I was engrossed in a heuristic dissection of “And We Danced” by the Hooters, which happened to be playing on my iPod. But then, all of a sudden, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a stampede of people from the other side of the car. “The train’s on fire!”

Ecco homo: Some people panicked. Others barely looked up from their paperback copies of The Corrections. I grabbed onto the hulking man standing in front of me so as not to be flattened. (If you’re reading this, I’m sorry about that.)

We all got off at Bedford and the conductor and motorman checked out the scene. Apparently the coils had got too hot. So they turned off the heat and announced the dreaded “This train is out of service.” Incredibly, people stood poised to hop right back on, presuming (I thought incorrectly) that the MTA is given to fits of mercurial whimsy and would announce I jes’ keeeeeding! I lingered as far away as I could, contemplating taking the L back to Lorimer and hopping on the G.

But spank me hard and call me Shirley. The conductor, after turning off the heat in the car and, oh, I dunno, employing his *years of training* as a terrorism expert to determine that the fire was not, in fact, a bomb of some sort, let us back on the train.

I swear to god, people were jockeying for seats on the bench DIRECTLY ABOVE where the flames had shot out. The smell of charred flesh and Payless Shoes still hung in the air. I guess I’m just as much of an idiot as everyone else, because I got back on the train too. I mused on the fact that when I first moved here, I wouldn’t even get on the train if there was a discarded paper bag under the bench, but that was then. Of course, I used to say “bless you” to sneezing strangers on the street.

People bravely chatted with each other about the struggle they’d just endured. Meanwhile, I listened to my iPod and had a vision of sorts:

“Ever tell yous about the L-Train Troubles of October Ought-Three?” they’d tell the children they would undoubtedly sire after the adversity of the morning’s events would embolden them to shtup in the elevator at 14th Street-Union Square, introducing themselves only after the seed had planted and they’d shared an awkward moment trying to figure out whose Jonathan Franzen was whose.

“And that’s how I met your mother.”

So, guess where I was last nite? At Roseland seeing Social Distortion. Jealous?

Heh, but seriously, it was a great show. It was a show that, in all respects, I wish I had seen when I was 16, which is approximately the last time I listened to SD in earnest. The crowd was 80% male, and 50% superhot in a way that would have made my 16-y-o self moist with desire. (Actually, I still find rockabilly guys attractive, but much less so, given that so many of ‘em seem to be Bush supporters. But I digress.) It was a strange, though not surprising mix of people: punks/rockabilly types, frat boys, and guys in pleated Dockers. My 16-y-o self would’ve poured my soda down those Dockers, but the 29-y-o me was content to sneer in their general direction. One of them thought I was flirting with him or something and kept trying to catch my eye for the rest of the night. Note to self: Learn to sneer better.

When P and I arrived at the show we walked back to the bar and I jokingly said, “This is a crowd that would buy us drinks all night.” And then, as if to prove that the universe is as crass and sexist as I am, three guys approached us, all of whom were named Matt. Matt 1 worked in cryogenics, Matt 2 was unemployed, and Matt 3 was a pilot. All three were from Allentown. Matts 1 and 3 were voting for Bush, though Matt 1 said that he’d promised to vote for Kerry in exchange for a soup recipe.

They offered to buy us drinks using the time-honored tradition of “I’m going to make you drink something you’re frightened of.” In this case: Old Grandad. Ick.

“No way, I don’t drink that shit, it makes you sterile,” I told them with absolute certainty. Though really, I don’t drink it because it’s fucking awful. I don’t care what Jack Kerouac said.

Still, two seconds later, P and I found ourselves throwing back shots of Old Grandad and trying not to projectile vomit. Matts 1 and 2, sensing that they were getting nowhere with us using this tactic (Which is true: I’ll drink anything alcoholic if you tell me you think I can’t/won’t. My biggest error? Galliano.), dumped Matt 3 and headed to the stage. Matt 3–actually a pretty nice guy for a Bush supporter–was telling us about being a pilot. Then he admitted that he wasn’t a big SD fan and that Matts 1 and 2 had dragged him here. “I’m too old for rock shows,” he said.

“Wait a minute. How old are you?” I spat.
“28. How old are you guys?”
“33.”
“29.”
“Oh,” he said, and 5 seconds later, “Well, you ladies have a good night and enjoy the show.”

Dissed and dismissed for being geriatric! And called a lady! That hurt. We should’ve weaseled more drinks out of them before our Fixodent loosened.

Oh, and for those who care about the MUSIC: SD put on a great show, and I was surprised to recognize fully 75% of their set–they must’ve played older stuff? They ended with Ball and Chain and encored with Nickel and Dime and something else I don’t recall because at that point it was 110 degrees in Roseland and I was itching to pee.