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Dante’s Inferno, Perhaps Third Cirlce: The Gross Man
For those who don’t remember, the Dante’s Inferno series are reserved for rants and the literary banishment of those who offend Urban Odyssey bloggers. Watch out, because this post comes from the fury of Bianca. Only mildly censored so as not to ignite an internet riot.
“Dear God,
Why? Why I ask, why do certain people exist?
Picture it, a muggy Spring morning in late May. The 6:00am 2 train. Abnormally packed train for this early in the morning. Seating is limited. As I go into my usual morning trance during my 90 minute commute I am rudely interrupted by foul play. That foul play my friends is Body Odor. A 6′ 5″ inch male, approximately 40 years old, still rockin fubu hard as if they were ever cool or like they ever made anything of quality…or perhaps his Asian themed button down is a “Dragon Ball-Z” shirt. Nonetheless his shirt sucks. His jeans are visibly filthy and 2 inches too short. He is wearing crew cut socks (do they even make those anymore?) and his new balance sneakers look like his lawn mowing sneakers however somehow I doubt he has a lawn to mow. Too harsh? Well you try sitting down wind from this motherfucker standing over you with what I believe to be 2 days worth of underarm body odor. There is no escaping this. I tried plugging my nose, burying my face in my arm then my bag. Shallow breaths from my mouth did not do the trick. “Ding!” The train doors open after this 15 minute violation. He takes two steps toward what I believe will be my freedom to breath. NOPE sits right next to me. I thought for a moment the smell would die down since I was no longer right beneath his armpit. 5-4-3-2-NOPE. Dante’s Inferno, Perhaps Third Cirlce: The Gross Man – continue reading …
Tis the Season for Scum Bombs
Those urbanites who have subways and elevated train stations know the gross factor that cometh with melting snow. It’s the slowly dripping, murky droplets of liquid substances that drop onto your head (or life-ending incidents of landing in your eye) from the beams and ceilings of an aging rail system. Unlike the drops that fall with rain, these scum bombs are highly concentrated with grossness: the filth of the subway and all that hath accumulated in the old snow. What are they made of? Who knows? Human feces, dirt, rodent excrement, spit, toxic waste….? Survival tactics: Avoid the wet spots you see on the floor. They are usually the ground zero of falling globs. Tread like Indian Jones in a Peruvian ancient temple to avoid any unpleasant surprises.
Beauty Parlor Images
Beauty parlors give you have a lot of time to observe, think, reflect and unintentionally eavesdrop. While your hair is washed you can count cracks in the ceiling and wonder when the rest of the paint will peel off. While under the dryer you have time to do normal activities like read or play with your phone. But when in the beautician’s chair your eyes are pretty much fixed upon the tools aligned under the mirror.
There you might catch a glance of her personal life: the purse sitting half open on the floor just beneath the alter of hair products, a picture of a smiling kid or two in graduation caps. Lunch that has been put on hold until she’s finished rolling your hair.
When you’re done looking at these, you find yourself reading all the labels of the hair products she has. Olive oil this, silicon that…. but I have to say I was taken by surprise by the orange and yellow canister with a picture of a runny nose gorilla, greenness dripping from his nose. Yes, it really is a product, and they call it “Gorilla Snot”. How they managed to really market this to people is a mystery to me. But there it was, moco de gorila.
Gross Factor I… Public Grooming
New Yorkers, listen up. Nail care does not belong on the subway, or any other public place. It is not cool to whip out your nail clippers on the subway and clip away. Would you wipe your ass in public? Do you think people sitting next to you want your nail clippings flying into their laps, or into their eyes because those suckers have velocity and direction? As I write this, a woman is filing down her nails on the subway on top of her black leather purse, a pile of nail dust streaking her bag like it’s a fashion statement. I am brought back to memories of a few years ago in a class, when a guest speaker started clipping his nails as he waited to go on. I gritted my teeth and proceeded to write a one page reprimand on his evaluation form on how rude and disrespectful the act was. Plus this is New York! Do you know the kind of shit people can put on you from gathering your nail clippings?
I disagree with the self-appointed editorial board on whether to post this: this is a part of one’s urban odyssey.
