I know it's hot out, but...

Come on...

This is what I saw at Starbucks this morning:















He was with his family, and seemingly not homeless or crazy. So what's your excuse, pal?

And note, if you can see it, the shirt flung over his left shoulder- so it's not like he doesn't have one. If you're so freakin' hot, how about putting a pair of shorts on?? How about that? Or are the jeans the next to come off? Pity the poor people in the next store he goes into.

That guy, that's me

I'm a sweater. Not that I'm made of woven or knitted wool, I just sweat- and saying I'm perspirer doesn't really roll off the tongue or the page (in fact according to spellcheck, it's not even a word). In any weather, in any amount of clothing I can work up a certain lather. This is one reason I never like to make plans for after having gone to the gym. Sure I can shower. What I can't seem to do is dry off. In fact it seems worse when I do shower. Especially in the summer.

The other night, I walked out of the gym- freshly showered- into the humid air of an August evening, on my way to dinner with my wife and friends. As I walk to the train, the moisture on my face graduates to dampness. By the time I get downstairs at Columbus Circle and on the platform, my face can now be classified as wet. I get on the crowded train, and it's not quite as cool as one would hope in my ever-increasing aqueous condition. And as we pull out of the station, it is Niagara Falls. Water is dripping off my face, and people are now looking at me. I'm THAT guy. As in: "Oh my, is that guy okay?" or "Woah, look at that guy!"

As the train moves on, I thought to myself I knew this was going to happen, I should have borrowed (see also: stolen) a towel from the gym to bring with me. Then, I remember that earlier in the day I had bought a roll of paper at the drug store, and had jammed it into my gym bag. Genius! So now here I am, sweating profusely, tying to keep my balance in the middle of crowded subway car, rifling through my gym bag to pull out the plastic Duane Reade bag which holds my immediate savior. Got it! Now I'm still keeping my balance, and trying to rip open the plastic wrap which covers the paper towels, all the while condensating like a can of beer left out on the picnic table. And again, I see people watching me struggle, and I realize that I'm THAT guy again. As in: "What the hell is that guy doing?," or "See kids, you could end up like that guy."

The paper towels out of their wrapper, everything back in its place, I can finally mop myself down. In my mind, the people around are so happy for me ("Good for that guy!"), and my stop comes and I head up to street level and to some very welcome breezes. After arriving for dinner, I feel the need to apologize for my saturated state- although it's a vast improvment over just a few minutes ago. Once we get inside and I can sit in the air conditioned dining room, I finally start to dry off. Ah, sweet AC and chairs. That's really all THIS guy can ask for in the summer. Someday I'll learn.

Gems abound...

In my opinion New York is the best place in the world to overhear some of the best quotes by everyday people. Like the time in Starbucks a few years back I heard a seemingly upper-middle class woman sitting at the adjacent table state, "But I'm not an American , I'm a New Yorker." It doesn't always need to be this substantive, or catchy- sometimes it's just a casual exchange or turn of phrase that sticks with me. This week I've had a few of these gems floating in my direction, which for one reason or another tickled my fancy.

Walking down 80th Street past a brownstone, I noticed two little girls and what looked their mothers conversing on the stoop. The moms were quietly discussing something while the girls interacted. One girl was struggling with a biggish toy rocket-ship like thing, that lit up and made noise. The other little girl was struggling to get rocket-girl's attention, in a very pronounced, proper British accent: "What's your name? What's your name?" To which rocket girl, finally in control of her contraption looked up and said in drawn out tones, "Scaaarlet..." The exchange made me smile. The British girl, the American girl named Scarlet playing with a rocket-ship; it could have been out of a movie, but here it was- out on a stoop, on a sticky New York summer evening.

Earlier this week I heard two guys at the gym talking about wrestling- like the Grecco-Roman variety, not WWE or the like- and different moves and holds or locks they knew. The one guy, who didn't really look like a wrestler- kind of lanky- claimed he busted his shoulder because he's always "rolling guys like way outta my weight class." The conversation turned to people trying to pick fights with them on the street or what have you (This portion instigated by the feather-weight). "Who would you rather fight [on the street]," he asked. To which the other, more husky gentlemen replied, "Usually somebody my size or bigger than me... if some guy starts in with me and he's a little guy- I don't want no part, because he's gotta be crazy, or ninja or something." Sound advice grasshopper, you have passed the test... beware the little, crazy ninjas loose in the city!

And finally, one that happened at Duane Reade- New York City's most prevalant purveyor of drugs and sundries. It so entertained and awed me, I actually posted this exchange as my status on Facebook shortly after it happened. I called it, "The Power of Listening."

Customer: Excuse me, where is your duct tape?

Cashier: What?

Customer: Duct tape...?

Cashier: Tape?

Customer: Duct tape.

Cashier: Like scotch tape?

Customer: DUCT tape.

Cashier: (points upstairs) Uhhh, aisle twelve-

Customer: (looks upstairs) Aisle what?

Cashier: Twelve.

Customer: Twelve?

Cashier: Yes.

Customer: Thanks.

I'd like to point I was in an isoceles triangle with these two gents, meaning I was equidistant from each of them as they were to eachother- and I could hear each of them just fine. Maddening, yet so entertaining.