On Public Lewdness

This is the face of a grotesque, fucked-up waste of matter.

I was never the biggest fan of New York City. I live here because this is, presumably, where my dream job is/was, and I am tired of moving every six months, so I'm just going to stay put for a while.

Well, maybe not for much longer. I put up with a lot of crap, living in this city. The horrendous smell in the summer, the outrageous price of...everything, the annoying sports fans. But I feel I have to draw the line at sex crimes.

At about 2:15 this afternoon, I hopped on the N train at 59th and Lex to get back home to Astoria. Good ol', safe ol', Astoria. I noticed a creepy Asian dude with a robot in his backpack (...yeah) leering at me from the seat across, but, since that happens pretty regularly, I merely feigned sleep/a deep interest in finding just the right song on my iPod. (Side note: Why are there so many leering creepers in this city? And when I say this happens regularly, I don't mean to imply I'm so attractive I invite that kind of behavior; it happens all the time to all sorts women.)

Once we reappeared above ground on the Queens side of things, I happened to glance up. And got a glimpse of a pretty gross-looking penis. And this motherfucker had the most grotesque shit-eating grin on his face, as though he'd just performed some stunning feat of physical acumen.

Oh my god, no way. This is not actually happening.

Since moving only tends to incite further action on the offender's part, I plunked my head right back into the sand. There were two other people in the car. This is the worst that could happen. Just in case, though, I snapped a picture on my phone under the guise of texting, in case he got away before I could inform the cops.

And then I noticed some movement in my peripheral vision.

No. He is not jacking off. No. This is not actually happening.

It was at this point that I went into some sort of fugue state. My brain was screaming at me to move while simultaneously denying that anything was happening. My body froze.

Just before reaching the last stop, this loathsome waste of matter finally reached his zenith, and aimed right at me.

As soon as the train stopped and the doors opened, I ran to the cop I had glimpsed on the platform and told him, breathless, what had just happened. I pointed the repugnoid out, told the officer that he'd find proof in the first car ("TWO INCHES FROM WHERE I WAS SITTING!"), and offered to stick around to see justice done. Said cop waved me off after I ascertained the creeper's identity. And what did he have to say for himself, this abomination?

"I didn't touch her! I didn't touch her!"

Because that makes it okay, and not a health hazard at all. Of course.

Still unable to believe that this actually happened, I took myself around the corner for a horribly overpriced but much-needed coffee. And, staring out the window at the masses huddled under their umbrellas, I saw...

Him. Walking around as though nothing had happened.

Now, I know things like this happen. People whip out their junk on the train. But...At 2 in the afternoon? On a weekday? And to have actually completed the masturbatory act? That's got to be worth an arrest.

So, thanks, NYPD and Creepy Leering Asian, for making me feel horrifically unsafe and unclean. I'm going to go take a bleach shower now.

Tweet tweet

Well, I joined the ranks of Twitter.

Yeah, yeah. I still don't think my life is interesting enough to warrant it, but...Oh well.

On Normalcy

Image ripped from Wikipedia

There are approximately nine definitions of the word "normal." This rather large number of differing definitions stems from more than just variance from individual to individual; context is key.

In Mathematics:
Being at right angles, as a line; perpendicular.

But in Psychology:
a. Approximately average in any psychological trait, as intelligence, personality, or emotional adjustment.
b. Free from any mental disorder; sane.

(Funny how being different is normal in math, but abnormal in psych.)

I am not normal.

I lie somewhere along the bipolar spectrum. ("Where?" is not a question for which I really have an answer.) I've been this way most of my life; it was a relief to finally have a name--however vague--for what's always gone on in my head.

And after seeing (half) the cast of Next to Normal perform at the Tonys (YouTube clip below), I decided that I definitely needed to see this show. Maybe it would teach me a valuable lesson in finding my way to--well, not complete normalcy, but something close enough.

That didn't quite happen.

The show--about a manic depressive mom and the havoc she wreaks on her stalwart husband and angsty daughter--is magnificent. The cast is unparalleled. The music soars and roars and tugs at the heartstrings more than anything I've heard since The Last Five Years. But it terrified me. That is my future. Mental instability. Psychosis. Laying waste to the lives of everyone I love. Ruining a man whose sole purpose in life is to lift me up.

Of course, this is not something that is guaranteed to happen. (I'm not even sure men like Dan and Henry exist in real life, and you can't ruin an imaginary person's life, so I should be good on that front.) But even the possibility is enough to make you quarantine yourself.

Regardless of how much the show wrecked me, though, it occurred to me that this should be required viewing for anyone who knows a fellow bipolar bear. My hope is that Next to Normal will do for mentall illness (a term I really dislike, incidentally; beyond the stigma that surrounds it, it makes it sound like the flu or something) what RENT did for AIDS. While it's ostensibly about Diana's struggle with mental illness, the real protagonist of the piece is Dan, the long-suffering husband (played to perfection by J. Robert Spencer). It would be easy to write the character off as a codependent martyr (he can't bear to face the world without her; he needs to save her), but there's an earnestness, a sweetness, in him that is impossible to resist. His are the songs that rip your heart straight out of your chest, because you see he's dedicated every fiber of his being to saving his wife. And why? Because forever is forever, for Dan. Because for him, love is stronger than darkness and death.

Like I said before, I don't even know if that sort of dedication exists in the real world. I certainly haven't seen anything like it. And it's hard to imagine anyone who, after seeing the show, would be okay with becoming a Dan. But that's exactly what some of us need, and what many never find.

And for those wondering about those manic/mixed episodes, the descriptions of the sensations are spot on: When a world that once had color fades to white and grey and black/ When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back.

The sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound/...Like a refugee, a fugitive, forever on the run. If it gets me it will kill me/ But I don't know what I've done.



This is what it's like for people like me. Every day. But I guess Dr. Madden (played by the super hot and amazing Louis Hobson) is right: "The one thing that's sure is that there is no cure, but that doesn't mean we don't fight."