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.

On Midtown

Thoughts on a morning stroll through midtown today:

• I'm used to spring being winter-lite in Chicago, but isn't New York supposed to be warmer than 34 degrees in the middle of April?
  
• Everyone coming out of Grand Central during rush hour looks absolutely miserable. I'd love to see those "Free Hugs!" people from Union Square try out their schtick in Grand Central. Best case scenario: Grouchy commuters become less grouchy. "Worst" case scenario: Someone gets punched in the face. There is no bad here.
  
• Wearing absurdly tall heels and then walking from 40th and 5th to 60th and 3rd is not, perhaps, the best idea. Not a bad workout, though.
  
• If you are a potential employer, why would you ask a potential employee to bring her resume and then make her fill out a six-page application in which you list all the information on your resume? Is this not horribly inefficient?
  
• I officially crossed the line into Grammar Nazi territory when I actually erased an erroneous apostrophe from a sidewalk sign. Though in my defense, it was fairly egregious: "New Yorker's Don't Like Waiting!" I don't have a "Don't Like Waiting;" do you, bitch?
  
• Since when is breakfast over at 10 a.m.? I call bullshit.
  

On Not Being a Dickwad

The first R-rated movie I saw on my own (once I finally reached that magic age of 17) was Closer. I'd just finished one of my first shifts at the movie theater, and I was super excited to take advantage of the "all the free movies you want" perk. So I settle back, prepared to partake in some delicious Clive Owen-Jude Law-ness, and I see them.

They're sitting in the very back of the theater, this young couple. And with them is...a stroller. With a small child in it.

This child then proceeded to cry at the most inopportune times (read: almost the entire movie). I couldn't fathom why this couple had brought its spawn to a 10:40 p.m. showing of a ridiculously explicit movie

Fast forward four and a half years or so. I'm seeing Coraline in 3-D with a friend. Due to some pretty ridiculous complications (like the Jonas Brothers...it's a long story), we end up going to the AMC in Times Square (Times! Square! Augh!) for an 11:10 p.m. showing. Now, I know Coraline is PG, but there is some scary shit in that movie. Not that I ever plan on having spawn of my own, but I wouldn't take a kid under 9 to the theater to see it, much less at an 11 p.m. showing on a Sunday. But of course, that's what we found. Dozens of families with their squalling four-year-olds attempting to drown out whatever disturbing noise was coming from the screen. As soon as we had reached the street, my friend and I each yelled about the horrific parenting we'd just witnessed.

And then there was Watchmen. A family (an entire goddamn family, mind you) not only subjected their five-year-old boy to that movie, but also brought an infant.

This so far past the line of "inappropriate," we can't even see it. There are so many things wrong with this situation that I need to outline them.

A) Your poor son is going to have nightmares for weeks about this. Seeing people's arms chopped off? Dogs with their heads split open? A five-minute-long softcore sex scene?

B) Your infant's screaming fucked up the movie for everyone else in the audience, you insensitive clods. It is neither my fault, nor anyone else's, that you either decided to breed or forgot to use a condom, so do not inflict your troubles upon me. You want kids? Accept the fact that for a while, you'll barely be able to leave the house.

C) You spent an extra how much for a seat for that kid? If you can afford to do that, hire some tween in need of some cash to watch them for a few hours.

In conclusion: It is not that difficult to avoid being a completely horrible parent. This is common sense. Do not bring your small children to incredibly graphic movies really late at night. And, movie theaters? Stop letting this happen.