Once the train to New Haven leaves Grand Central Station, which it does approximately every half-hour, it travels underground until it reaches 125th St., Harlem, where it emerges from the depths to travel overground, amongst the buildings either half-constructed or dilapidated, buildings which themselves rest on the rock unit known as the Cambrian and Ordovician Inwood Marble. But it is not until the train moves beyond 125th St., and into the Bronx, that you begin to notice geography, specifically the northeastward-trending structure of the region. The New Haven line traces this natural curve and spoons the coast at it travels through the south-Bronx and into Westchester County. Once it crosses the Harlem River the train balances upon a narrow sliver of the Cambrian Manhattan Formation, until it reaches Fordham and cuts east across a small portion of Cambrian and Ordovician Inwood Marble. The eastward bounding train traverses a bit of the Preterozoic Fordham Gneiss before continuing upon the vast Cambrian-Ordovician Hartland Schist, which makes up the majority of the northeastern seaboard between New York and New Haven.

From the window of the train you can see rock outcroppings jutting from the earth at every imaginable northeaswardly-trending direction. These outcroppings somehow display a combination of necessity - chance - and order that mirrors that strange alchemy of the city one has just departed.

The city, urban life as we know it, is dependent on two things: Rocks and Elevators.

My boss's father had the fear of getting peanut butter stuck to the top of his mouth - Arachibutyrophobia. Seriously, this was something that concerned him, something that may have caused him to lose sleep. Other unusual phobias:

Fear of Thousand Island Salad Dressing
Fear of Ramen Noodles
Fear of Undercooked Tater Tots
Fear of Pie

This is how someone describes their fear of pictures of sharks:

I have another form of Selachophobia (Fear of sharks) If I touch a
picture of a shark's head (especially with its mouth open) it can still
bite my fingers off. I remember once in fourth grade we were reading a magazine, and I was holding it up the whole time I was reading. And since I was a faster reader than any of the other kids in the class, I got to the last page and dropped the magazine, kicked over my desk(hitting the child in front of me and injuring her) and scrambled onto the kid behind me's desk, all the while screaming bloody murder. I had been touching a shark's picture the whole friggin' time! Three teachers came running from different classrooms. I got into so much trouble just because it was "ONLY a PICTURE of a shark." I also have the phobia of a shark popping up in the pool and I won't take baths. Lakes are avoided at all costs and...the ocean? Yeah right.

I have only normal fears: success, commitment, the opposite sex, etc.

What the fuck's the deal with putting large flat-screened televisions in every restaurant? Not only are they now ubiquitous, but they are actually put forward as a selling point: "Come to our restaurant, ignore your date while watching SportsCenter!" WTF?

There is a man who haunts Washington Square Park with a troupe of trained pigeons. Nobody knows - I don't know - if these are birds which have come from a home, perhaps his own home, where they are trained, their performance cultivated, or if instead they are indeed "wild" birds that have become so accustomed to his presence that they can't seem to stay off his arms and shoulders.

The question, bearing as it does on the indeterminacy of markers distinguishing the natural from the manufactured, opens upon the question of the meaning of home. Whatever.

Today on 13th St., between 5th and University, I witnessed a 'hobo' passed out in a planter while his companion rummaged around near him for the cigarette that had fallen out of his hand. Not 25 yards further down the road, there gathered a crew of about 5 young adults who thought that in front of the doggy gym was good place to smoke a joint. What struck me was the mutual indifference shown by both the group of young ruffians and the passersby and the business owners. Nobody seemed to give a shit, and that made me happy. I love 13th St.

Friend tells me she got eye-raped by Adrien Brody while walking down Spring Street last week. She noticed him from about a block away, looking her up and down. As they passed, he actually lowered his sunglasses and smiled. An odd experience, she said; apparently, though she's quite attractive, visual assault is not something that happens to her on a regular basis.

This is funny because I remember being like 19 years old, sitting outside a coffee shop on busy Friday night downtown, and making extended, unflinching eye contact with a girl in a convertible as she was stopped in traffic. It was noticed by my friends, who suggested that I had just made visual love to this complete stranger. At the time, I felt the same way - like me and this completely random, though smokin' girl had some kind of cosmic connection, and if only we could have met...

Alas, now I'm starting to think that I, actually, eye-raped this girl. I comfort myself by imagining that if we had met, she would have suffered from halitosis.

Fuck Titles

Seriously, I think titles may be the one obstacle that prevents me from blogging more often - well, that and the fact I don't own a computer. The pressure to come up with a witty, appropriate heading for whatever bullshit I might have to say has stood in the way of my sharing my unique and fascinating world-view with others, and I'm over it. So, now that friend has loaned me her computer for the summer, I am eschewing titles - get ready, world, for random musings not gathered under a title, subtitle, or any other organizational heading (alright, well, date, but only because it's programmed into blogger).

And yes, I realize that this is indeed titled. Last one, fuckers.

Things I'd Like to Say to Girls, vol. 2

I want to hold your hand and walk through the Village and buy you dinner and make you breakfast and make you know how good I really am.

Like Two Boats Passing in the Fog

Me: Hey Dad, what's happening?

Dad: So, your Mom says your in the New York Times, huh?

Me: Yeah, Dad.

Dad: Has that gotten you laid yet, or what?

Me: Well, uh, not exactly, Dad. I mean...

Dad: What are you, Doggy Boy?

Me: Yeah Dad, I'm the Doggy Boy. Thanks.

Dad: Don't get all sensitive.

Me: Nah, Dad. I'm just fucking with you. Alright, talk to you later, Dad.