People are Morbid...

This is going to be a relatively quick post, but I just thought I would share something that we all know but rarely acknowledge until we see it for ourselves.

People are morbid...

Or perhaps they are just bored, or starved for some modicum of excitement. Whatever the reason, here's the very quick and dirty version of what happened.

So I'm walking to the subway the other day, when I hear a crash. I look up and all I can see is a blue passenger van falling over onto it's passenger side. Without really thinking about it, I whipped out my cell, called 911 and ran to the cars. I reported the accident, assessed the scene (I was an EMT in a former life about 3 years ago) and started to check on the people involved. It was a livery cab (and he seemed fine) and one lady in the passenger van. She had managed to get her seatbelt off, and she looked relatively unhurt. However, everytime she moved, the van would rock precariously.

I'm certain that one grown human couldn't roll this thing too far, but myself and 2 gentlemen decided to brace the van until the EMS and FD arrived. Whilst we are doing this, a small crowd forms. Okay, this always happens. We all condemn it, but most of us do it too.

The thing that gets me is the fact that there are ghouls that just appear and start taking pictures of the accident. "Is there any blood? Is anyone dead?" These could be genuine questions of concern, but I have a feeling it's just the gruesome curiosity.

As soon as the professionals arrived and got her safely out of the van, I proceeded on my merry way. I passed a gentleman as I was leaving and he said "enjoy the rest of your day!" In an actual cheery-sounding voice. Huh? I understand wishing me well or what-have-you, but it just seemed odd. I left while there were still ghouls snapping photos.

The Return of the Loony-Magnet

Oh dear and gentle readers... I know that I have left you for too long. I did not abandon you, oh no. I've just been extra-ordinarily busy with normalcy recently that I have had very little to write about. Fear not! The loonies have reared their ugly heads and have entered my life once more!

So, my fiance and I were driving down a stretch of highway with his son in the backseat (who, why the way, had been particularly bad earlier that day). I believe my boy may have checked the rear-view mirror, but I think he failed to look behind him. Had he done so, he would have seen the beige Ford Taurus in the blindspot on our left. Sadly, he moved to change lanes and managed to clip the Taurus' front fender, sending it into the cement barrier. He was so surprised that he didn't stop until I told him to, which was about 50 yards or so down the road. He reversed back, and we checked to see if the other driver was okay. Thankfully he was (and so were we... Dylan not even looking up from his Nintendo DS in the backseat).

The driver of the other car told us that it was his brother's car, and he was unable to find the insurance information. Whilst he was trying to get in touch with his brother, the illustrious NYPD appeared. They asked if anyone was injured. When we told them no and that we were exchanging insurance info, they said we had it well in hand and they LEFT! I guess the NYPD has no urge to fill out paperwork... however, I'm not really complaining.

Now, apparently people are hard-up for entertainment in the great ol' NYC, because the occupants of certain cars decided that it would be a good idea to shout obnoxious things at us as we are waiting for the tow truck to arrive. Most comments were simple things like "hey, what's up!" and "nice going!" There was some derrogatory profanity as well. Good lord, do people really have nothing better to do with themselves than shout at people who are probably already pissed off on the highway?? From now on, I think I'm going to carry a bucket of rocks in my car so I can chuck them at these kinds of people (if I'm ever in this situation again, which I hope is never).

The tow truck arrived to take the Taurus away (two busted tires and a little body damage... our car just has a dent and is fully functional), but the driver didn't have the money to pay for the towing. Me, being a nice person and feeling guilty about the accident, offered to pay the towing. I made sure the towing company would accept a credit card (they said yes), and we all piled into our car and drove to the body shop.

My fiance and I were bonding with the body shop guy over the Mets and Sunnyside while we waited for the car. The other driver chose to sit by himself outside.

When the truck finally came, he dropped off the car and asked who was paying. I spoke up. Now, mind you, I'm the only woman (and little to boot) in the company of 3 grown men and one small boy. I think this particular tow truck operator (who was not the one at the scene) decided that it would be worth his while to hassle me.

"It's $102."

"Okay," I reply, and I hand him my Visa.

"Don't you have cash?" he says, rather snarkily.

"No, I don't carry that much cash with me."

"What about your boss over there? Does he have cash?" nodding to my fiance.

Now, here I pause and think to myself "my 'boss'?? Excuse me??" However, I manage to keep my cool and I said, "no, he doesn't."

"This is my first job of the day. I'd really rather deal with cash," he continues. At this point, I'm very unhappy.

"Well I don't have cash, so you either take the card or you don't get paid. Those are your options."

He grumbles and takes the card from me. When the transaction is over, he hastily hands me the receipt and drives away.

I had the receipt to the body shop guy to make a copy of it, and he stops short. They charged me for 6 miles of towing when the shop is barely a mile from the scene. So Peter (they body shop guy) instantly got on the phone with the towing company and informed them that he was none-too-pleased that they were trying to rip off one of his customers. He then called my credit card company and helped me to dispute the charge. This guy is my new hero.

We then dropped the other driver off at the subway and went home.

Now I've been trying for days to get this towing issue resolved, but all they do is take my name and number and then never call me back. I've disputed the charges, so I guess if they want to get paid they are going to have to call me back.

So there are loonies on the road and loonies working in the towing industry. And here I thought I had gotten rid of my loony-magnetism.

You Know Your Life Isn't Normal When...

Okay, this one is a little strange even for me. So two Saturdays ago (I know, little late but things have been really busy... and I suck), I'm chilling at the bar with my boy playing Rummy at about 3am. My favorite lady-of-the-night dropped in for a quick drink (and to coke her brains out, but I digress). When she returns from the bathroom after a particularly long coke-session, she decides then it is time to tell me why I shouldn't marry my fiance.

I think to myself, she's a 25-year-old hooker... what does she know about marriage? She then proceeded to tell me what my boy was up to the week before (there's a long morbid story that goes along with this, but frankly I don't care to tell it and it's not really appropriate for this loonymagnet blog... perhaps if I had a blog of "what not to do to your significant other" it would fit better). He was apparently comforting another lady rather closely... nothing happened mind you, but watching his face as she told me this certainly conveyed that this was information he didn't want me to know.

This is not the weird part.

The weird part comes about halfway through her re-telling of my fiance's exploits where she decides to spit-wash me. No, this is not something a hooker does for twenty bucks. No this is the spit-wash that we all had to endure as children. It's the one where your mother (or other woman of equal authority) licks her finger, and then proceeds to wipe a spot off your face with said wet finger. (and would you believe that no one has written an article in wikipedia about spit-washing?? I may have to write one just so I can link it here.)

So, dear reader, not only am I astonished by this, but I'm particularly certain I am now dirtier than when I started.

*sigh*

I can never say that life is dull.

Who thought that was a good idea...

Okay, lunacy aside, can someone explain to me the current fashion trend of little-bitty denim jackets that only cover your boobs? On some people (say, the ones with perfect bodies, or are at least skinny) they are quite flattering. They accentuate the boobs and tiny waist needed to pull off such a look. However, the people that can effectively wear such a garment comprises about 1/10 or 1% of the human adolescent/adult population.

Today in McDonalds (which is certainly not where you would really find the afore mentioned body-type) I saw a young lady in her late-teens wearing this thing. She was wearing jeans that looked at least 2 sized too small, so they were plastered to her, held by a belt, with love-handle rolls extending at least 2 inches over the side, and this mini-jacket.

The mini-jacket just brought her extra weight to centerstage. She seemed comfortable with herself (which I give her props for), but yikes.

Now I'm no twig, so I know I can't wear that thing. But honestly, what real person can?

Sometimes Things Just Don't Seem Strange Until You Stop And Think...

Very quickly, dear readers, since I already tried to post this once and the silly thing erased it. I hadn't been updating because I didn't think that anything really loonymagnet worthy had been happening to me as of late. Then I realized, I was just not looking at things with the proper mind-set:

Last night I was sitting at my favorite pub keeping my favorite fiance company. Round about 2am, as I was desperately trying not to kill a regular patron who just happens to talk out of his ass at all times, I looked down the bar to an aquaintance of mine and her friend.

This aquaintance also happens to be a "lady of the night". She and her friend were sipping their drinks and writing on a pad of paper. As I look over I notice that they are, in fact, playing hangman. I shrugged and went back to my losing battle with my most primal instincts to kill a non-productive member of society.

Eventually the murderous urge was sated by leaving the bar. I got home, snuggled into my bed, and then it dawns on me...

How many people actually have their typical Saturday night include childhood games with a "working girl"?

It's these little anomolies in my everyday that I take for granted. So I will try from now on to share these little morsels of lunacy. Enjoy!

Why Yes, I Am the Human Aphrodesiac...

Oh dear reader, picture this if you will...

I was late leaving work today (work tends to run long since I'm covering two jobs at the moment), so I didn't get out of the building until 5:15pm. Subsequently I didn't get to the subway until nearly 5:30pm. Just as I came down the stairs at the Union Square station a 4 train pulls up.

"Yes!" I think, much in the manner of Brain from Pinky and the Brain.

Now, anyone who has ridden the NYC subway at rush hour knows that the proper procedure for getting on a train is to let the riders off first before you attempt to get on. Then you also know that this rarely happens.

You also know that people will do the "bump and shuffle" to get onto the train. There was an older gentleman behind me that has this down to an artform. I'm trying to get on the train, only able to go as fast as the people in front of me, and every two seconds he is bumping into me; very rhythmically, never missing a beat.

We get on the train and he forcefully squeezes himself behind me just as the doors close, so he is right up against my back. I'm in a spot where there is nothing to hold on to, so I brace my palm against the ceiling so as to not be inertia's bitch.

Now the ride from Union Square to Grand Central Station is literally one stop (perhaps 2 minutes... probably less). Bear this in mind as you continue to read.

As soon as the train is in motion, I feel something warm, hard and encased in pants pushing up against my ass. Now, I understand.. sometimes these things happen. Sometimes you get onto a crowded subway train and are pushed bodily up against someone else. I also understand that erections can happen at inconvenient times. What I don't understand then is why this man proceeded to (again, rhythmically) push his groin into my left butt-cheek.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I was getting dry-humped on the New York City subway at 5:30 this evening.

There was nowhere for me to go; I couldn't even turn my body. I had to be satisfied with turning my head, looking sideways at him and throwing him the dirtiest looks that I could muster (which if you knew my mother you would know these could be registered as lethal weapons).

This did not phase him; he just kept right on humping.

The next 60 seconds feel like the longest in my life, because not only am I fighting inertia, but I'm fighting this guys weight ramming into me every couple of seconds (short girl bracing herself against the ceiling here).

As we approach Grand Central, everyone shuffles around a little in preparation of leaving the train (or getting the hell out of the way as much as humanly possible in this sardine can). The people around me move just enough so I can turn slightly to my left, enabling me to shove a not-so-subtle elbow into this man's ribs.

Good thing I kept a defensive elbow up, because he still tried to make contact into order to rub up against me. Everytime he went in for a pelvic thrust, he got a sharp elbow shoving deeper into his beer gut.

As the doors opened, I moved so he could go first. Of course he didn't. So I got off the train, stepped to the side and waited. As soon as he was off the train I had my camera phone out, and he ran.

I pursued.

We had a few moments of ring-around-the-rosie around a staircase before he shot up the stairs and out of sight.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen: for your safety and for the safety of those around you, please be aware that there is a humper on this train. If you look behind me you will see the perpetraitor. Get a good look folks. Remember what he looks like. Thank you and enjoy your ride."

So someone has to explain what it is about me that causes complete strangers to feel they need to achieve sexual arousal (if not climax) in public in my presence?

There was an incident nearly a year ago when I was sitting in Central Park. I was sitting atop one of the large rocks, reading my book, minding my own business, when a gentleman climbs up beside me. He sits about 10 feet from me. I go back to my book.

In a matter of moments I hear inappropriate slapping noises. I turn my head just enough to get a glimpse of what is going on. He climbed the rock to sit next to me and whack off. He was finished shortly, put himself back in his pants, and climbed off the rock.

Apparently this is my superpower. Look up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! No! It's the Human Aphrodesiac!

They Must Have Radar

You know, my loony-magnetism has been relatively quiet of late. It makes for an easier life, but not for terribly interesting blogging. Yesterday marked the end of that for me, and so dear reader, this is probably the start of a very interesting ride.

So yesterday I am walking to train (running late, as usual), and I find myself about 50 feet behind an older gentleman who is walking the same way. This is not peculiar.

There is no one else really on 48th street that particular morning, but at 8:30am or so, this is not peculiar.

Now, I am a fast walker by nature (even before I moved to NYC I was a fast talker and walker), so I was creeping up on this gentleman. I got to about 10 feet behind him, and he stepped to the side, stopped and turned to face me. This is slightly peculiar.

He then proceeds to sniff at the air (which admittedly smells of burning incense, probably from one of the open windows we are walking by) and says to me in an Eastern European accent, "smells like fire."

"I think someone is burning incense," I reply.

"I think it is the marijuana. That is why I like walking on this block," he says matter-of-factly.

This is also slightly peculiar.

I smile, bid him a good day, and walk past. He then decides to walk with me, struggling to keep up with my pace while asking me, "do you know the world is going to end next week?"

Getting more peculiar...

"Why, no," I say.

"Yes; Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday a meteorite is supposed to hit North America and we are all going to die."

"Oh, I guess I won't need to pay my rent then, will I?" I attempt to walk faster, but he insists on keeping up.

"No. I hope the meteorite hits here, so we all die first."

Okay... too peculiar for me.

Not that I don't understand the sentiment; honestly, who wants to survive a catastrophic natural event just to be killed off slowly in the aftermath? However, this is my cue to leave. I bid the gentleman a good day and quickly climb the steps to the train platform.

I swear they must have radar.