Yesterday I went on an awesome tour of the Atlantic Avenue tunnel. Built in 1844, it’s the oldest subway tunnel in the world, it was lost from the public and a bit of an urban legend until it was rediscovered in 1979. Now, you can take tours.

I showed up at the corner of Court St. and Atlantic Ave., and climbed down a manhole in the middle of the street, into a passage way, carved out from the dirt. Squeezing through a narrow hole in a concrete wall, I entered the tunnel.

The space is massive and runs for four city blocks, over a quarter-mile long, four stories deep and dark as shit with rubble strewn all over.

Walt Whitman wrote of the tunnel:

“The old tunnel, that used to lie there under ground, a passage of Acheron-like solemnity and darkness, now all closed and filled up, and soon to be utterly forgotten, with all its reminiscences; however, there will, for a few years yet be many dear ones, to not a few Brooklynites, New Yorkers, and promiscuous crowds besides. For it was here you started to go down the island, in summer. For years, it was confidently counted on that this spot, and the railroad of which it was the terminus, were going to prove the permanent seat of business and wealth that belong to such enterprises. But its glory, after enduring in great splendor for a season, has now vanished—at least its Long Island Railroad glory has. The tunnel: dark as the grave, cold, damp, and silent. How beautiful look earth and heaven again, as we emerge from the gloom! It might not be unprofitable, now and then, to send us mortals—the dissatisfied ones, at least, and that’s a large proportion—into some tunnel of several days’ journey. We’d perhaps grumble less, afterward, at God’s handiwork.”

It definitely ranks as one of the neatest tours I’ve ever been on. Tours are infrequent, but you can check for dates here and make reservations.

Here’s a set of photos that I took while down there.

This morning, I rushed onto the 2/3 train, heading into work, managing to catch a seat. As I settled, I spotted my upstairs neighbor a bit farther down the car from where I was sitting. I was about to wave when a man sitting next to where she was standing leaned over a let loose a massive wave of multi-colored puke onto the floor, liberally splattering her legs and feet.

Not even pausing for a moment of shock, she runs from the train, barely making it past the closing doors; I assume to go home and clean up. People quickly start moving to my end of the car. Meanwhile, Mr. Yakkity continues to hurl forth streams of joy and partial digestion.

For three whole stops, the man kept barfing. He must have had a second stomach or something, because it was fucking impressive. Someone gave him a bottle off water and some napkins and eventually, the torrent of chunks tapered off and stopped.

After wiping off his backpack, the guys stays on the train (thanks for that, buddy) and just slides down the bench, away from the scene of the crime and acts like nothing happened.

Gross, yet slightly exciting. I wish more morning commutes were like this.

This morning, on my way to work, I made my usual transfer to the 4 train. Seeing an empty bench, I was about to sit down when I noticed a fairly serious shit (as in feces) smell. The bench looked clean, so I figured the girl in the corner was having some kind of diaper explosion and decided to deposit my body elsewhere, settling into the bench across from her.

Sitting there, with the smell still hitting me, I looked again and noticed that the edge of the seat was smeared with nasty, toxic diarrhea. Splattered and smeared—god knows why. The girl was sitting just outside the range of it, but seemed oblivious. Subways just smell bad sometimes.

Soon after, the train pulled into a station and when the doors opened, people flowed in, gunning for a seat. Noticing the stench, they checked the top of the bench and then sat, completely missing the fecal death smeared on the sides.

I sat there, watching them wrinkle their noses at the smell of their morning commute, stifling laughter as they rose and exited the train, the backs of their legs marked with the contents of some crazy fuck’s bowels.

Today is going to be a good day. I can smell it already.

I think the plan to have heavily-armed police randomly patrolling subways is a fundamentally stupid, fear-mongering, ineffective and money-wasting load of shit.

In the first counterterrorism strategy of its kind in the nation, roving teams of New York City police officers armed with automatic rifles and accompanied by bomb-sniffing dogs will patrol the city’s subway system daily, beginning next month, officials said on Friday.

Under a tactical plan called Operation Torch, the officers will board trains and patrol platforms, focusing on sites like Pennsylvania Station, Herald Square, Columbus Circle, Rockefeller Center and Times Square in Manhattan, and Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.

Officials said the operation would begin in March.

Financing for the program will be funneled to the Police Department and will come from a pool of up to $30 million taken from $153.2 million in new federal transit grants to the state.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Each team in the operation will comprise a bomb-sniffing dog and six officers: a dog handler and a sergeant and four officers from the Emergency Service Unit who will be outfitted in heavy, bullet-resistant vests and Kevlar helmets and will carry automatic weapons, either an M-4 rifle or an MP5 submachine gun.

This does nothing except intimidate people, waste money and promote fear. Pathetic. Atlantic Avenue is a daily stop for me. I’m not looking forward to commuting a route patrolled by some underpaid douchebag with an automatic weapon. Is the city going to equip the commuters with kevlar?

This weekend, as I was standing on the platform of my local Brooklyn subway station, heading into Manhattan for pizza, I noticed this homeboy coming down the stairs on the the opposite platform across from me. His winter hat was pulled low, covering his right eye completely with the obligatory puffy coat and too low pants represented. Noticing his shuffling gait, I got the idea that this guy was some strain of seriously fucked up; stoned, drunk…something.

I guess I my attention had shifted for a moment, but when I looked back, the guy was suddenly on his ass in the middle of the train tracks. On an almost completely deserted platform, he’d managed to somehow lose his balance and take an ass-dive off the edge.

Struggling to get up at a pace conveying that he didn’t catch the gravity of where gravity had landed him, the few people that were around yelled at him to get the fuck up and off the tracks because a train was coming (although it was a decent distance away, well enough to stop if warned sufficiently) and a woman ran up the stairs to alert the station agent. Finally standing, the guy shuffled around a bit like a zombie, before deciding that the best idea was to go to the middle space between the Brooklyn and Manhattan-bound tracks. So, he steps up onto the third rail covering, which, as unreliable and fucked up as he was, is a supremely retarded choice of foot placement, regardless of the the barrier shield above the electrified rail. More yelling at him ensues and eventually he shuffles back to the edge of the platform and a woman and a young man haul him up to safety, where he promptly drops his ass onto a bench and zones.

Pretty much everyone had their hearts in their throats the whole time, except me. Not only did I not feel sympathy, I was kind of rooting for the train to paste him. If the fuck is stupid enough to get that trashed and try and take a train, he’s basically earned his spot as professional rail-grease. The world doesn’t need his genetic pollution. I only wish I’d remembered to take a shot with my phone’s camera.

Yesterday morning, I got on the subway to go to work, leaned against the door and started reading a book as I normally do every weekday. After a few minutes, I noticed that several woman looking at me like I had just crapped on the floor in front of them. Dirty looks just for being the beautiful creature I am is not an unusual occurrence in my life, but as they persisted in staring me, I kind of snuck a look around and at myself to see if there was something really wrong that I was missing, like maybe I was standing in a homeless-puddle or something gross and offensive.

To my horror, I saw that my fly was down. Not just unzipped, but the flag was fully lowered, open and exposing my dorky-ass blue boxers with the stupid golf ball pattern. There I was, advertising to the the subway car what was going on in my pants. In their eyes, I was rank and file alongside the perverts, mad subway masturbators, crazies and other such dirty and undesirable gutter-scum. How I made it two blocks to the station and onto a train without noticing the homemade wind-tunnel for my testicles—I cannot fathom other than to guess that I was a bit groggy and scattered that morning.

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After years and years of mild toe and ear frost-bite, below freezing temperatures, snow up to my ass and an omnipresent state of moist, damp socks, I thought I would never reach a state where I would long for winter. Well, fuck it. Give me snow. Bury me in permafrost. New York City in the summer is twisted form of Hell and I’ve fucking reached my boiling point. I’m ready to go rabid shih-tzu on something.

I’ve dealt with 100+ degree days many times before in Vermont, but there you have the benefit of clean air as well as much less congestion and grime. Here in New York, stepping out into the street feels almost like slipping into a hot bath. Hitting a major street is like having wool blankets thrown over your head, while is this same bathtub. The heat coming from all the cars more than noticeably jacks up the discomfort. It’s nasty, but not half as bad as going underground to take the subway.

Subway platforms are the single worst place to be in New York during a heat wave. Above-ground is hot, dirty and disgusting. Beneath the streets is worse—concentrated heat and grime, coupled with screeching train noise and crowds of moist assholes. I’ve always heard that violent crimes jump during heat waves and I’ve never doubted it.

Standing in the dead heat, with my clothes sticking to me as a dirty ceiling fan blows oven-hot air about, I want to kill everyone. Luckily the reality of exerting myself to commit mass homicide is too much to bear. It’s too hot to go postal and I’m far too pretty for prison. Those people that are responsible for the crime rate jump on these hot days must have balls of ice, because for me, just walking from point A to B is hard enough.

This morning, having defused my alarm clock without really having awoke, I was forced to eject my ass out the door at a normally undesired rate of speed. I grabbed what I could, made sure I was clothed and nothing that might get me arrested or slapped was hanging out of my pants and charged the subway station to make my daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

I have a personal rule of always riding in the very far front or back cars of the trains in New York City. My theory is two-fold. First, the middle of a train is always the most crowded, much like how when entering a subway car, people take two steps in and stop completely, therefore crowding the entrance while leaving the rest of the train quite spacious. This is due in large part by the fact that people in general are fucking brainless sheep and deserve to die. We of the smarter elite should eat them, but that’s another post. My second reason, by virtue of the first, is that if ever there was a bomb or some crazy-ass motherfucker (aside from my innocent self, of course) decided he wanted to kill a bunch of people, all that shit’s going to go down in the middle of the train because that’s where you can cause the most damage. Call me paranoid, but its a habit I picked up in 2001 for what, at the time, I saw as a very good reason and to this day, I don’t really see a need to change.

So, when the train pulled into the station, I hopped into the very last car. Usually, the train is moderately crowded at it’s ends during the morning rush hour, so I was surprised to find an empty seat available. I looked around and saw at least four people standing nearby. If you get on a train during rush hour in NYC and there’s an empty spot with people standing nearby, understand that something is up.

I checked the empty seat. No spilled coffee or sketchy foreign smears of unknown organic nastiness. No half-eaten chicken wings. Nothing wrong there.

I checked the other occupants of the bench. Two middle-aged Asian ladies speaking mandarin and elderly white man in a ratty tweed coat, knit hat and serious case of ear-hair who appeared to be snoozing. I can handle that. I sat down next to the man and after settling my bag and getting out a book, I started reading. About two minutes later, I was startled by a sound to my right.

“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuungh!”

It was the old man next to me. I looked over, noticing that his eyes were still closed and aside from the outburst, he still seemed to be sleeping. Whatever, I thought. Old people make fucked up noises all the time—it’s part of being old. I fully intend to make a shitload of disturbing exclamations in my sunset years, so who am I to take offense at his? I went back to my book with part of my brain painting rosy pictures of a withered and ancient visage of myself screeching profanity at children and whipping my catheter tube around like a dangerous weapon.

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This morning, I left home in Brooklyn at seven-thirty and started walking to work. My office is right by Madison Square Park, so the distance I needed to cover was about 5.7 miles. I slapped on the hat and gloves, screwed the mp3 player to my ears and started moving.

I hadn’t been to work since the transit strike started, spending two days as a shut-in with my eyeballs stapled to video games, mumbling to my cats. One can only have so much fun, so I decided that I’d best make some effort to get in to work.

I crossed over the Manhattan bridge, walking through Chinatown and Little Italy till I hit Union Square and finally Park Avenue. I’ve never done the walk in before and while it was interesting and fairly picturesque in an ugly, New York way, it sucked fucking donkey ass. It was really cold. I would have taken pictures, but my hands were freezing and I didn’t want to take them out of their gloves.

It took me two and a half hours to get to my office. I froze my ass off and really wanted to stop in Chinatown for Dim Sum, but was running late as it was. Faced with the probability that I will have to walk back the same way at the end of the day, it is completely not worth the trouble to come in.

I’m at a slow point the year for my production schedule, so technically, I’m fine to not come in till Tuesday, but I felt bad missing so much, so I figured I’d do the walk at least once. I sure as hell will not be doing it tomorrow. I’m done.

This transit strike seriously blows. I don’t care what happens or who gets fucked in the ass over it, but those trains need to start running again. It’s ridiculous.

Last week, I had just stepped out of my office in Manhattan for my lunch break when I heard a guttural groaning close by and to my left.

“NUUUUUUUUUNNNGGGGHH…GAAAAAHHHHH!”

Turning to look, my eyes were scarred, possibly forever, by the sight of a greasy, smelly, dirty and probably insane homeless guy, semi-squatting on the sidewalk next to me. Mr. Stanky had his pants down and was holding the New York Post under his butt like reading the news with his ass was an everyday thing and taking a huge shit. Whatever the guy’s motives (it was the Post…) or mental maladies, rather than stand around and ponder, I quickly put some anti-stank distance between myself and this man in the process of taking a huge dump at one in the afternoon, in front of my office on Park Avenue.

I’ve been living in New York City for five years now and I can unfortunately admit that this moment of fecal fun was not my first experience of being exposed to the bowel movements of the city’s indigent and insane. If you live in here, at some point you’re going to see some skanky homeless person drop one. It’s horrible, especially when you’re about to get food.

You know you’ve reached the pinnacle of stanky homelessness when you cheerily take your pants down on a crowded street and without a second thought, vomit out of your ass. You are a star amongst your peers. You are captain of the fecal cornucopia. No one can touch you, in large part due to the fact that you smell really fucking bad and more then likely do not wash your hands, ever.

I remember walking down twenty-third street, by Madison Square Park one year and finding my way blocked by a toothless and grinning old woman, skirts raised, gushing a geyser of piss onto the sidewalk. I actually made eye-contact by accident. I recall her idiotic glee far too well. It was a happy pee for her, no doubt.

Another time, I was in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, having just entered the Grand Army Plaza subway station, when as I started down the stairs to the platform, I noticed a neatly dressed and elderly black lady with a nice, middle-class, grandmotherly air about her some distance in front of me. Near the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, put down her shopping bags full of groceries, shuffled a bit and squatted. I thought that she was perhaps tired and had sat on the steps to wait for the train as some people do. Nope. Grandma was taking a piss. After leaving a huge puddle, she hoisted her pants and walked on to the end of the platform, toting her purchases.

I can’t pretend to understand the motives of someone willing to violate this extreme social taboo. I guess you could chalk it up to insanity. Perhaps it’s a lack of any environmental sensitivity due in large part by being socially invisible as a homeless person. However, you can argue that it could be intentional by virtue of this same defense. Hey, look at me! I’m taking a shit on your toy poodle! I’m a person! Whatever the reason, be it defendable or not, it’s fucking disturbing.