Monday, June 10, 2013

Summer in the City Is Bullshit

Perhaps it is because I grew up here, but the thing I understand least about New York City is its summer tourist. Like, why? Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do this to me? If I had the money to take a vacation somewhere I would invest in an air conditioner instead, because heat and humidity cause me more anger and misery than the final season of Lost. Summer here is the absolute worst; here’s why.

1) The Subway

I should not complain, because I went to school in Boston and am aware of how useless other transit systems can be, but when I’m paying 5 dollars round-trip it would be fantastic if the MTA could get its shit together. Oh, the B train doesn’t run on weekends? 1 train service past Rector Street is suspended again? The second avenue line is actually an urban legend less believable than the Jersey Devil? Luckily, the subway is a piece of shit year round, so no matter when you decide to visit New York you’ll experience some bullshit setback -- be it that your train is stuck in train traffic for 20 minutes or your bus goes out of service without warning. But if you want to experience the NYC underground at its absolute worst, make sure you attempt a ride in a crowded train car with a broken air conditioner during a 100+ degree heatwave. The only things I know about science are whatever I’ve learned from Breaking Bad, but isn’t heat supposed to rise? Why is it so fucking hot in the subway? Can I Google this? Am I too lazy? Do I need to answer any of those questions for you? Take a cab, bitch.

2) The Cost (...of Movies)

I am joking about the cab, unless you are rich. I am joking about a trip to New York City in general, unless you are rich. Speaking of rich – you know what activity people love to suggest on hot but rainy days? Going to the movies. Movie theatres are cool and museums are for nerds. Want to know how many times I go to the movies? Two or three times a year. Because they cost 14 dollars. If Netflix didn’t exist I would be so uncultured. I would also have more of a life.


3) The People
I don’t really mean ‘the people,’ as though they are some mass conglomerate of Unbearable Terror. I mostly mean the sheer volume of people that exists within a single space in New York, because when you are confronted with throngs of sweaty masses all day, everyday for three to five months straight, even the most innocent of children will piss you off to the point of googling tubal ligation during your lunch break. Most of the rage I feel toward people during the summer (and always) is irrational or misplaced, because so much of it comes from the speed with which they walk or don’t. Since so many people actually are on vacation, they make the decision to walk slower than a bale of dying turtles. This allows them to take in the true beauty of our native wildlife (including but not limited to: roaches, rats and pigeons), while expending as little energy as is necessary – understandable when you consider the oppressive heat and humidity that grows more unbearable with every passing year here. Thanks Global Warming. Speaking of which…

4) The Heat 

This might be an annoyance exclusive to me because, for the most part, I just hate summer. I hate sweating, I hate melting, I hate making the transition from boots to sandals. My legs are pasty white to the point of seconding as a reflective surface, and, honestly, no one wants to see my bare arms. But summer is as good a time as any for me to avoid all mirrors because no matter how good I look when I first leave my apartment, I begin to resemble a microwaved stick of butter a few minutes after emerging from my apartment: gooey and disgusting, with pale yellow undertones. I wake up sweating; I go to sleep sweating; I spend my showers crying. Heat has an amazing way of magnifying everything terrible everywhere. When I was growing up I never understood the idea behind a summer home. Now that my senses have had time to develop, I can finally smell the many layers and nuances of garbage and human waste that send rich people to the Hamptons every summer. There’s nothing like getting hit with a strong whiff of B.O. or dog shit while you’re enjoying a half eaten, overpriced ice cream cone. Fans are bullshit, summer is bullshit, this world is bullshit.

5) The Crime
Just like anywhere else in the world except Canada, you may be murdered if you come here, so just don’t. Please.

Originally posted on Greasy Mag.