2002-07-25 - 10:52 a.m.

I’m not sure if it’s Diaryland that’s started to bore me, or the recounting of life. Or maybe I’m trapped in the throes of laziness and uncertainty. All I know is, time is a precious commodity these days. It’s summer, but of course, and every night you know I could be finding something to do with someone or without (anyone going to see Dave Brubeck for free at Summer Stage tonite? Anyone?). But there’s a certain poetry to sitting on one’s ass listening to the same Clash disc over and over, maybe some classic Fifteen for old times’ – hell, what about cooking mac’n’cheese with Neil and Lauren? That’s pretty good, too. (News alert: the man who deems Diaryland to be alternately “retarded” and “gay” is now in the D and should be there for a good long spell doing his thang. Check him.)

Does anyone read this thing anymore? I feel bad if people are waiting for me to post. But that’s like Sonic Youth. You know they’re sitting around thinking, “Shit, we haven’t put out a new album in a while. What about the kids?” Well, the kids will survive. But once you put out that record, a bunch of them will be filled with enough joy to power their legs in the direction of the Wiz or Other or Harmony House (closing?). However, it’s not like they were online 24-7 refreshing pitchforkmedia.com to snag a fresh morsel of SY news.

That’s like me and this silly thing.

Oh shit, one more reason to visit New York: Flava Flav does the “Geographic Traffic” report on 105.1 FM during the morning show of the Ed Lover and the Dr. Dre (of Yo! MTV Raps fame). Sample translation: Get Withit Bridge = George Washington Bridge. Barbecue Expressway = Brooklyn-Queens Expressway (BQE). One more reason not to listen to Hot Nine Seven, too.

New York story of the week: Actually, this one’s from a few weeks prior. But I never got the chance to throw it up like the sweet tag that it is. Anyway, Nami and I were coming home on the G train from a Sunday-night dinner party in Bed-Stuy. We were chatting or something and immediately my nose caught a whiff of that stanky-sweet smoke. I did an owl maneuver with my neck and found the offender – nonchalantly puffing the end of a blunt in a somewhat populated train car. He throws the roach on the floor. Next station, the train stops a bit too long, and the fat white conductor barrels into the car from his little cubby. “Is someone smoking weed on my train?” he whines. People smile and look around casually, with a few eyes landing on the offender. No one was ready to point the finger, however.

Agitated, the smoker seems to weigh his options. “I wasn’t smoking nothing,” he yells indignantly. The conductor is visibly riled, much more than he should be. He hurries out of the car in a huff.

Confusion, then laughter, follows the smoker’s paranoid ass as he bolts through the car door and on through the turnstile, and flies up the stairs to street level. A guilty conscience needs no accuser, I guess, especially when it's stoned. He’s gone, but the smell isn’t. Well, it almost is. But not to the conductor’s keen sniffer.

The train stops vibrating and seems to settle in for a long delay. Passengers try to get story from the conductor, who’s still skittering among the car, his cubby, and a group of MTA employees who happen to be hanging out at this station’s turnstiles. “He’s long gone,” people are telling him. He treats the car as if it contained an airborne strain of HIV.

Indeed, this conductor isn’t looking to play the hero and catch a scofflaw. No, he’s worried about a possible piss test back at the terminal. “Oh, come ON, man!” one annoyed rider says. “You think you got a contact buzz offa that?” No real punchline to this story. It kinda fades out like the weed smell did from the train as it sat there for fifteen minutes, the conductor waiting for it to air out. What a narc.