Thanks for Four Years of Awesome
So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish
Blogged Around Philly: Farewell Edition
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When I first saw that SEPTA was conducting a campaign to cut down cell phone conversation on their trains, I have to say I was skeptical. No amount of pandering, I thought, would stop passengers from making incredibly urgent calls to talk about the prior night’s debauchery or the conflict at work that only a complete narcissist could spend more than five seconds thinking about. But, alas, I have to say the signs with the juvenile clip art seem to be working. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve definitely heard less high-maintenance drama queens whining about why the demise of their one-month relationship is the end of the world. Makes me think that SEPTA might want to get the five-year-olds at their advertising agency started on some other ideas. Campaign slogans have been provided.
They’re Listening to Bjork, So Don’t Be a Dork – There are two reasons I listen to music on the train: a) I like music and b) I want to forget the presence of other humans. Still, at least once a week, I end up next to some chatty fellow who feels the need to start up time-killing conversation. And it is never anything important. There is nothing more annoying than having to take out your ear buds, ask some dude to repeat his query, and have him state, “Some weather we’re having.” I know it’s hot, buddy, your brow sweat just dripped on my City Paper, but I don’t see a need to converse about it. Other favorites of the small talk crowd include, “How about those Phillies” (not good enough, per usual), “Train’s a little bumpy today” (no, it’s not; always the same) and “What a day!” (tell someone who cares). Do me a favor? Leave me alone until you want to talk about something globally pressing…wait a minute, Paris Hilton got out of jail yesterday?
Grab Another Chair, But Only If You Dare – For a person like me, who grabs the train at Suburban Station, it is a familiar scene: waiting on the platform, hoping a door will stop in front of you so that you can be one of the first people on. On the lucky days, I can get on quick, grab a two-seater and usually someone follows and sits down next to me. That’s where all the fun begins. For, at Market East, there is a decision to be made, namely what to do when the Market East clientele get off. Should the person stay with me, a generally svelte 185-pounder of tolerable scent, or move to the open seat where the scenario to unfold is as unknowable as what is in the briefcase on that show with the bald, washed-up comedian. It used to anger me when someone would decide to roll the dice. But now I just sit back and chuckle when said violator is inevitably joined by a nonplussed mother and her three whiny pre-schoolers, or a pair of our more ample Philadelphia citizens. My advice? Love the one your with, or be prepared to pay the consequences.
At the End of the Retreat, Try an Open Seat – Nothing is worse than being crammed into a SEPTA three-seater after a hard day reading ESPN.com at work. OK, there is at least one thing worse, such as when the person doesn’t move to an open seat as the train begins to clear. While I suppose the person who falls asleep, snoring like a toddler, can be excused, what’s up with the person who sits there oblivious to the world, staring at nothingness, or even worse, sticking their Metro in the grill of the unlucky person crunched into the middle? Perhaps the person just got comfortable in their chair of worn horsehide and cold steel, or maybe they have a desperate craving for human contact. I don’t know. What I do know is I don’t want to fold myself up like an accordion when the rest of the train is emptier than The Bravery’s eventual Greatest Hits collection.
Please Don’t Eat, For the Smell Is Not So Neat – I thought it was bad enough to have to deal with the “hoagie” pits of some of the more sweaty Philadelphia commuters. But I hadn’t smelled anything like the one day when some guy brought his Wawa shorti onto the R6. Seriously, in a closed-in, humid space, the smell of oil, vinegar and varied Italian cold cuts is flat-out stank. Same with Buffalo wings. Same with Chinese food. Is it really too much to ask a person to get into the comfort of their own car before making a slob of themselves? The 45-minute train ride is long enough without having to sit next to some Neanderthal while he treats his T-shirt like a pack of Brawny napkins.
She May Be Fit, But She Doesn’t Have to Sit – Personally, the whole “offering ladies your seat” thing confuses the heck out of me, but I have learned to adapt. When I first started taking the train after a long stint aiding global warming via my busted Chevy Malibu, I thought it was my duty to give my seat to any human being with two X-chromosomes. Only after getting daggers shot at me countless times by females feeling I was treating them like a charity case did I learn to sit down and shut up. Now I only stand up for pregnant women and AARP-card holders, and I have even been turned down by members of these groupings. Anyway, the sit/stand dilemma is a tough one, and it makes our final train violator all the more annoying. You know, the uber-gentleman who offers his seat to the attractive lady in hopes of getting her number, or even worse, through some pathological need to be thought of as chivalrous. Problem is this guy draws immediate scorn from everyone on the train. First, every guy who has not given up his seat looks like a jerk immediately. Second, every lady that is made to serve out the ride on their aching tootsies wonders why he gave the seat to the lucky lady in the form-fitting trousers. These guys like to claim that this is how their mother raised them to act. Well, when Moms rides the train you can give her a seat. Until then, remain on your ass and stifle the need to get your Sir Walter Raleigh on.
Image Credit: Flickr user child3283
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