This weekend I saw several episodes of the critically acclaimed HBO show The Wire, the new Scorsese film The Wolf of Wall Street and read about half of one of my Christmas presents, the book The Information Diet. All three did an excellent job of attempting to disillusion me about society, specifically with respect to the seemingly eternal imbalance between money/power-fueled greed being the mechanism behind most of advanced perception of existence and those who care about something deeper, such as magic, art, poetry or all three. Even so, I really enjoy checking back in with society by once again investigating portrayals of our systems, something I have shunned in recent years, if only to feel better about not letting my attention be absorbed by them, however much they inherently affect our lives.
After work I had to go to Queens to check on my car and run it for about twenty minutes so the engine would stay fresh enough, and as an added bonus I had dinner with my friend who had generously hosted me on his couch for my first few months in the city. On the way there I was reading a very serious explanation of why humans tend to click on and pay attention to the things they do and how that obscures the transmission of true information, and how media isn't trying to brainwash anybody but is simply acting upon its own impulses to be as profitable for shareholders as possible by giving people what they already know they want (just like fast food ignores nutrition).
While immersed in this book I noticed that several people standing in front of me had taken off their pants. At least ten of them. They were all wearing underwear. I changed trains at Times Square, and I saw more and more people without pants. The same on the way to Queens. I couldn't figure it out. Somebody had muttered something about a party in mid-town, but they wouldn't be without pants on the way to Queens if that were the case. And why did they take them off as soon as I got on the train? Later my friend responded by saying it must be "international no pants day on the subway," which apparently is a real thing. I just looked it up, and it started as a joke by an improvisation group in New York in 2002. One of the creators said, "The mission started as a small prank with seven guys and has grown into an international celebration of silliness, with dozens of cities around the world participating each year."
Metro
We ate at this Louisiana soul food restaurant in Astoria, and toward the end of the meal this band began setting up right near where we were sitting. Then this very concerned waitress came up to us apologizing profusely and telling us that we needed to move to another booth because these guys with drums and a tuba were setting up to play soon, but hoped we would accept a free round of drinks as compensation for the inconvenience. We were almost done anyway, so we happily moved to a comfortable six-person booth with pillows for back support, and I had another glass of red wine while the band played New Orleans jazz. Also, while reading the presidential themed place mats, I learned that Franklin Roosevelt took office in 1933, and Harry Truman was the 33rd president. Not bad for the leaders of the US during World War II. The band didn't play very long, and as we left the bar, the radio was playing "Hey Jude."
Afterward I took the subway back to Harlem, but when I got on the N train I saw a very serious looking man holding an enormous yellow smiley-face balloon, so I had to get on that car with him. It wasn't your typical yellow smiley face. It was showing teeth, and the eyes had little white circles inside of them, instead of your standard black eyes with a simple black parabolic smile. Meanwhile, the wine agreed with my mood, and when I emerged at 137th street I was ecstatic to see the moon shining above. I realized I was standing there for probably too long for someone who wasn't on drugs, and I hoped someone was looking at me funny, and I thought that maybe one day I would get a chance to explain to someone who thought I was strange that someday we wouldn't be here at the cutting edge of time as we know it, and that when it's all over, we'll probably wish we stood and stared at the shiny sunlight reflecting off the moon at night instead of worrying about what other people thought of us. Then again, if I was truly a man of principle, I suppose I wouldn't have been wearing any pants either.
After work I had to go to Queens to check on my car and run it for about twenty minutes so the engine would stay fresh enough, and as an added bonus I had dinner with my friend who had generously hosted me on his couch for my first few months in the city. On the way there I was reading a very serious explanation of why humans tend to click on and pay attention to the things they do and how that obscures the transmission of true information, and how media isn't trying to brainwash anybody but is simply acting upon its own impulses to be as profitable for shareholders as possible by giving people what they already know they want (just like fast food ignores nutrition).
While immersed in this book I noticed that several people standing in front of me had taken off their pants. At least ten of them. They were all wearing underwear. I changed trains at Times Square, and I saw more and more people without pants. The same on the way to Queens. I couldn't figure it out. Somebody had muttered something about a party in mid-town, but they wouldn't be without pants on the way to Queens if that were the case. And why did they take them off as soon as I got on the train? Later my friend responded by saying it must be "international no pants day on the subway," which apparently is a real thing. I just looked it up, and it started as a joke by an improvisation group in New York in 2002. One of the creators said, "The mission started as a small prank with seven guys and has grown into an international celebration of silliness, with dozens of cities around the world participating each year."
Metro
We ate at this Louisiana soul food restaurant in Astoria, and toward the end of the meal this band began setting up right near where we were sitting. Then this very concerned waitress came up to us apologizing profusely and telling us that we needed to move to another booth because these guys with drums and a tuba were setting up to play soon, but hoped we would accept a free round of drinks as compensation for the inconvenience. We were almost done anyway, so we happily moved to a comfortable six-person booth with pillows for back support, and I had another glass of red wine while the band played New Orleans jazz. Also, while reading the presidential themed place mats, I learned that Franklin Roosevelt took office in 1933, and Harry Truman was the 33rd president. Not bad for the leaders of the US during World War II. The band didn't play very long, and as we left the bar, the radio was playing "Hey Jude."
Afterward I took the subway back to Harlem, but when I got on the N train I saw a very serious looking man holding an enormous yellow smiley-face balloon, so I had to get on that car with him. It wasn't your typical yellow smiley face. It was showing teeth, and the eyes had little white circles inside of them, instead of your standard black eyes with a simple black parabolic smile. Meanwhile, the wine agreed with my mood, and when I emerged at 137th street I was ecstatic to see the moon shining above. I realized I was standing there for probably too long for someone who wasn't on drugs, and I hoped someone was looking at me funny, and I thought that maybe one day I would get a chance to explain to someone who thought I was strange that someday we wouldn't be here at the cutting edge of time as we know it, and that when it's all over, we'll probably wish we stood and stared at the shiny sunlight reflecting off the moon at night instead of worrying about what other people thought of us. Then again, if I was truly a man of principle, I suppose I wouldn't have been wearing any pants either.
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