PT Diaries...Entry #3: What Time is It?

I need a lil extra dose of Jesus on some occasions...and it seems lately, public transportation has caused me to need a gospel prescription. (This blog is completely random, I warn you, but then again, aren't blogs for venting?)


These are the PT (Public Transportation) Diaries:




Monday:
It's the middle of the day, the only time the 4 train has a chance to be empty. I take my pick of the plethora of seats in this car. This luxury rarely happens so I take my time, then settle on a bench across from a couple talking. Engrossed in finishing this poem that is due in an hour, it takes a few minutes for me to look up and examine my fellow passengers sitting across from me.

While her cleavage very much drew the attention of all who passed by (whether male or female, straight or gay), the thing that caught my eye was her large, patent-leather square purse...that had a clock in it.

I pride myself on being excellent at description, but I knew no one would fully grasp the pure comedy in the bag alone. And I didn't talk Verizon into giving me the Blackberry Curve with a camera for no reason...






I am the queen of cracking myself up...but what makes a personal joke even more funny is when someone points it out for you.

A panhandler boards the train after a few stops. He begins lamenting his situation:

"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry to bother you all today but I am homeless. If you have any..."

He trails off when he sees the lady. He tries to continue.

"If you have any...wow...yo, she really has a clock on her bag. Yo, that's some Flava Flav ish." He laughs aloud.

"Sorry, if you have any spare change...yo, my sista has the right time on it, too. That's wild." He lets out a hearty laugh as if he'd forgotten the heavy burden of hunger and homelessness for just one moment. He continues his speal, never quite recovering from that encounter, but leaving me with my hands rubbing my cheeks- I was holding my laughter in that much. I was even tempted to ask her where she got the purse from, but I didn't. One, it would've come across as sarcasm (which it would've been), and two, she's a sizable chick who just didn't look friendly.

That purse would've been a great Christmas gift for SOMEONE that I know and love...any takers? Mahogany? Kiki? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

The PT Diaries #2...The Crazy Man

I need a lil extra dose of Jesus on some occasions...and it seems lately, public transportation has caused me to need a gospel prescription. (This blog is completely random, I warn you, but then again, aren't blogs for venting?)


These are the PT (Public Transportation) Diaries:


Sunday:

I waited for the 2 train heading downtown from Borough Hall after seeing 'Nothing Like the Holidays.' It was a great movie followed with a Soy Chai Tea Latte with Light Foam from Starbucks, so you know I was feeling good.

As the train enters the station, I measure it out perfectly so that I'm in the car that would let me out right in front of my exit. I sit at the end of the seats in the middle of the car. I notice a man leaning on the door across from me. He appeared to be near his early 40s, had a bit of grey in his hair (or were those dust bunnies?), and his dark
brown hands were extremely ashy. He wore a electric blue suit that
reminded me of what my mom told me about crazy folk: They tend to wear very bright colors when they're about to go 'off.' This was definitely an off day.

It began with him mumbling to himself, then it became a conversation...with himself. The subject changed from Obama's presidency to a fight he was supposed to be prepared for.

'Come on. You ain't no punk. Don't let him chump you. You running? You better not run. You can handle this. Take care of this. What you gonna do, huh? Huh?'

I smile at a little girl across from me who's just staring at the man with a look of confusion on her face. She sees me and smiles back, but glues her eyes to this inner argument going on on the train.

It's Atlantic Avenue when the person next to me gets up and frees a seat. Crazy comes and sits right next to me. I keep very still. (You know how they say crazy dogs chase you when you make sudden movement.) He's too restless to stay in one place, so gets up and leans on the door. He looks at his reflection, and punches it. Then the conversation gets softer but more aggressive, and he punches himself in the arm. Not hard but enough to confirm that this is indeed his 'off' day.

He does it a few more times, then stops to get off at Sterling Place. I pray that he walked the few blocks away from the station to check himself in at Kings County.

Only on the train...

My Diary...The Public Transportation Diaries

I need a lil extra dose of Jesus on some occasions...and it seems lately, public transportation has caused me to need a gospel prescription. (This blog is completely random, I warn you, but then again, aren't blogs for venting?)
These are the PT (Public Transportation) Diaries:

Sunday:
I love my 2 train, but I ended up on the A headed to tape for the upcoming movie review site I'm working on (www.movielife.tv). I get on the PACKED train at 34th street, but I have a decent space near me. We New Yorkers appreciate our personal space, so I'll assume the woman that gets on the train at the next stop isn't from around here. The train pulls out the station and she immediately falls on me. I suggest to her that maybe, just maybe, it would be smart to hold on to the pole. She takes my advice but is so engrossed in her conversation with another lady and a gentleman that she keeps bumping me. I try to move over and take several calming deep breaths.

Praise God, I get a seat. Then I almost say a cuss word as someone next to me gets up freeing a seat...and a half. I see the woman and her rather large friend move towards the seat (and a half). They sit next to me, forcing me to buddy up with the lady on my right. Praise God, the two people on my right get up. I tell myself someone up there loves me, only to see the man rush me to slide down so he can sit next to his sistahs. Another man claims the seat since I didn't move as quick at the Brotha needed me to. The man who got the seat decided the brotha wanted it waaaay more than he did, so he gets up. So as I begin to slide down, the brotha starts to push my leg saying "Okay, move ova, move ova..." I'm sorry, Lord, but I couldn't take it anymore.

"Excuse me. You do NOT need to push me. I am moving down. Thank you!"

He mumbled to his people "Boy, people are so angry nowadays."

I wonder why? Somehow, my iPod which was on shuffle lands on Commissioned's version of "Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus." Just what I needed as I got off at Nostrand Avenue.

(I can't stand the train)

What's Really Most Important to Me...

One thing I can say about every guy I dated (with one exception), THEY ALL HAD GREAT TEETH. It's kinda my thang. I'm a sucker for a nice smile. Some may call it an Oral Fixation of some sorts. Straight, pearly whites make me so weak in the knees...SWV knew how I felt. And I take very good care of mine so naturally I expect the same.

While leaving the gym, walking through the mean streets of the renovated Fort Greene area, I crossed paths with a guy who was a caramel-mochiotto complexion, cinnamon lips, and soft brown eyes that glittered through the shadows of the street-lamps above us. In layman's terms, he was FIIIIINE! So fine that I forgot I was on the phone and did a double-take. He apparently liked what he saw: me with a matted mess of hair peaking from a black inconspicuous hoodie, blue jeans, my beat-up gym shoes, and a duffle bag big enough to take him home with me...that is if I wanted to. Lol. He asks my name, and I give him the real one. He starts to mouth his digits, and as I struggle to figure out how not to hang up on my homegirl and save a new number, I notice....
THE TOOTH NEXT TO THE TWO FRONT ONES WAS DARK BROWN.
His stock crashed faster than JP Morgan's.

Is that shallow of me? I think not. I have noticed a trend. People wear nice clothes, new jewelry, fresh kicks on their feet, get a sharp hair cut, then in all of the process of getting fly and suited up, forget their teeth. I've seen so many cute guys that would fail the "Scratch Test." So I'm implore you all to do it with me right now just so you know whether or not I'm talking about you. :)

Step 1: Take your index finger or the one with the longest nail, and hold it front of you.
Step 2: Smile your cheesiest smile. (Think first grade school photos-type smile.)
Step 3: Use that finger nail to scratch your front tooth from top to bottom.
Step 4: If you get a nail full of gunk, EWWWWW! If not, my phone number is...just kidding. But you get my point.

Taking care of your teeth is soooo important. The state offers free health insurance which includes dental. And if you can buy some Dior shades, you can afford at least a yearly check-up and cleaning. Your toothbrush should scrub EVERY tooth in your mouth or you're not doing it right. Left, right, up, down. Get em all! And if a tooth should go bad or missing (primarily if it's in the front), get it checked out.No one should have that yellow layer of gunk on their teeth or on their gums. Floss, use an index card, shoestring, whatever. These are the simple things that make a difference. This goes hand in hand with body odor and wiping crust out of your eyes in the morning. Gentlemen (and ladies, you're not exempt from this), I want you all to be fly and stay fly. While the inside is most important, it's hard for me to want to get to know some one who looks like they may have been chewing on their platinum chain instead of just wearing it. Get those pearly whites or off-whites hooked up. Sometimes an extreme makeover isn't really that extreme.

Stay Sexy,
Stay Blessed,
Shanelle Gabriel