The Writing Bug is Back

To e-read or not to e-read?

Live From The Real World has been on a bit of a tape delay these days, but I have a good excuse! A new job and a long-awaited leap into an industry I'm passionate about have consumed this blogger's life for almost two months already. Time flies fast when you're adjusting to a field that you have little to no experience with, excluding the bits and pieces of knowledge I've collected over the years from my father, a longtime publishing pro.

Now that the rocky intro period is subsiding and I'm finally beginning to settle in, I hope to return to this blog on a more frequent basis. In the meantime, I'm happy to report that I recently became a contributor for the website to the Young to Publishing Group, a networking group for entry-level and junior publishing employees in New York City. My first write-up on YPG's enhanced e-books panel is this week's featured story, and can be found here.

Happy reading! Please feel free to share any thoughts or comments on the article.

The Ten Commandments of the Subway

Blocketh not a car door
(unless it's 8PM on a Friday night)

Brothers and sisters of the city, you are all well aware that the New York subway system is full of sinners. Every day we encounter persons who break one or more of the precious rules making up the unspoken underground social contract. And yet, if only we all did our best to honor and obey the following set of commandments, the subway would be a better place for you and for me.

They read as follows:

I. Thou shalt not standeth in front of a turnstile fumbling for thy Metrocard or blocketh a train car door while others are waiting to enter.

II. Thou shalt enter the car quickly during rush hour; thou shalt not hinder your entrance into the car when others are behind you also seeking to enter.

III. Thou shalt not carry mountain bikes, furniture, palm trees or other outrageously large items into the car.

IV. Thou shalt not take up more than one seat on the train; thy rear end must stay contained to that seat and that seat only.

V. Thou shalt not touch your train car neighbor unless you are acquainted with him or her.
i: Thou shalt not exhibit sudden bouts of narcolepsy and rest upon your neighbor's shoulder.
ii: Thou shalt not elbow your neighbor without recognition of the occurrence.
iii: Thou shalt not spread thy legs to the point of gently straddling your neighbor.

VI. Thou shalt not sneeze, cough or expel any other bodily fluids onto thy neighbor.

VII. Thou shalt not remove any articles of clothing while in transit; thou must enter and exit car fully clothed (including footwear).

VIII. Thou shalt not raise thy voice to unmanageable decibel levels, unless thou must do so to ward off oncoming predators such as mutant pigeons.

IX. Thou shalt not carry a particularly pungent sub/hoagie/hero/whatever the hell you happen call a sandwich onto a crowded subway car and proceed to unwrap and eat it, spilling crumbs all over the floor.

X. Thou shalt not preach absurdities about God, the Apocalypse, minorities, and related topics amongst thy neighbors... for Christ's sake.

Thus spoke the gods of the underground.

For hilarious and tragic examples of the most outrageous subway sinners, visit Subway Douchery, Seat Hogs and Train Pigs at your own risk.


Which subway commandments are you a faithful follower of? Are there any that should be added to the list?

Rites of Passage

Careful what you say, New Yorkers.

I'm excited (maybe a bit too excited... oh who am I kidding, I deserve it!) to report that a conversation I submitted to Overheard in New York was officially deemed humorous by Team Overheard and published on the site. Go to the main page, scroll down to the posts dated 7/11/2010, and you'll find my little nugget of an exchange between a mother and her daughter on the subway.

 

Now Quit Whining and Drink Your Cappucino

Little girl: I'm gonna be 4!

Mom: In December.

Little girl: In December!

Mom: And you're gonna be this short forever. You're not gonna grow.

Little girl: Whaaa-aaaat?

--Q Train

Overheard by: Brigid

 

FYI regarding OINY submissions: the reader sends in the quote, and Team Overheard writes the snarky title. In this case, I think they did a fine job. I'd like to thank God, my parents, and the crazy people on the Q train for making this Gothamist's dream come true.

 

On the note of accomplishments, today marks one year since I officially sold my soul joined the working world. I could say something obvious like "Time flies!" or "Where does the time go?" but I won't. Looking back on a major life event almost always puts us in awe of how fresh the event still feels in our heads. On July 13, 2009, dressed for success and fifteen minutes early, I was shaking like a chihuahua in that elevator on my way up to Orientation Day 1. And a year from now, I'll be open-mouthed and wondering how RWY2 (Real World Year 2) will already have come and gone. So it goes.

 

Anyway, one year of waking up at 6 AM, hour-plus subway commutes within my own borough, and working for the man five days a week deserves a personal pat on the back. One down-- a few more to go.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Just over a week ago, a makeshift bomb was found in a car in Times Square. I was just blocks away from the area with a group of friends when Twitter and text messages alerted us to the news. The keywords: "suspicious vehicle," "street closures," "police activity." Fighting the initial urge to panic, I reassured myself that we were out of harm's way and told my friends we didn't need to relocate. The night went on.

The armor I put up for my friends and family, the mantra I reiterate to myself, goes something like this: it takes a lot more than a car bomb to scare me. The only justification for that statement is that I've lived through a lot worse. Not on a daily basis, thankfully, but on one particularly bad day. Tatooed on my brain, its memory pops up more often than I'd like to admit.

As a New Yorker, I'm supposed to keep going. I'm supposed to tell myself everything is going to be just fine. I'm supposed to buy one of those trendy red mugs that read "Keep calm and carry on" at Barnes & Noble (a slogan originally created by the British government in 1939 for propaganda posters that were never sold). What a perfectly marketed item in this current atmosphere of silent dread.

What I mean by that is not a time of outright panic and hysteria, but rather a lingering, back-of-the-brain paranoia. This kind of dread builds itself up underneath a facade of normalcy. A fear that's simultaneously subtle and ever-present.

Even if I could pack up and leave (pending financial independence of course), would I do it? This has always been home: my home, our home. Every other place I end up living in will always be compared to New York, the measure of all cities. I like to believe I'd embrace my big move with open arms, but uprooting is easier said than done.

So then, how to live in New York against such a backdrop? Keep calm and carry on? Appropriate instructions for ushering kids out of school during a firedrill, no doubt. Not always effective.

A more accurate slogan to epitomize the state-of-things: "If you see something, say something."
These words have appeared on MTA ads for years as part of a subway safety campaign. They're a quiet call to arms, directing us to be avid crime reporters in case we're needed. "If" is the keyword used here as opposed to "when," implying that we most likely won't be needed. We live for that possibility that everything really will be okay.

As New Yorkers, as innocent civilians, as everyday working stiffs, all we really want is the right to remain exactly who we are: the steady, uninterrupted heartbeart of the city. We don't just carry on-- we beat on.

WWW: Writers' Workshop Wrap-Up

Six weeks have come and gone. Now that my writing class at Gotham is finally finished, I'm left with a number of afterthoughts.

1) My instructor, Cullen, was smart, witty, and likeable. This might not sound too impressive, but come on-- the guy spent three and a half years in a Korean prison for smuggling hasish when he wasn't much older than I am (and directly led to his 1st published memoir). He had stories to tell and a fun personality, which made it much easier to drag myself to class at 7 PM on a Monday night. (I had also been expecting an air of pretentiousness coming from these Gotham instructors, but I didn't get any of that from him.)

2) The class was a wee bit overpriced. The initial cost was $295, but they tack on a $25 "registration fee" which brings the grand total to $320. The good news is that if I ever want to take another class, I get $30 off as a returning student (and an additional $30 off if I were to sign up before a certain date). But yes, this was no minor investment for a recent college grad living on a budget.

3) The experience wasn't what I expected it to be. The class wasn't a true "workshop" such that our writing assignments weren't exactly, well, workshopped. Each week, a number of us read our pieces and listened to reactions from our classmates and instructor. But this feedback primarily consisted of comments that began with "Well, I liked it because..." or "It was good because..." etc, etc. In other words, everyone routinely refrained from saying overly negative things, and I wasn't going to go ahead and be the asshole to do it first. While it was definitely reassuring to hear praise about my work, more constructive criticism would have been beneficial. Then again, this was only a six-week-long intro level course, and from what I've seen on the website, it appears that it's the ten-week-long class that follows the traditional workshop format.

4) Attendance was choppy, which was disheartening. During the first three sessions, we had a full house of 12 students plus the teacher. For Week 4, only five of us showed, which I attributed to the Yankees/Phillies Word Series game going on that night. But Weeks 5 and 6 resulted in similarly low numbers, and that's when I knew that people had lost interest. I don't understand why anyone would fork over $300+ for a writing-intensive class and then not show up to half of the sessions. Then again, these people were older adults in their upper 20s, 30s, and 40s and clearly had money that they were willing to spend. Still, if I were in the same position I doubt I'd waste my own money like they did. (On the plus side, the small crowd did contribute to a more intimate setting.)

5) I don't regret taking the class. Overall, it did exactly what I initially wanted it to do: get me writing. The in-class prompts and weekly assignments forced me to pick up a pen and paper (or keyboard and monitor) and put my thoughts into words within a given amount of time. I also frequently read my work out loud, a huge confidence booster for somebody as painfully shy as I used to be. A lazy student I was not, coming to each class and completing all of the weekly home assignments. Because of this, I probably stuck out like crazy as an overeager recent grad still mentally trapped in a world of deadlines and homework. So what though? My education isn't over yet. I hope to be back in the classroom in the near future, getting a master's in who-knows-what-ology, so I've got no problem being in a school state of mind. Honestly, I refuse to let my brain waste away.

So that's the rundown. I've spoken with several friends who were either interested in or had some past experience with Gotham, so hopefully this assessment contributes to what current, former or future students have to say as well. And now that I've got my Monday nights back, I'm really hoping to devote more time and energy to this little blog of mine, because I think I've been neglecting it to a degree. Which means it's time to scoop up DTRW in my arms and take better care of this thing. Back to [dodging] reality for me.

Gotham Writers' Workshop Assignment #1: Memoir

Each week, I'll be posting my latest writing assignment from the Nonfiction 101 class I'm currently taking at the GWW in NYC.
Feel free to comment; I value any and all reader feedback.

Prompt: Make a short list of three big realizations you’ve had in your life. Pick one and write 500 words about the event or events that led to that realization. Stretch your memory, draw out the telling details, and keep in mind the natural arc of a narrative (beginning, middle, end).

Have at it, and good writing to you.

I was five years old when I met Gina in Miss Jones's kindergarten class. We used to sit next to each other at lunch, picking the crusts off of our turkey sandwiches together. Gina could never seem to stay in her seat in class. Each time she had to use the girls' room, throw out a raggedy tissue, or claim the best easel for Art Time, she had to pass my desk on the way. And every so often, Gina would sneak up behind me and plant a tiny kiss on my cheek, breaking out into a fit of giggles before darting away quickly. I would wince and rub it off, shrieking "eww" in front of my tablemates. Why, then, did I look forward to it every day? Gina's family moved at the end of that school year. I don't remember her last name.

* * *

As I entered middle school, pool parties were all the rage if you were lucky enough to have a summer birthday. Getting invited to one felt like winning the golden ticket to a land of inflatable pool toys, infinite piles of cheeseburgers, and do-or-die chickenfights in the pool. But my eyes were not drawn towards these things. I recall standing aside from the pack, observing the swimsuits of my female friends hugging their bodies' subtle curves, my head feeling lighter than the inflatable inner tube I'd just been clinging to minutes earlier. When it was time to head inside the house to change out of dripping wet pool gear, the group always preferred to change in the same tiny, crowded bedroom. But I dissented, grabbing my clothes as fast as I could to retreat to separate chambers in search of solitude. Just before my mad dash at Laura Rogers's 11th birthday party, she and another girl came right up to me and asked “What’s the big deal? We’re all girls here!” I turned and bolted to the bathroom, locking the door shut and blocking it with my body, even though no one had followed me.

* * *

Throughout high school, I often spent hours at the riverside park just one block away after my grueling day was finally finished. One warm spring afternoon, Rebecca and I were sitting on a green bench right by the water. As we watched the shimmering crystals that danced upon the waves of the Hudson, Rebecca silently moved from the upright position to horizontal. She gently lowered her head onto my lap, stretched her legs out along the bench (one crossed over the other), and closed her eyes. I breathed short, choppy breaths, and stole a glance at her illuminated figure before continuing my steadfast gaze upon at the river.

Perhaps it was then— when the still serenity of that moment washed over me— that I knew this was, and always would, be a part of me.

Writing About Writing

I've always found that writing about writing tends to fall into self-indulgence. Even as I just begin to compose this entry, a squawky little voice in my head is telling me: "don't try to sound like you know what you're talking about too much."

Such reservations most likely stem from my perpetual awareness of what an amateur I am. Why should anybody listen to what some 22-year-old-- just a kid, really, in the grand scheme of things-- has to say?

And yet, that very question is exactly what motivates me. What do I have to say? I'll prove it to you. If another human being can connect with or derive some kind of meaning from my written word, then I know I've succeeded... mostly. (I don't believe that anyone is ever 100%, fully, truly satisfied with what they've created. Even if you're 99.9% happy, there will always be that irking 0.1%, which leaves you with two choices: cast it aside, or let it eat at you. As much as I try to pick the former, the latter often wins out.)

So here I am. This is the period in my life where I'm aspiring, hoping, dreaming that I can one day turn an interest into a career. How does anyone even begin to do this?

There's only one way I know how: cultivate. It's like taking care of a plant: unless I nurture this passion, it won't grow and develop into something greater. Letting it die would be sad, but it would be even more pitiful. And just downright lazy. (I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure of this.)

Thus, with my college newspaper column gone (and a circulation of 5,000+), the first step was the very blog that you're looking at right now. These past few months, DTRS has been an adequate outlet for those sporadic bursts of inspiration that bubble up in my brain. When they threaten to spill over, that's when I take up the pen and paper (err, keyboard and monitor) and get to work. While I certainly don't write in it as much as I would like-- the daily 8:30-4:30 is more draining that I initially predicted-- I'm just glad that it didn't crash on the takeoff and fizzle quickly into a failed experiment. So far, so good.

The next step: I just began a six-week "Nonfiction 101" writing course with the Gotham Writers' Workshop in Midtown Manhattan. If you're a New Yorker, then you've probably seen their little yellow newspaper kiosks interspersed on street corners around the city at some point. After 3 months to the day (eep!) as a full-time working stiff, I've felt achingly inhibited both intellectually and creatively (the true nerd actually misses being in class-- that's me). So I signed up for a course with Gotham while I could still afford it (the student loan bills start rolling in next month-- I know nothing more terrifying at the moment).

The verdict is still out. I'm the youngest person in the class, and the only recent college graduate. The "students" include five lawyers or lawyers-in-training, two therapists, and several businesspersons. Oh, and our teacher is a published author who spent three years in a Korean prison when he wasn't much older than I am now. An intimidating environment? Pardon my language, but I almost shat myself.

And yet, it felt strangely familiar at the same time. All fourteen of us sat around a rectangular table facing one another. We did a series of writing exercises pertaining to memoir and shared some of them with the class. I forced myself to raise my hand and read, because I've done this before and can do it again. Spontaneous, in-class, timed freewriting-- an activity that many find natural and liberating-- is actually my Achilles heel. (I'm the nut who thinks too much and agonizes over each and every word. Ask my girlfriend; she's seen me at my worst.) All the more of a reason, then, that I should be working on it.

As jittery as I can be, I try to remind myself that if I had allowed fear to defeat me, then I honestly wouldn't have accomplished much of anything in my life. Coming out, giving Villanova a chance, and letting myself love and be happy-- none of these would have happened. I can't even fathom the thought of a universe in which I'm still trapped in my 17-year-old body. Repression and regret got me absolutely nowhere, and the same lesson can be applied to writing: as much as writing frustrates me to no end, I'm a thousand times more frustrated when I'm not writing.

Let that be my mantra. As much as life is so uncertain at this stage, at least I've found one thing I'm absolutely sure of.

Bye Bye B Express: The Current "Q"-tastrophe on the Brighton Beach line

I have a bone to pick with the MTA. That statement probably doesn't shock you in the slightest. After all, what New Yorker hasn't had a complaint about the subway system? No, I don't mean foot-long rats scampering across across garbage-littered tracks. That's nothing.

I'm talking big: service disruptions, construction, track work. One might say these things are an inevitable part of any public transit system, and that their purpose is, ultimately, progress and improvement of that system for the good of the community. And I probably would have agreed with that.

That is, until September 2009 wreaked havoc on the Brighton Beach line in Brooklyn-- home to my beloved B express & Q local trains.

Actually, it's worth noting that the problems began long before September. For months, the Avenue U and Neck Road stations on the Q have been closed due to construction. In their place popped up the oddly-named B3k shuttle bus, which originates at Kings Highway Station, making stops along Avenue U between Ocean Avenue and Gerritsen Avenue. What's silly here: 1) The B3k doesn't actually stop at either of the blocked-off stations. Ocean Avenue is as close as the bus gets to the Avenue U station (located 4 blocks away on E.16th St), and it doesn't go anywhere near the Neck Road stop. Not quite as helpful to commuters as it should be. Additionally, the local businesses around the Avenue U station in particular are probably suffering.

Anyway, here's what happened next. At Kings Highway and several other express stop stations, signs were posted explaining that there would be no B express service in Brooklyn for a period of two weeks due to ongoing track work. Thus, the B would operate on the local track with the Q. I groaned out loud when I heard the news. The morning and evening rush hours would undoubtedly be delayed to some extent. An annoyance, but at least it was temporary, right?

Wrong. Soon after the original posters were put up, new ones stated that the B express service was now being terminated until (drumroll, please) Fall 2010. Upon taking in this revision, my jaw dropped and fell to the floor, in a manner not unlike a cartoon character.

While the thought of having to wait at least a year for the B to return is just awful, what angers me more is how the MTA sneakily chose to break the news to commuters-- by, well, withholding the truth from us. Did they think that initially telling us of a "two-week service disruption" would soften the blow of a two-YEAR disruption?

That's right-- in the middle of writing this post, I logged onto the official MTA website (www.mta.info) only to discover that this massive project has now been extended a year until Fall 2011. That information sure as hell isn't printed up on any posters yet (but it is on the web site, finally).

It's infuriating, and yet there's nothing much straphangers can do but write frenetic, useless letters to local officials. Oh, and bitch about it to one another (which will certainly occur more frequently with the arrival of colder weather, while waiting endlessly for a train to come with the wind nipping at your face).

And now, here is the icing on the cake: for the past two weekends, shuttle buses have replaced the suspended Q train service from the Kings Highway to Prospect Park stations, due to-- you guessed it-- more track work. Thankfully, there are both local and express shuttles (the express zips right to Prospect Park in one stop), as well as a much-appreciated connection to the 2 train at Flatbush Avenue. But God help you if you're the poor sucker stuck on a local shuttle-- a typically quick journey on the Q becomes a hellish crawl through the middle of Brooklyn. My guess is that this weekend shuttle bus mess is going to continue indefinitely as well, just like the B express cancellation. Of course, as usual, the MTA chooses not to tell us this until whenever they feel the time is convenient. Lovely.

Thus, three major problems-- the Avenue U/Neck Road station closings, the banishment of the B express, and the weekend Q shuttles-- are occurring simultaneously along the Brighton line. In all honesty, this kind of thing would never happen to commuters living in that fancier, more expensive borough across the sea. This is more than enough to expect us to put up with, especially considering the recent fare hike (I find myself now longing for the "two dollar days," a now-golden era in NYC transportation history preceding the financial crisis). Is our money really going towards progress, or are we simply getting ripped off? I suppose that the proof is in the product. All I can say is that the "new" stations, post-construction, better be flawless in every way. Or, more realistically, they can at least shine with the brightness and beauty of modernity that characterize much of the Manhattan underground. It's the only way that anyone can endure the next two years of commuter chaos and still stay sane.

So just how much more shit will be dumped on Q/B train users this year? Stay tuned, Brooklyn. We really have no choice but to, comme d'habitude, wait and see.


[*P.S. Forgot to comment on the impeccable timing of this mess. It just couldn't have happened while I was away at school-- no, of course it had to perfectly coincidence with my current post-grad situation, i,.e. living back home and commuting 5 days a week. Ah, life has funny ways of playing tricks on us, does it not?]

9/11/2009

Amidst the horror of September 11, 2001, what I tend to remember most about the day is just how beautiful the weather was. The sky was cloudless, a near-sparkling blue. The sun was shining. The temperature comfortably hovered in the 80s. All of the ingredients for a perfect summer morning.

Today's weather was just about the opposite-- unseasonably cold, wet, gray. Any sign of summer seemed to be long gone. The wind thrashed my umbrella about wildly and sent shivers through my body. After a trip to the financial district to collect my long overdue employee ID, I trudged to work damp and crabby.

At my desk, I watched MSNBC's live broadcast of the ceremony, suddenly transported right back to the streets of lower Manhattan that I had just left. I watched face after face read name after name, realizing that this was the first time in five years that I am actually in the NYC on 9/11. Perhaps that's why I chose to watch more coverage, more clips-- both new and old-- this time around. Then again, I had to shut off the broadcast when I felt my eyes getting too wet.

I can't ever block out memories of earthquake-like rumbles, running up the West Side Highway, and thick black clouds covering the sky. I would tell you that I'm grateful I didn't see planes hit, towers fall, or people die firsthand, but it feels like I did. The footage on TV is all too familiar to me-- I lived through it. I lived. Others didn't.

I kept a copy of the NY Daily News from September 12, 2001. It's hidden deep under my bed, in an old Adidas shoebox. The cover reads "IT'S WAR" in huge fire-orange capital letters. Just a few days later, another cover read "10,000 FEARED DEAD" in that same ominous print. Just typing it out makes me twitch.

In one way, all of it still seems like a part of my not-too-distant past. But with each year that goes by, what happened feels like it belongs to another era, a completely different part of time, of history, my life. It's a strange duality. Handcuffed to history, time ticks on, life continues.

I don't really know how to properly end this entry, because there's a degree of absurdity in trying to tie this subject up with a neat little bow of closure. I could say so much about everything, but I don't know where to begin, how to put any of it in order, to where to stop.

The Myth and Magic of Summer

I can't help but feel a bit melancholy about today's date. 9/1. September 1. The first day of... fall?

Wait a minute. That's not true. Technically, summer isn't over until September 22-- a full three weeks away from now.

And yet, something about the instantaneous change from August to September puts me in the mindset that it's already fall. Or rather, that fall is on the way, even when it's still a hot and humid 85 degrees outside in New York City. Crazy, right? (Today is an exception. Oddly enough, it was chilly when I left my house for work this morning. Take 85, reverse those digits and that's what the actual air temperature was!)

If there's any scapegoat here, it's got to be that infamous back-to-school Staples commerical. You know, the one they've been playing on TV since 1999 featuring an overexcited dad, his two depressed kids, and the "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" jingle? Retailers are all too eager to mistakenly tell us that autumn is already here, and that we better stock up on school supplies, clothes, bedding-- among other material things-- before it's too late. Thus, it becomes awful hard to savor the last days of the summer season. They slowly slip away.

However, things seem to be different this year, not just for myself, but for my fellow freshly-graduated peers from the Class of 2009. For the first time in about eighteen years, many of us are not returning to school-- "no more pencils, no more books" couldn't be any truer. As long as the warm weather holds up, it'll feel like we're still on summer vacation. Not too shabby.

In all honesty, summer should be far from over, especially given this year's circumstances. For most of the Northeast U.S., June 2009 proved to be a total washout. I can only recall a total of maybe five, six days when the sun decided to make a special guest appearance to the citizens of NYC. It was gloomy, dark, depressing. Let's hope this doesn't become a pattern in the years to come.

Growing up, I tried my best to cherish the summertime as a precious, well-deserved break from the neverending chaos and stresses that the academic world imposes upon its victims-- err, students. Childhood saw many fun days at home during the summer weeks with my siblings and cousins. Field trips to various NYC parks, museums, and the beach can be attributed mostly to my father, who took on the role of stay-at-home dad for several years ("Mr. Mom" he wasn't). As I delved deeper into my teenage years and entered my twenties, summers began to be taken up by job and internship commitments, which formed an awkward taste of adulthood in my mouth. And just two summers ago, I felt myself falling deeper and deeper into something that I thought I always understood, but realized I never truly did until then. Until two very different, yet very similar bodies in orbit aligned perfectly together, bringing sense and purpose to the universe. Yes, love-- I owe that to the summer, too.

While it's strange to not be back at Villanova and already planted at my usual desk in Falvey Library, I do enjoy this new and extended version of summer I'm currently experiencing. True, I have a job, so it isn't exactly a vacation-- a fact I'm constantly aware of as I sit at yet another desk under the glare of flourescent lights. But this September, I'm going to make the most of all that's left of summer. Without papers and exams to worry about, these last few weekends at the shore and in the city, spending time with the girl from two summers past-- for she is still my summer love, past and present-- will certainly taste even sweeter.

Notes from the Underground

Anybody who's anybody knows that the New York City subway system is no ordinary place. Spend just a single day riding one of the many trains belonging to the MTA's color-coded spectrum, and you're bound to come out with at least one interesting story or two. (Or three. Or ten.)

These stories can be good: happy, cheerful, uplifting. Perhaps you had the pleasure of listening to a three-piece Mexican mariachi band play a few numbers right in the middle of the train car, complete with cowboy hats and bow ties. Or maybe you watched a seven-foot-tall tattooed punk rocker give up his seat to the pregnant woman who already had a child glued to her hand. There are many little miracles that happen underground.

Unfortunately, the subway can also bring out the ugly in New Yorkers (unless the ugly was there all along, of course). And lately, I see more and more of it.

This past summer I've witnessed a noticeably increase in the amount of nasty confrontations and hostile behavior that take place on and around the subway. These bizarre blowups happen fast-- in a number of seconds-- and they turn scary in an instant.

In the Union Square N/R/Q/W train station a few weeks ago, a white man and a black woman were arguing (I didn't see the incident that sparked the fight). He hurled the N-word at her, and she called him a "f-ng white bastard." This was all in front of the woman's daughter, who remained completely silent and couldn't have been older than ten.

Then, on the Q train, I heard a woman across the car tell a man that she would pull out a knife and start "shaking it all over, God damn it" if he brushed against her one more time. Whether or not the physical contact had been accidental, I don't know.

And today, a man began addressing an invisible opponent on the Q. Every other utterance out of his mouth was a curse word of some sort. He had a small child at his side-- the boy's feet were too short to touch the ground from his seat-- that I assumed to be his son. The man even got up at one point and attempted to open the door that separates one car from the next (which any Q train user knows are always kept locked). I could feel the droplets of sweat forming on my neck when the man suddenly exited the train at Newkirk Avenue to switch to the oncoming B express, dragging the boy behind him. The image of that kid being pulled away like a rag doll wouldn't leave my head until all traces of light disappeared, and we were swallowed up into the underground tunnel to 7th Avenue.

So what is it that makes rationality go out the window and cause subway-goers to lose control-- aside from the obvious possibility of mental illness or emotional instability?

Claustrophobia and impatience may be at work. Every day, we pack ourselves onto crowded trains, giving up personal space and privacy in exchange for a [relatively] speedy commute. All of that stored energy squished together just can't remain inert for too long. At some point it fizzes up, bubbles over and, as witnessed, explodes all over the place. Gross.

On the subway, too many human bodies become forced to do something that we're supposed to learn on Day 1 of preschool: share.

Ultimately though, as a collective community of commuting New Yorkers (how's that for alliteration?), we all have to take the train together. Therefore, play nice, or don't play at all. A conscious effort of increased self-restraint and courtesy towards our fellow straphangers may do the trick, no matter how much you want to punch out the oversized guy who's practically sitting on your leg in the seat next to you. (Then again, speaking of courteous, it would be kind if he moved just an inch over.) Or else, don't buy a Metrocard in the first place. The $2.25 fare won't be worth it.