Gimpy Snippets

It may not surprise you, given that I'm in the middle of a straight sixteen day work-a-thon, that my lackadaisical approach to blogging is an indication of how busy I am. Here are, however, a few odds and ends...

I watched a great moment of street theatre, well...I suppose it was cafe theatre, yesterday. Starbuckses gets busy, oh yessss, and they only have the little roundses tableses, you see. So I was standing in line and watching these two businessmen. One was a tall, powerfully built bald black guy dressed very finely, with his palm pilot, cellphone, and a calculator laid out in front of him on the table. In his lap he was resting a notepad, which he was tapping forcefully in time with the points he was making. Opposite him was a small dark-skinned Indian guy, also very well dressed, clutching a messy pile of papers. Their coffees sat between them.
"So we are agreed that we are moving to Stage Two on the 15th."
"Yes. Creative Stage Two."
"No! Stage Two is *tap* not *tap* a *tap* creative *tap* stage!"
"Isn't it?"
"NO!" *tap*
"But we're far from finished with the creative side."
"That's what we've got to finish by Stage Two!"
"That's not what I understood from the schedule. Project Management states explicitly..."
And so on and so forth.
What made this so brilliant is that these two weren't alone. When it gets really busy people have to share tables, and a tiny old woman was sitting right in between them. Her brown woollen mittens rested next to the palm pilot, and her walking stick was hooked onto the table, brushing the Indian guy's pile of papers. She was clutching her hot drink in both hands, sitting a little back from the table but still intimately involved; wrapped up in her heavy coat and hat, watching the conversation roll back and forth like a tennis match. The closer I got to the front of the coffee line, she more impartial she became, tilting her head at one comment, nodding with another, turning to see what on earth could possibly be said in reply to such transparent common sense. She clearly had nothing to do with the men, but circumstances had pushed the three of them together around their cramped pine-coloured table.
I left the cafe with a huge grin, muttering 'I love this town' under my steaming breath.

For some reason I only called a doctor about my horse-fallen-on arm today. It got better, then it got worse, then better again, and now it's been about the same for a few days. The arm works okay at some angles, but it's completely weak and painful at others. I am a noolie. This is what doctors are for.

BANNER IDOL. I haven't forgotten it, please, don't worry. The vote-off will happen soon. Possibly before Christmas...I'm not sure. I'm working all day every day at the moment, peoples. My apologies. Any more for any more, while we're at it? 700x125 pixels please, not an enormous file please, and it must contain the word 'autoblography' after that all creative craziness is encouraged! (Sally?)

What else did I want to say? Ummm...something about bagels...uh...

The subways! The MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority) worker's union 100 force union labor freedom squad are threatening to strike starting on Friday. This is, apparently, illegal of them. Friday, I'm looking at you.

I was taken by the sheer volume of clothing on the subway this morning. I myself was sporting conventional underwear, two undershirts, a white shirt, a black woollen jumper, seventy-six electric blankets woven into a complex interlocking pattern and running off a gas generator which I was towing on a small cart, and a coat. Also a hat which makes me look a bit like Man-At-Arms from He-Man. And Gloves. I did not present an unusual sight on this morning's commute.
My gimpy left arm means that on crammed carriages, I can either read or stop myself falling over, but not both. I have considered lying down, but this doesn't seem practical.
Anyway. On the subway this morning I was sharing a pole with a middle-aged gentleman. He had a weathered leather satchel stuffed with papers and books, with a rolled-up copy of the New York Times wedged into a too-small front pocket. His hair was greying and his skin was pink and slightly wrinkled. His rimless spectacles looked expensive. I can't explain why, but the second I looked at him I thought 'film director'.
I spent a couple of minutes wondering if he was famous, and then decided that it probably didn't matter. I have a personal policy of avoiding talking to famous people whenever possible, because if I do, I make an arsehole of myself.
But with my stop on the train coming up, I wondered how a non-film director, even one who walked around looking as though he should be one, would react to a stranger on the subway looking sincerely into his eyes and saying, 'I love your work,' before stepping off between the closing doors and into a perfect, unaccountable getaway.
I toyed with the idea for a while and then wimped out, but I might do it next time an opportunity presents itself. Knowing New York, the train would start rolling out of the station with the other person pounding on the door screaming, 'You do? You do? You love my work! Oh my GOD I thought I was a failuuuuuuuuurewhoooshytrainnoise'.
So I shall be careful.