The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

The Daily Hell Vol. III -- Bumsville Issue 33 -- My Back, The Bastard

November 27, 2009

Growing up with scoliosis, I was no stranger discomforts with my back. The first time I threw my back out was in 1996. I was 14 years old, a freshman in high school and on top of the puffy cheeks from braces, puffy acne from my dad, and puffy hair from God only fucking knows where, I had to make due with the spine of a brittle old woman.

Once I was diagnosed it wasn't that big a problem. I went to the chiropractor once in a while when I would feel the pinch and he gave me daily exercises to ignore. It wasn't like I had to wear any metal back braces or anything- it just sort of sucked when I twisted the wrong way or lifted a box incorrectly and had to deal with the incredulous looks of teachers or employers when I told them that I, a seemingly virile high schooler, could not continue just now, because I "have a bad back." Lazy!

As an adult, it hasn't been so bad. Once my spine fully formed into it's final not-too-too-twisty ess shape, I have been able to continue in my life with relatively few problems. One problem that has remained constant however is the question sleeping arrangements, especially when I travel.

A mattress too hard or too soft will create or perhaps just exacerbate an intense tension in the lower lumbar muscles and I can't stay in one position longer than 5 minutes without getting what I would describe as essentially a charlie horse in my lower back.

On one of my first stays at a former girlfriend's apartment, I remember having this problem and she offered me a back massage. While it was a kind offer, after a half hour of lumbar torture, lying in the same position, but not wanting to hurt her feelings, the pain was such that I was forced to ask her to stop so I could just get up and walk it off. 

Nowadays, the worst I deal with are my trips to my parents house. The beds they put in my room when I moved out have single mattresses with so little wear and such thickness that I need to hop up in order to sit down on them. My feet don't touch the ground. They are quite stiff, and I do my best not to sleep on them. It's gotten to the point that if the whole family is home at the same time on Christmas or Thanksgiving I will sleep on the nice soft couch cushions in front of the fireplace in the living room like some decrepit blind old family dog.

My favorite bed in my parents house is Devon's bed. His room is darkest, with thick curtains and contains my niece's crib and white noise machine, which I set to tropical rain forest and slip away from the stresses and worries of the day. The bed itself was my great-grandmothers and is at least 200 years old. It being so old, it was not built to any standard size and is somewhere between full and queen I think, but shorter in length. This being the case, traditional mattresses will not fit it, so it still has the sagging, newspaper and straw filled grain-sack that came with it some two centuries ago. Upon laying down on the bed, you immediately roll to the middle and sink so deeply in, you are almost unable to see over the edges of the mattress. This is a comfortable bed.

Whether due to the uncomfortable bus seats, or lugging a full duffel bag from Red Hook to the Port Authority, sometimes the Amish bed doesn't work for me and I must travel down the hall to my brother Charles' room. He has a more modern mattress, I think it's a full. It basically helps only in it being a dramatic change in support from the old bed and I'm able to squeeze another hour of sleep in before the muscles begin to throb once more.

There are the occasions however, when neither bed seems to do the trick and unable to sleep for lack of a position that does not greatly discomfort me, I find myself wrapped up in blankets like an old dog on the floor of living room - or if the ashes in the fireplace have gone cold, the floor of the den, where a small electric heater warms me as I sleep for the few more hours until the rays of morning sun come pouring in through the shadeless windows.

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The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 32 - The Pianio

November 19, 2009

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

Issue 32 - The Pianio or They Say It's Your Birthday! Well Happy Birthday To Ya!

Yesterday was my niece's second birthday. When my sister-in-law was pregnant with her, we all made bets as to the actual day the baby would come. I was traveling in Southeast Asia at the time and had planned my return for around Thanksgiving time. I said the baby would wait until I was home and be born the day I got back. And I was right. So I have a very easy time remembering her birthday.

In the last year, she has ceased to be the helpless messy larvae she was, rolling about on the ground, soiling herself and become the full-fledged person she is, running about, talking, squealing, playing, rolling on the ground and yes, still soiling herself. But her personality is able to shine through a lot more, now that she is able to verbally express herself. 

I have no idea what I got her last year. And it's only been a year since then! What do you get for a one year old? Maybe something to chew on- a cardboard book? I don't know. This year I got her something I know she will absolutely love, and my brother will unfortunately, almost certainly hate.

I know people project their interests and passions onto their kids and I am no better. I am a big believer in music as a means of creative expression, and for children especially, an important means of opening up parts of their mind that help them learn and understand the world in new and different ways.

Whenever Avery visits, we play music together. I make notes and she strums my guitar- fascinated by the sound she is able to make when she hits the strings. At my parents house, she takes the low keys and I take the high notes on the "pianio" as she calls it. So I bought Avery her very own pianio. A high quality, wooden, 25-key, 2-octave, Stand Up Baby-Baby Grand. Thus making me her best uncle.

"I fucking hate you," Justin said to me as he read the gift receipt that came with the package. I insisted they call me when she opened it, and outside Alligator Lounge in Williamsburg, I listened to the beautiful plunking discord of keys being mashed hundreds of miles away in New Hampshire.

Please do not misread this gesture as an uncle trying to play out childhood wishes through his niece. I know she's only two. I don't think she'll be hammering out Fats Domino riffs in a smokey blues club anytime soon. I would never encourage musical lessons for someone that young and if she doesn't want to, she shouldn't ever have to take them. Frankly I find 4-year-olds that play piano better than me a bit disturbing.

What I do encourage is a child's exploration of music as a tangible object, just as she would a book or a forest or field. She doesn't have to be good at playing the piano. She's two! She'll be terrible! That's not important at all! The important thing is the understanding of one's ability to create and communicate with this other plane of existence that is accessible through this instrument- or any instrument. It's not a conscious realization a young toddler will make, of course. It will simply come as inherent; an assumed truth etched into their minds as one of the many complex and accepted Unknown Knowns that children simply take on faith without comprehending why.

Sorry, I'm getting a bit esoteric here. Think of it like this. Just as she learned that the thing she thought was only used for eating and crying- could be manipulated in such a way as to form words and communicate spoken language, a child can learn that the things on the ends of her arms that she thought were only for grabbing- can also be used to manipulate something outside of herself, that will conjure sounds out of a little box, not words per se, but still a powerful kind of communication. Mastery within, mastery without.

I love music and it's a big part of my life. I want my niece to have the opportunity to discover music and experience the joys that it has brought me. Even if she just lets the piano collect dust while she plays with the colorful box it came in, at least I have done my best to share with her something so important to me. And maybe I can borrow the piano.

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Commenters:

Wow, thanks so much for writing and thanks even more for reading. I'm really glad you seem to be enjoying the blog. I really do appreciate the feedback. --I did find my notebook! I went back to the place me and my bandmate ate after practice and it was there thank god. -- I think I won a free fishing trip. Awesome!-- We did come up with a band name and it was actually a result of one of Maura's suggestions. She had suggested Liquid Courage and we liked that but thought it was too much already in use, so we played around mixing the words like Liquorage or Licourage. That just looked like nonsense, but then Dan (drummer) said, "How about Liquor Ridge?" We play bluesy country, rootsy rock stuff, so it seemed appropriate. So- we are Liquor Ridge. I'll keep everyone posted on shows and maybe throw a song on here when we have a few recorded. Thanks again, all...

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 31 - The Notebook (Not The Movie, but My Actual Notebook)

November 17, 2009

I awoke today eager to write, however when I tried to start, I found myself quite unable. I was planning on writing my next parry/thrust for the verbal sparring match I have somehow entangled myself in with another blogger, but I found myself very distracted. I have misplaced my notebook, and for me there are few greater tragedies. I would rather, for instance, lose my wallet than my notebook, or a new pet that I liked, but hadn't gotten too attached to yet.

I love writing- for the means of expression it provides as well as the very act of putting pen to paper. I take little joy in typing, staring at a screen, rearranging sentences in paragraphs by pressing down on a small plastic oblong and slowly dragging it across my desk. But the flashes of inspiration, followed by frantic scratching, rushing your hand to keep pace with your brain, watching the page curl from the upper corner as it fills with words thrills me. Scratches, asterisks, arrows drawn, and margins filled, you see not just a finished product, but the very process and evolution it took to get there.

It wouldn't be so tragic if I had just gotten this journal because it takes me a while to get to know and become comfortable with one- like a baseball glove or a guitar. You know it's quirks and have memorized the feel of it. You trust it. Running out of pages in a journal that you really feel a connection with is both a tragedy and a triumph . You feel that a part of you is forever inside that journal, but at the same time, you don't want it to end- because who knows if the next one will be as good?

Each filled tome is a true work of art, not for what it says, but for what it is; a small sliver of someone's life without preface or epilogue, an historic document to be read without the benefit of context which gives you a small window into the mind and time of the person who filled its pages.

Right now, I'm writing in the crappy notebook I use when I finish one journal before buying another- or temporarily mislay my trusted friend. This notebook just never took- or perhaps I never took to it. We never really established a rapport. Try to imagine wanting to tell you best friend a great story you know he'd love, but the only person around is a guy you sort of knew in college. You try to tell him the story, but he just doesn't get it. The words just bounce off him. You soon realize you're just wasting words and give up, walk away.

An unfinished journal is a mystery. Why would someone fill half the pages and then just suddenly stop? Either the journal was lost or the writer was. I do hope I find my journal before I am forced to get a new one. If I were to find it after that, I imagine it would be like divorcing a wife in a coma only to have her awaken to find that I have already remarried... to a new journal. Awkward.

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The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 30 - How To Defraud A Charitable Organization

November 16, 2009

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

Issue 30 - How To Defraud A Charitable Organization or The Salvo's Hustle!

I never actualy got his name. I got his pant size, the train he lives on, his former addictions, I even got a hug. But I didn't get his name. I guess sometimes introductions are superfluous. They create awkward boundaries that insist we are strangers and therefore need to act as such until formalities are over and done with. If we just treated everyone like old friends, would we really need introductions- or even names for that matter? 

I was biking home from Target and stopped at the Salvation Army on Atlantic Ave. just to do some browsing. I got to the men's section upstairs and as soon as I started flipping through shirts I heard a voice behind me ask, "Excuse me- could you help me find some trousers my size?" I turned around and realized the voice was talking to me. I thought it was pretty obvious that I didn't work there so I didn't bother pointing it out to him, but I was in no hurry so I figured, why not? I'm an Eagle Scout. Do a good turn daily right? So I said, "Sure I can," and walked around the rack.

"Ohh, thank you!" he said, smiling at me, "I'm damn near blind and don't have no glasses. I can't read the tags on these." The man had short hair, black but going gray and dark skin with creases around his eyes and a week's beard on his face. He wore a heavy blue winter coat, too warm for the weather. He was very friendly and seemed glad just to have some company.

We began going through the jeans, looking for size 30 waist. I found one right away, much to my new friend's delight. "All right, all right! You lucky man, these are 30s? I even like the color! Thank you. There any more in there?"

He continued an explanation of his predicament as I continued through the legions of fattie jeans. "You know, I'm almost blind! I'm on disability and I can get Medicare- I need to go to the office though to get it so I can get glasses. That's what I really need. I don't care how much it costs, you need to see! Money's no good just sitting there. Gotta spend on what you need. I gotta go to the disability office to get my check."

I was not having much luck finding any other 30 waists, but kept going down the line of jeans, as he kept up the conversation.

"You know where I live?" he asked me.

I wanted to know where this man lived, so I replied, "Where?"

"I stay on the subway!"

"Really? What train?" I asked.

"I stay on the JMZ line."

"Why that one particularly if you don't mind my asking?" I've always wondered the reason homeless people kept to certain neighborhoods or subway lines, if it was out of habit, territoriality, friends in the area, decent food, shelter. I'm just curious about this sort of thing.

"It's a nice long ride. From Jamaica all the way down to Coney," he said. So my curiosity was satisfied. That that makes sense I thought, makes your $2.25 stretch a little further.

I kept pawing through what was evidently mostly 38 through 42 size waist pants. "Man, lot of fat people in this city," I said to him.

"Ha ha, well that's okay. We got these nice one's. Thanks so much for helping me. You know, you do a kindness- if you're good, live a good life, you know it comes back to you."

"Well you must have done something good to have me helping you huh?" I said, trying to modestly deflect the compliment, but realizing the moment I said it that I was telling a homeless blind man who lives on a train, he must have good karma. 

"I guess so," he replied quietly.

"Here's a pair," I said, changing the subject and pulling a size 30 from the rack.

How much are they?" he asked.

"Eight dollars. Bit much," I said.

"Yeah, well, we'll see what I can get when I get down there. Thank you for helping me. You're very kind."

We kept searching through the pants and he kept telling me about his past, how he used to do crack, but stopped and now tells people not to touch it, "because when you do it once, it's just too easy to keep doing it." There's something about former-junkies, sincerity that I find very touching. It's not like they have to tell you about it- but they really want to. There is no embarrassment or shame- if anything they are proud of what they have overcome. They have all these experiences within them and they want to share it and help others and prevent it from happening to someone else. I just think it's nice.

Finally we reached the end of the jeans and my new friend was holding four pairs of size 30 pants. He asked me what each one cost. Two were pretty cheap, but two of them were $7 or $8 a piece. Salvation Army has taken it upon themselves to mark name brands two or three dollars more expensive then items from Sears or K-Mart, regardless of wear, stains, missing buttons, cigarette burns, or anything else. In my opinion, that's just crazy and frankly, contrary to what the Salvation Army supposedly stands for.

I told my friend to wait where he was and went to find out what color tag was half price that day. (One color is always half price at Salv's. It changes day-to-day.) Today's discout color was red. We only had green and blue in our pile. Thankfully the men's department is on the 2nd floor and they don't often have employees up there.

I pawed through the dress shirts, found a few Red $5 tags and carefully removed them, bending the staples at the middle so as not to tear the paper. We swapped out the most expensive pants tags for red ones like this, but kept one Green, in order to not raise suspicions at the register.

I handed him back his newly priced pants. "They shouldn't give you a hard time. They don't really care that much. But remember if you get caught- we've never met." He laughed and took the pants from me, shook my hand firmly saying, "Thank you my friend. God go with you!" He then pulled me in for a hug, which I awkwardly returned.

"Live long and prosper man," he said.

"Thanks. You too. If I ever see you on the JMZ, I'll say hello."

"Yeah man, please do."

With that he turned and left and I went back to browsing for a while. I didn't see any jeans or bent red tags by the register when I paid for my purchases, so I assume we got away with the scam. My new friend bought four pairs of pants for about $12. Feeling very good about myself for helping him out and strangely proud at having ripped off a charitible Christian organization, I wondered which side of the Karmic scale this would fall onto. I technically assisted an elderly man in shoplifting, but he probably needed the pants more than Salv's needed the money. So I figured, Good turn done.

Boy Scout's of America, Slogan: Do A Good Turn Daily

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 29 - Let Me Just Be Honest With You For A Minute

November 14, 2009

"Let me just be honest with you for a minute." If you say this when you're out on a date, does it imply that you've been lying up until that point of the evening?

This quote tends to be followed by a very heavy silence and then a bit of trite and often cliched sentiment having to do with  having just gotten out of a relationship, not looking for anything serious, or just wanting to have a good time.

I am almost 28 years old and have never really "dated around" all that much, so I'm not exactly sure how "dating around" works. My most reliable sources on the matter are the Archie Comics I grew up reading, in which there were constant incestuous entanglements between Betty, Veronica, Reggie and Archie, with only the burly testosterone-driven Moose ever settling down into a stable relationship with "his girl" Midge.

What I have gathered from these texts is that there once was a time when dating around did not necessarily mean sleeping around. I'm not sure when it happened- probably the 60's, damn hippies!- but somehow casual sex crept into the whole dating scene and complicated the hell out of things.

I spent the majority of my early and mid-twenties either completely alone or in serious relationships, so never really had the opportunity to see multiple people simultaneously- which I believe is the basis of "dating around." Yes? Certainly I was "dating" my girlfriend(s) and we would go on "dates," but that's being a boyfriend. Very different from "seeing" different people.

That is not to say I've never gone on dates and all that business. It just means I have no idea what the rules of dating are. I assume there are rules anyway. Like if you're on a first or second date and you are currently "seeing other people", are you supposed to tell her or just let it come up in conversation? If you go out a few times and there is no spark, can you just stop calling or do you need to make the beak an official act by verbally expressing it to the other party?

I suppose every situation is different, but it seems foolish to me in any situation, to enter into something with, "Let me be honest with you for a minute." Why must it be presented in this awkward and direct way? It really puts your date on the spot. You might as well say, "Now Heather. What are your intentions here?"  Do you really need to arrive at your date with a bullet point list of things you have decided can and cannot happen as a result of said date? Presumptuous!

By saying that you're not looking for anything serious or just wanting to have a good time, you are essentially implying that dating inherently always becomes something serious and involves having a bad time. Why can't dating just be what you make it without setting up ground rules like that? Kind of takes the fun out things doesn't it?

I understand the principle of safeguarding yourself - and your date- from wasting each other's time if your goals are not in alignment, but doesn't it limit your options to arrive with a set agenda? As I said, I am by no means an expert on the subject and I suppose it's pointless to speculate.  After all, I just got out of a relationship and I'm not really looking for anything serious right now. Call me!

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 28 - Connor Is Blogged About... And Blogs About It

  November 12, 2009

As many of my close friends and family members will attest to, I have a tendency to write about the people I know and in so doing, sometimes unexpectedly hurt feelings, raise ire, or otherwise embarrass those I care about most. Occasionally, I'll get an email telling me as much.

Example: (click to enlarge)

 

That was in response to an offhand complaint I made about pitching in 10 bucks for a BBQ and then finding out that no one else gave money, making my ten dollars the entire budget- which made for a lame BBQ.

My intent with this blog is never malicious, I just like telling stories, true stories- and most of the time the most interesting true stories involve people doing stupid or ridiculous things. I try to make myself that person as often as possible to avoid upsetting people, but sometimes people get upset over really unexpected things, like funerals.

Writing about myself so frequently, I don't really think about what it would be like for someone else to write about me, and I'd never really met anyone else who keeps a blog- until quite recently. I went to a literary reading last month and afterwards went to a bar across the street from the venue to mix and mingle with the presenters and the six friends of the presenters that made up the audience. It's sort of a small community.

I was chatting with a girl who had read at the event and I was modestly flirting or “hitting on” her to use the male nomenclature of the act. We were discussing the problematic issues of coming up with band names and book titles, troubles we were both going through at the time. During the conversation she offhandedly mentioned that she keeps a daily blog that is actually about flirting. Well, I hadn't realized I was going head to head with a professional, so I decided then and there I had to pull out my A-game, which for me meant staying charming just long enough to finish my beer and leave on a high note before I ran out of witty banter or got drunk. We exchanged information and I left. A-Game brought.

Of course the first thing I did when I got home was check out her blog. You don't even have to talk to people to get to know them anymore!  As I mentioned in a previous post , you just Google them.

I enjoyed reading about her adventures in dating and flirting and over the next week, we emailed back and forth a bit, band names and that sort of thing, continuing the conversation. I also continued to browse her blog and while my likeness did not grace the pages, many interesting posts did that gave me pause to think. Hmmmmmmmm.

I couldn't quite decide if having this insight into a someone's world would put a person at an advantage over or a disadvantage under the person who wrote it. Granted, you have to understand that in writing, especially about topics like dating, the writer has to create a persona- sharing certain characteristics with him or herself, but not necessarily truly who they are. Focusing in and really channeling our neurosis or vanity or whatever we are using creates a less ambiguous space for the reader to receive and identify with the story we're telling.

All this knowledge however, was not enough to prevent me from losing my cool in the face of a woman who blogs. Maybe the fact that I was trying to incorporate myself into this small literary community, of which she is a part, made me fear that should I be written about, I would naturally be estranged and exiled to a literary Elba.

Despite all this, we did meet again at another reading the next week and I would say I was distracted at best. Now fearing that my lame flirting skills would appear for thousands to read about, shockingly, I was a tiny bit flustered. My conversation skills were less than sparkling that night as my brain searched itself for something interesting to say. I actually think I started talking about how little I have been published. What the fuck is wrong with me? At any rate, I had to run to a friend's show right after the reading, so at least I didn't embarrass myself for too long.

Curious to see if the Hindenburg made the papers, I checked her blog the following Monday and my eyes went wide as they scanned the page. There on screen was a detailed account of the story I have just told you, but from the female perspective!

There were certain discrepancies, like my contacting her via Twitter? Anyone who knows me would see this for the mistake it is, because I do not use Twitter. It was Facebook. But reading it, I couldn't help having a huge grin on my face and giggling like a little girl the entire time, even though I knew Old Yeller would get shot at the end. It was still what every man has always dreamed of- a window into a woman's mind- her thoughts on him. The conversation, the emails, the fact that i'm financially unstable; it was all there! I was even referred to with the incredibly appropriate pseudonym, Hot Band Guy. No one's going to accuse her of bad taste anyway.

What I found most interesting was her take on our second meeting. I was finally able to really understand the effect I have on women when I am nervous, flustered and just don't know what the hell to say. To quote her account of the evening, “after about 7.5 minutes, I was totally bored. And I just knew that I would never be able to continue talking to him for more time than it took for me to down my club soda.” So, to extrapolate on this-- clearly, this woman is insane. Because I am always interesting. Always! Well, obviously that is not true. But you know, I really couldn't even be offended. She didn't use my real name and I can't blame her for being bored. Half the time I just sat there nodding at what she was saying like some kind of giant retarded bobble-head.

So after forwarding the blog to every contact in my address book and bragging that I was that boring jackass, I started thinking about the people that I write about, whose actions I might misinterpret or take out of context. I know that all writing is pretty much subjective (at least the kind I do) and there will always be two sides to every story, even though I can only tell one. I know I'll always write about the people in my life because I write about what I know best, and what I love most. But I shouldalways remember to keep their side of the story in mind. Or just write about people who will never, ever, ever read my blog. True story.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 27 - The Curious Case of the Subway Stripper

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

November 4, 2009

Issue 27 - The Curious Case of the Subway Stripper or

They Just Raised the Cover Charge to $2.25. Bastards!  

Traveling on the subway recently I witnessed something I had previously thought only happened in slightly hackneyed and unimaginative works of fiction. It was about noon or 1 PM and the train was not terribly crowded so I found a seat across from one of the most miserable looking parents I had ever seen. She was probably about 30 or 35 though her expression added 10 years to her countenance. She was accompanied by her adorable energetic daughter, who I would guess about 4 years old.

I felt like giving the poor woman a hug, she looked so sad. Her face bore more than the usual exhaustion of parenthood, full of dread, like she had just heard of a death in the family. She just stared out the window into the darkness of the tunnel, occasionally glancing at her daughter to make sure she was behaving herself. The little girl seemed blissfully ignorant of whatever tragedy her mother was reliving in her mind. She was content to sit and pull treasures out of her little pink purse; a Barbie, a comb, a baby food spoon.

But she soon became bored with her toys, her little world of make-believe, confined to the contents of her bag and she began to allow her imagination to expand take her outside of herself. Using her small spoon as a microphone she began singing a song I did not know in Spanish and running around the substitute Maypole in the center of the subway car.

Her mother issued some weak chiding and smiled apologetically at me when the orbit of the girl’s fist came within six inches of my face. Truth be told, I did not mind the child’s imaginative use of space, despite the danger of being whipped in the eye with a pigtail. However, out of respect for a parent trying to raise a child, I generally don’t encourage behavior that causes chastising. The girl was clearly seeking my attention, and though I found her thoroughly amusing, I did my best to politely ignore her, hoping she would tire of my audience and seek elsewhere.

This did not work however. Sensing that her singing cabaret act was losing steam, she simply decided to move onto the next act. This little girl, dressed in a pink Dora the Explorer shirt with matching shorts, and little pink sandals began doing a frighteningly enthusiastic exotic dance. What, in laymen’s circles, is frequently referred to as “stripper dancing.” 

She swung up and down on the pole several times and with gained momentum finally landed with a graceful crash, planting her feet at the base of the pole and sliding her hands down to the ground, until she was crouching, knees spread on either side, pelvis mere inches from the pole. She would then thrust herself forward and head up the pole again, all the while looking at me and smiling innocently, just a four-year-old girl, looking for attention, with no idea that she was creeping the hell out of me.

At this point, I was doing all in my power to look anywhere but at the strange spectacle taking place mere feet away. My eyes were probably bugging out of my head like a cartoon character. Now I wanted not only the mother to know I wasn’t encouraging this, but the rest of the train, which was probably looking at me like some deranged deviant.

Towards the end of a performance which, I’m sure will  someday pay her way through college, her mother awoke from her daze and grabbed the girls arm, pulling her back to her seat. She was given an earful of angry Spanish, of which I understood one word when she gestured to me and said “Senor.” Soon after, the mother went back to her glassy-eyed waking coma and the little girl went back to her Barbie.

I sat and wondered, firstly thinking about how my limited knowledge of strippers would require me to expand my vocabulary just to find the names of whatever the moves the girl had been attempting. If only I spoke Spanish I could ask her what they were called. Is “crunk” a move? Secondly, and more importantly, I wondered where a four-year-old girl can learn that sort of thing!

The only TV show I can think of that features that particular brand of lewdness is The Sopranos. Now, not to sound mean-spirited, but her mother seemed a little heavy-set to be a stripper, but perhaps there’s an aunt. But then, does she have a practice pole at home in the living room or does she bring the child to the club? If you have to strip to support a family, I respect the hell out of that, but is it right to expose an impressionable child to easily mimicked erotic acts? Maybe she saw Little Miss Sunshine and I’m way overreacting here, but I think parenting is getting a little bit too relaxed in this city.

These were the ponderances that ran through my mind as I gently acknowledged the continued embarrassed and apologetic smiles from the mother during my last few stops uptown. As I departed the train, I silently wished them well and hoped the little girl had a positive non-stripper related role model somewhere in her life. God forbid, all too soon she’ll start using her Fisher Price playhouse to dance her little heart out, shaking down kids for Monopoly money at the door and charging exorbitant prices for watered down juice. Granted, it would show entrepreneurial spirit, but goddamn it, so does a lemonade stand!