Complaint Box, the reader-written column I frequently agree with while
still disliking the authors, is also a frightening look into commenter
psyches (though many of the NYT's commenters tend to be non-New Yorkers
and I don't think they always get the severity of offenses being
complained about).
No babies in bars, dogs in stores, no brilliant parents educating their children loudly in public, no clipping nails or throwing chicken bones on the subway,
no suckling your babies in bars, restaurants and the subway (ok, that
hot button has not been written about yet—think of the page views) but
saying you don’t want to see people kissing passionately, groping, grinding, dry humping in public and suddenly you’re a prude who wears flannel nightgowns, needs therapy, has clearly never left the United States, must be a dreaded feminist (I've heard about these women's libbers) who needs to get some.
Huh?
I am unusually prickly, but really? People, or rather the New York
Times online readers, enjoy strangers making out next to them in public
places? The comments were 95% in the “love is beautiful” camp: exhibit A, exhibit B. Maybe this would change their starry-eyed tune.
I
can’t judge others’ neighborhoods, you’ll have to let me know, but
compared to the two other areas I’ve lived in NYC there is a
disproportionate amount of couples who commute together at the Carroll
St. F station, a.k.a. The ‘Ffectionate train.
I actively try
to position myself away from twosomes, which isn’t easy. Yesterday, the
train came before I could get past the first bench on the platform and
I had already counted four couples.
To be accurate, these are
not the ass-grabby, tongue-in-mouth, straddlers that should be
grossing-out the public but apparently aren't. No, The ‘Ffectionate
train perpetrators are eye-gazers, embracers, shoulder-and-back
rubbers, which is fouler, frankly. I’ve posited my theory before, that
nature has taken over and these hapless commuters are shrouded in an
oxytocin bubble creating a poignant interplay of “I’m so going to put a
new life inside of you” and “Please do. What are you waiting for?”
I’m waiting for it to stop. The F train also stands for Futile.
Photo from Going Underground
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