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July 21, 2009
One of the most miserable spots on our planet isn't found in some far-off country where bloated-bellied ragamuffins' enormous brown eyes are clogged with mucus, flies, and tears. It's below our well-shod feet, here in the good ol' U.S. of A., specifically in New York City, on the Times Square subway platforms in the summer. The only way to deal with the horror is not to take the bright-eyed, contrived "when life gives you lemons" approach but to stew abundantly in your own sizzling juices while indulging murderous fantasies. Caged birds, 86 the singing. I don't want to hear it.