I've said it before and I'll say it again: I like living in Los Angeles more than living in New York, but I like New York better than I like Los Angeles.
Here's another reason why.
I got on the subway yesterday, (yes, they have one here and it's fantastic) and a music trio boarded with me at the same time. They then began into a medley of Beatles songs, the frontman being a 6-year old.
As it was rush hour, the car was a bit crowded, although still comfortable. About 30 seconds into their set, a passenger blurted out, "CAN YOU STOP PLEASE! PLEASE STOP PLAYING! I'LL GIVE YOU A DOLLAR IF YOU STOP PLAYING!"
Now, normally when someone is brazen enough to scream something out, they are mentally ill, intoxicated, of the crabby elderly sort, or a combination of the three.
This was none of those. This, was an early 30's hipster type, Mac Book in tow, with all the trimmings. After the guitar player gave him a bit of "the big smile", "awe come on man! don't be an old so and so!", fancy lad retorted with "I've had a hard day! I JUST WANT SOME QUIET! IT SAYS NO LOUD MUSIC PLAYING ON THE TRAIN! IT SAYS NO LOUD MUSIC PLAYING ON THE TRAIN!!!"
This was obviously a case of "shumbuddy had theiw caw in the shop and had to tate the twain! I can't bewieve I hafta to wide wif deez animaws! sniff sniff. boo hoo."
Remember this was a subway band. Led by a 6-year old. Playing Beatles songs. Beatles. Songs. Poorly, si. But nonetheless.
At this point, I'm physically shaking with anger, yet too far away to say anything that won't be screamed in someone else's ear. Where are my New York cohorts?! Where are the good people, calloused enough to endure excessive noise, yet righteous enough to verbally destroy a grown man-baby when he deserves such?!
And this is where Mr. Hard Day made a mistake. Out came: "WHY DON'T YOU GET A REAL JOB!"
And just like a needle skipped off the record, the guitar player responded with,
"I got three jobs."
The guitar at his side now. The tiny frontman sitting on the floor of the car.
You have to get off the train at the next stop!
Man, we just playin' some songs.
That's not a job. I have a job! This isn't a job! You have to get off the train at the next stop! It says no loud music playing! Get a job!
I GOT 3 JOBS!
As the train came to a halt at Beverly and Vermont, the guitar player handed his acoustic to the little boy, and calmly patted him and the tambourine player out of the train. Sadly this was where I got off also.
The guitar player was a large man, 6'3 and muscular. His kind smile now gone, the Beatles now silenced, I watched as he approached Frowny Face while the doors shut, the crybaby still publicly insulting the guitar player, emasculating him with "you don't have a real job liar" and complaining about "the rules of the train".
I don't condone violence. In real life. For the most part. But I spent the next 15-minutes delightfully fantasizing about the verbal and physical assault that the crabby little man-boy might have endured. Probably one that he had dodged for years. And probably one that he had coming.
And sure as sugar one that mouthy snot deserved.
To be fair, the guitar player gave peace a chance. But John Lennon never said how many chances you had to give.