Welcome to The Twilight Zone

This morning was fairly typical, with some fairly notable exceptions...hence the title of this entry...

I woke up and went to the gym, and almost fell on my way ONTO the treadmill because the cable for my headphones dropped off my sweatshirt and very nearly got stuck between the treadmill post and the belt thereon. Joy.

I finish on the treadmill and I make my way to the climber, and I must have (unbeknownst to me) stepped on some liquid because as I slid my right foot into the first chamber to get started, I slipped a little and very nearly wound up doing a back-flip worthy of Ozzie Smith, except I wasn't wearing a Cardinals uniform and doubt I would have landed in a pretty (or healthy) fashion.

I get back to my apartment to a ringing phone and, rushing to grab it I knock over a glass that was empty but is very fragile. Didn't break, thankQverymooch. And subsequently, after I get off the phone (with my friend Ron, who might be in town next weekend) I almost do a dive over the ottoman which is conveniently placed right behind me, ie out of view but right in the way.

Later...I go to a building inspection at 87th and Lex and go into the boiler room at the property to be inspected by an HPD inspector (if all this sounds Greek, never mind, just keep reading) and he trips and bangs his head against a follow-pipe (at least that's what he called it -- although he might have used another word, but I couldn't -- and wasn't about to try to -- verify).

We wrap the inspection -- finally -- and I get on a bus towards the office. A woman steps onto the bus wearing a purple cape/poncho thing (they're all over the place in NYC, San Fran and everywhere in between, I'd imagine) and just one quick glance in her direction I know she thinks she's hot shit. She's got that "NYC gait" -- ie without saying a word you know she thinks her shit doesn't stink and that the bus is very much beneath her.

She manages to sit in the seat in front of mine, and while I am ensconced with the magical sounds of Audioslave I watch this woman -- in her late 50's/early 60's begin primping her hair like a show-poodle in the main ring at Madison Square Garden (the dog-show, not boxing).

I go back to my audio-only world and don't notice that this dimwit takes out a bottle of hairspray and begins doing her hair -- on a semi-packed bus -- in midtown. As I feel it hitting the side of my head, I was so incredulous I actually exclaimed -- out loud -- "WHAT THE FUCK!!!" She sort-of turns around as I realize I've just belted out verbiage that's not quite PG-rated. She looks at me and I ask "What the hell is wrong with you?" She realizes she screwed up and mumbles "I'm sorry, I didn't quite see you there." Now I can understand how a guy, 5'8 and about 210, just blends in with an NYC bus seat (stark royal blue), but I can't understand how people on a bus could be THAT inconsiderate. And I got a wee bit involved. "Excuse me, ma'am, what the hell are you doing?" She sort of looked away. "Didn't see me? There are other people on this bus other than you and your hair." She turned around, didn't move an inch, and got off the bus ASAFP at the next stop. I was plenty non-thrilled, but it's not so much angry but more incredulous that someone could be so self-absorbed that they would feel comfortable spraying hair-spray in a tight space. Picture a packed elevator of 15 people and a woman whipping out a can of Paul Mitchell and sprootzing in the middle thereof. Imbecile.

So....I finally recede back to audio-world and arrive at the office...and as I step into an elevator, I am going through my briefcase to make sure I have my keys when one of the building maintenance men come into the elevator. I don't quite look up because I'm preoccupied but I hear him half-whisper "Fuck." Knowing my morning's glory, I respond with "I hear you, man, it's been that kind of morning." He says "Well I just hit my head on a pipe and it really hurts," and I look up instinctively to see the guy with a pencil-thin line of blood from the front of his scalp, above his forehead, running down to the tip of his nose (and dripping onto his jacket).

"Holy shit, are you okay?" was my MENSA-quality first question. "That looks bad..."
He laughed and told me he has cut himself worse shaving, to which I kind of laughed and said "Well, it looks better on pro wrestling, anyway." And I almost banged my head against the wall of the elevator when I forgot and remembered, just then, that he has a severe limp and he probably won't be doing much wrestling anytime soon...lol...he actually laughs, though, in response -- it didn't occur to him that I was trying to make fun, which of course I wasn't, but neither here nor there, I'm glad he's not the sensitive, go-sob-in-the-corner type. Didn't want to ruin the guy's weekend on top of him smacking his head open on a pipe. Workman's comp, anyone?

So here I am, perched in front of the PC as I wait for a client to fax me a bevy of papers that I will need to ingest over the weekend, which will be spent in the office as well. It would be just fine except the three bulbs in the light fixture in the ceiling of my office decided to blow out -- at once -- and I'd call maintenance except I'm concerned that my bloodied elevator pal might swing by and exhibit his well-hidden displeasure at my wrestling comment. And later I'm due to get a haircut but I'm thinking of cancelling in case I run into the mad hair-spray bus-rider wearing a purple poncho.

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to get out of bed, especially if there's someone in that bed with you who makes that concept even more appealing :-)

Rod Serling, whereever you are, give it a rest 'til Monday ;-)