Creative types arrive in New York City by bus, train, plane, or carpool to make their mark in The Arts. Many artists fall into careers as waiters or graveyard shift word-processors in hopes of flexible employment that allows time for auditions and meetings with power brokers. Too far away from their original goal of illuminated names on Broadway marquees, a book deal, or a revolving show at a prominent gallery or museum, some engage in destructive habits to mask the pain and disappointment.

The daily grind causes many to return no sooner than they've unpacked their clothes and family photos. The culture shock doesn't sit well with some, and others still leave voluntarily because they can't recreate a similar comfort zone of their high school or college theater department.

Many artists relocate to New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, or London to pursue a career on stage, in film, on television (soaps and/or perhaps a Law & Order spin-off), or behind the scenes in a technical or administrative role.

I have worked in many industries in New Jersey and New York, and have entertained thoughts of working in others just to see if I could forge a viable secondary career as I pursued my dreams of being a working artist.

I mastered the fine art of survival on the East Coast these many years later. I mastered the art of camouflage and adaptability.

My first job on the East Coast was a lateral transfer from Houston. My supervisor in Houston arranged the transfer by phone and fax. I worked as Credit Authorizer at Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue. It wasn't glamorous. We were discouraged from entering through the main store; better that employees use the obligatory side entrance with a security guard who'd rifle through backpacks and gym bags with a change of clothes for auditions. I remember I was one of the youngest working the day shift. There was an assortment of faces, accents, and quirks to contend with all around me, or it wouldn't be New York. Co-workers talked of exotic places like Coney Island, Staten Island, the Bronx, and Brooklyn.

I hadn't grasped the concept of boroughs when I first moved to the East Coast. I traveled to and from work, with minimal stops in between. This was when I lived in Union City, NJ, in a hovel of a basement apartment. I had to sleep with the oven door opened and stovetop burners lit because of the freezing cold. I withheld rent, hoping that my stereotypically bad landlord would regulate the heat, and I'd no longer endanger myself in the event the pilot went out overnight. What a sad story that would have been to die of gas inhalation. I was sued. I appeared in court and was ordered to pay the back rent. I didn't. I set about finding a new apartment with my stash of cash. I moved all of ten blocks away in a different town, West New York, NJ. I lived on Broadway, across from the A& P, in a neighborhood that reminded me of Texas.

I've always had an out of body experience in most of my past jobs. I always felt that I'd made a mistake or was desperate not to return down south to pursed lips and conciliatory hugs from family and friends. I love my immediate family; and some of my former friends in Texas wouldn't let me forget that I'd fallen flat on my face. (I think of an Erma Bombeck Book, Family - The Ties That Bind . . . And Gag)

I remember some of my previous jobs, and others are a blur. I worked outside in the cold of winter hawking appointments for a podiatrist. I worked as a rollerskating host in a trendy Lincoln Center restaurant. I worked as a corporate software trainer, and then later on two different information technology helpdesks. The salary, vacation, sick, and personal days were great, but I was a miserable soul who was often at odds with co-workers and managers. At one of my last corporate jobs on a helpdesk, I was reprimanded for writing fiction.

I stopped telling people I worked with that I was an artist (actor, writer, aspiring director). It seemed a running joke in restaurants where some people took to wearing t-shirts that mocked being an actor. On the front: I'm a New York actor. On the back: Oh yeah, which restaurant?

ScribeNYC is a contributing author to The Diary of a Pauper, a Freelance Writer/Editor, and Creative Writing Instructor in NYC. His feature articles, film, and dance reviews have appeared online, and in various print magazines. He writes and edits commercial and literary fiction, creative non-fiction, and screenplays. He's the moderator and a participant of Morningside Writers Group.

Here's a rant for ya - I'm completely and utterly exhausted with this so called 'reality television.' When did when we as a society begin to lower our standards to remotely consider this entertainment? It must be some form of guilty pleasure. At least the Romans made you watch in person. Oh, and by the way - it's everything but real. Nothing real about it. Sorry.

Rock Star, Queer Eye for the Straight guy/girl, Fear Factor, Dancing with the Stars, Do I even begin talking about The Will, which by the way was pulled after one taping. Yikes! Seriously though, I just can't stand it. I promised myself a while back I was going to e-bay my television and pay my mom back, but that's another story. At the last moment I decided I still needed some form of mind numbing entertainment so I kept it for the good channels: History, Discovery, A&E, Bravo.

However, I have to say even those channels have their own stripped down, more enlightened forms of reality TV. Myth Busters, Monster Garage, Inside The Actors' Studio (damn, he's annoying), Full Throttle, American Hot Rod, American Chopper, Change my life, Give me a new a new wife, Shoot my dog, whatever..... Damn, the more I think about it the scarier it gets.

So here I am writing my rant, listening to some streaming internet music, hoping others will come across this blog and say 'Amen, F@*! those shows.' And F@*! Donald Trump. His a** is fired!

You want reality. Something REAL. I can't stand my job and can't stand myself at times for putting up with it. I love my beautiful girlfriend, music, and rain storms. We work all the time, hoping we can make enough to pay down our debt, save a little, and get the band on tour!

Here are a couple of links to put this reality show thing into perspective.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_reality_television_programs – It’s frightening to see how many reality shows there are.

http://www.zonalatina.com/Zldata302.htm – An interesting read on the psychology relating to reality TV including a survey on the demographics of its viewers. Notice the correlation between education and TV frequency. Not surprising.

I’m sorry, I know your birthday is next Friday, but I will be working out of town until Sunday. Oh, also, that vacation we had planned? It sounds like I might have to stay in town because of a job I am on, so I will not be able to do that either…

This is my life, and nobody outside of the entertainment world understands it. The last time I took a planned vacation with several other people that we bought tickets for weeks in advance was a year ago. Those of us who work freelance have a all-encompassing fear that the moment we leave town for any reason, the greatest job of our lives will call and ask us to show up the next day. Hell, that has happened to me. Several times. Six months ago I went home to visit my parents for a week, and sure enough, the moment I get off the bus, my phone starts ringing. Are you available? We kind of need someone, well, tomorrow.

I am scheduled, at the moment, to drive across the country with my best friend to take her to grad school next month. I am not sure if I will be able to go yet, and it is not an easy thing to explain to her. She has a normal job, with sick days and vacation time. She knows exactly where she will be in two weeks time. I could be anywhere. It is incredible frustrating, most of all because I really desperately need a vacation. Also because this is a trip we have talked about for years, and now because of my stupid job choices, I may have to back out.

Job insecurity is both the blessing and the curse of freelance work. I love the idea that I can take off when I want. Apartment hunting last month was considerably easier for me, being able to take a week off to do it, than it was for others I know. However, there is really very little freedom in it. Every time I take a job that lasts longer than a week, I immediately get commitment phobic about, but what if something better comes along during that time? Do I really want to commit myself for that long to something? And as a sidebar, yes, this sort of attitude does seem to spill over into my personal life. So anyway, I can go for two weeks without a peep from jobs, and at the end of which, I will go away for two days, and without fail I will hear from three people who needed me to start work for them that day. Supposedly, at a certain point, you get enough of a money cushion that having to turn down work because of personal time will not be a problem. I wonder when that time is….

So, in a neverending quest to get out of the debt that I accrued in acting school and in the years since, I continue to hunt for a second job.

I interviewed for an evening information position at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Services Center. Although I don't identify myself as gay, I'm gay enough that I'd attended some meetings at the Center. Mary, a woman with a shockingly deep, sexy voice interviewed me. She seemed impressed with my experience: a medley of creative and admin jobs at some very cool companies and TV networks. We talked about shows we both liked. I told her I was looking to supplement my current income and give back to the community that had given me so much. The work seemed right up my alley, the interview seemed to go swimmingly.

I never heard again from Mary but I did receive this letter via email from the head of Human Resources:


Thank you for taking time to meet with Mary to discuss the position of Information & Referral Specialist at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center.

Although your background and qualifications are impressive, in reviewing the skills and experience needed to best fit this specific position, we are unable to offer you employment at this time.

We appreciate your interest in the Center and wish you much luck in your endeavors.

I can't help but wonder: maybe I just wasn't gay enough.

In other news, I had applied for a dominatrix gig in June and never heard back from the chick who ran the dungeon. I finally did. She only had dayshifts available, no nighttime work. This was shocking to me. What happened? Did men come to her on their lunch hour to get abused for a bit and then return to the office? She said she'd keep my pic and number on file.

Figures.

Writers can be a lazy bunch. A few years ago, I co-founded and participated in a mixed genre critique group that met in member homes throughout the five boroughs. This group was ripe with competition, envy, and discontent. There were prolific writers skilled in basic and advanced writing techniques, who provided pinpoint feedback, and others who were limited by their reliance on pop culture and media. The twain never met.

Writing is a solitary craft. Writing is a solitary art. No matter which side of the argument, whether writing is natural or learned, writing groups require unlimited patience, social skills, and a thick skin. Writers seek to impress each other within a group - who knows whom, who knows what, and who's read the latest literary or commercial bestseller. Often times the meetings stalled due to disagreements on writing techniques, or lack thereof, or the critique style of a member. I did not expect the group would last as long as it did. I was not offended by the lack of commitment from some in the group, but it did bother me that some did not have the maturity to step aside and allow the group to prosper. Why would an egotistical hack screenwriter support a successful playwright when the gap between their talent and potential is immeasurable?

When I first happened upon the idea to create a critique group, I had no experience organizing and moderating. I operated on the premise that there were other solitary writers in need of an encouraging, supportive environment, yet did not know where to look. I posted flyers and spread the word among friends and colleagues to recruit and build a writer's nirvana. Back then, I did not have a questionnaire and screening process. Come one, come all! Let's create a modern literary movement!

I was the de facto leader of the group, the idealistic artist who knew I stumbled upon something that no one else had or would. Soon after the first blowup, reality set in. I did not create a mobile haven for writers; I brought together people who did not like each other, and took potshots whenever possible. I brought together people who set about derailing critique sessions with personal agendas and sidebars. The assembled arrived famished, ready to devour available sustenance. I brought together people who confused fiction with personal or political manifestoes, devotees of screenwriting teachers and famous film directors, and a few people who knew they would never publish or produce any of their work, yet were along for the ride. The end was swift and painful, hastened by my poor handling of a situation involving the egotistical screenwriting hack and the prolific playwright.

Critique Group Redux

Where are the writers in New York City hiding?

I waited two years before resurfacing from my self-imposed writer's underground, during which time I wrote in solitude. Writers need other writers to read, critique, and help shape their work. I interviewed aspiring and published fiction and screenwriters to build two biweekly critique groups that I organized and moderate. Prior to the interviews, I placed various ads online and asked friends to spread the word for my membership drive. Certain times it is obvious that a writer will not fit within the revamped fee-based group based on their personal biography and writing sample.

Others do not make it beyond an initial personal interview due to the intensity, focus, or discipline of the groups. A select few crash and burn due to direct personality conflicts. Free groups are a challenge to maintain. Some people regard groups as a burden or perhaps groups overwhelm. I have still to wrap my brain around this riddle. My experiences as a member of writing groups and the dual role of moderator/member are opposite tangents.

Fear of success is unknown to me. I had a brief bout with fear of flying prior to my first international flight to Spain. Fear of commitment crops up each time a member bails on the group, and I reflect on their advertised personal and professional writing goals from the original interview. I do not understand why these people apply, attend an informational interview, and those who make the cut, accept membership.

I do not understand people who sit across the table from me professing their love of writing, alleged commitment of improving their writing skills, only to bow out a few weeks or months later with lame excuses. The group or the moderator is the culprit for departures. Competing priorities never figured in their minds leading up to their departure. Creative groups in large cities are akin to group therapy sessions at a community center when they begin to falter; it's everyone's fault except the person at the center of the maelstrom.

Fear of commitment manifests itself in some aspiring writers as fatigue, confusion, anger, or disruptive behavior. Some aspiring writers suffer from fear of commitment because success would bring out more fears. A successful writer has a new set of concerns not shared by the unpublished. An unpublished writer can remain in obscurity with dreams of fame and notoriety. There's an inherent responsibility to readers when a writer publishes, regardless of genre. Achieving success opens a writer to other possibilities and potential setbacks. One door opens, and through that door, three unopened doors are visible.

Some aspiring writers seek an easy entry into an elusive club - fame and notoriety, but few want to work on their craft. Those of us who make weekly pilgrimages to bookstores can attest to the adrenaline rush experienced entering the door. The enormous amount of books and magazines arranged on shelves and tabletops call out for attention.

Who will pick up the gauntlet next as a published author? Do most who seek publication understand why people read books? People read to escape, to learn, to experience people and worlds similar and unfamiliar to their lives. Writers flip through books for motivation - all those printed words on the page, bound in a cover with the author's name. I look forward to the time in my life when my novels and short story collections are available under "W" in the fiction section of bookstores.

something is wrong

i want to be a writer. well, i am a writer. see, i'm writing.

but right now i work at a taco stand in queens.

it's a messy job.

so messy, in fact, that about 89% of my clothes are ruined.

about five times a week, someone in the back yells, "*#$@! these are my last &*$^%&* PANTS!" as bleach creeps into the fabric.

last week, i was wandering by urban outfitters, thinking, when i am a Real Famous Writer, i will shop here all the time and look so nice and never have to worry about bleach on my clothes.

when i saw it.

a huge display in the window of urban outfitters of artfully BLEACHED clothes.

something is wrong.

I was 12 years old and really bored one summer when I found a book on European impressionist on my mother's coffee table. I sat down and started leafing through the pages unaware of what I was going to find.

What I saw caught me completely off guard, like a light coming on in the middle of the night. It was one of those defining moments that changed the way I looked at the world forever. I had never seen anything like those drawings before. I was stunned at what I was seeing and the depth of emotion it evoked. For the first time the human form was presented to me in a way I had never imagined. Nudity was without pretenses and shame, but completely naturally, awe inspiringly beautiful.

That day I lingered the most over Renoir. I wanted to devour the pages with my eyes, drinking every aspect of his subjects searching desperately for more, hoping to find some small detail I missed. I had tears in my eyes while I tore furiously through the book looking for more pages that made me feel that way. I couldn't find them fast enough. I must have sat there for a couple hours with my mouth open in awe at the beauty of the human form exposed. I wondered if I was that beautiful and I wondered what it must be like to be able to capture that.

I did my first figure drawing that year in my 6th grade art class in school. The assignment was to draw either a Pilgrim or an Indian for our Thanksgiving program. I was excited by the project and threw every ounce of my determination (which was considerable) perfecting the shadowing and muscular structure of my subject in what I imaged to be ritual dance. When it was complete, I felt I had done well and I took the drawing proudly to my art teacher. I was disillusioned by her response. She looked at me in utter confusion and said. "But Ursula, he doesn't have any clothes on." It took a while to register her displeasure and I stared at her blankly for a second before replying quietly, "It's an Indian... they didn't wear clothes sometimes. Then pleading, "He has a loin cloth over his front…" It was no use and she instructed me to return to my desk immediately and draw some clothes on him. I returned to my desk and just sat staring at my drawing amazed that she didn't seem to get it at all. I turned it in unchanged when class was over.

The following week the hallway was filled with drawings, but mine wasn't among them.

Ursula Whitworth
www.picturegirl.net

I'm not sure if other towns are experiencing the repercussions of the London subway bombings quite like we are in NYC. Waking up late this morning only to see it pouring down rain kind of put a damper on my plan of walking to work to avoid the subway drama here in the city. I think most people won't feel too comfortable going underground until the terrorists are apprehended - although I am sure there are a thousand more waiting for their chance to take out innocent civilians in the name of power.

I ended up taking the subway this morning - mostly due to the fact that after walking just 3 blocks I was hit with 2 umbrellas, witnessed a guy go ballistic on a man for having an umbrella that was too large for NYC streets and had to actually step over a passed out homeless person -- all with the backdrop of horns blaring from the morning gridlock.

The subway was eerily empty today and rolled along at the "caution" speed which means "barely moving". I made it safely 2 stops to the Times Square station and climbed my way up to the street. As soon as I surfaced, the streets were crawling with police tape and dozens of cops. They closed off what I could see was three blocks. The crowds lined the perimeter trying to get a peek of what might be some entertaining brutality.

I, on the other hand, picked up my pace and walked with blinders desperately trying to remember the name of the herbal anti-anxiety drug that my mom told me about yesterday. GNC will be getting some of my money today.

Circa, February '92, I went on an interview for a personal assistant as advertised in the Sunday New York Times Help Wanted section. I phoned the person who had placed the ad, an M. Kline who asked if I were available for an interview that very evening. With no pressing engagements, I agreed to meet Mr. Kline at his 5th Avenue apartment at 6 p.m.

He asked my age, race, background, and the little voice questioned the urgency in scheduling the interview, but I had been out of work for over a month and thought this could not be half bad. It was Fifth Avenue, and maybe my head was in the clouds.

I phoned my grandmother and mother and told them about the interview with the mysterious and impatient Mr. Kline. As usual, Granny said to do my best. My mother underscored with her sentiments. Off to the interview.

When I arrived at the swanky (my by accounts) 5th Avenue address, an arrogant doorman gave me a hard time. What on earth would I be there at this hour? Five minutes later, after verifying information, I was on my way to the apartment.

Exiting the elevator, I noticed a young Hispanic male about my age leaving the apartment. I thought he had been awarded the job, and why in the heck had I not been told in the hours since the phone call!

I rang the doorbell, a faint voice called out to enter, "Back here," from the bedroom where his massive, freckled frame lie stretched out like a beached whale in his brass bed covered to his chest. Was this the big bad woof waiting to feast?

The apartment was dimly lit, and by this point, the Hispanic male had returned from emptying the wastebasket. As he left the apartment, Kline told him he'd be in touch. Was emptying the trash and returning the receptacle a pre-job task?

Mr. Kline asked if I had seen the apartment, and granted me a tour. Paintings, sculptures, Tiffany lamps and accessories filled his home, with splatterings of Lalique and Tibetan vases.

The sight of Mr. Kline reminded me of Jabba the Hut of the Star Wars saga. I returned to the bedroom, and as I spoke to him, I pulled a chair backward from his bed with my foot, hoping he had not noticed.

Checking to make sure my mace was in my pocket, I sat and the interview began (Looking back on this, I should have departed then). I talked about my qualifications of being a caretaker (raising two brothers, cooking, being a take-charge person) and how I could benefit him, hours, fees, and perks.

He attempted flattery by telling me of his alleged friendship with playwright/actor Harvey Fierstein. He placed and received calls, two in particular, a "model" phoned and offered his penis-size, hair and eye color, and other measurements. Kline wanted to be offended, but was intrigued all the same. The little voice again spoke out! He then called a previous employee to scold him about his boyfriend calling to check up on him while working (during the phone call, they seemed to patch things up).

"Do you know how to massage? I tend to get stiff in and around my lower back."

"No!"

He needed assistance getting his large frame out of bed to go to the toilet; I struggled to help lift this man, all of three-hundred pounds to sit up in bed.

He wheeled himself around to the side of the bed, and oops! He was nude, ughh-ughh!

Returning to his bed, wrapped in a king-size beach towel, he asked for soda/juice to take medication.

I attempt to change the subject back to clerical duties that were supposedly in the job description.

He started to nod, and would be out for a few seconds at a time, it was really funny seeing his massive cranium fall into his chest, and then his struggle to lift it again. The shocker came when he asked pointedly if I'd mind bathing him.

"Oh, my gosh!"

"You don't have to be nude unless you want to, there are swimsuits in the bathroom to use."

"Excuse me?"

"I have trouble getting myself fully clean." (Well, if you wouldn't stuff your face all day, you could fit into the tub!) "I can't quite reach my balls; I have a brush you could use!" (Like hosing down Shamu or Jumbo?)

Okay, I'm ready to go, and show my discomfort. I ask to make a phone call to alert friends of being late for a nonexistent dinner date; (actually to give the address should I be missing in action) he was completely pissed off that I wanted to leave!

"I wanted to try you out," have you cook for me, and give you a chance to bathe me."

Apparently, he didn't hear me say, "When there's ice-skating in Haedes!"

"I thought you were an actor? Aren't all actors gay?" (Look, Shamu, not everyone is, and I'm not!)

"No, a few of us aren't!"

"Is it the way I look?"

"No! You could look/be a matinee idol, I'm still not showering with you."

The attempt to leave was again stalled by his asking me to fix the ailing VCR, (when will it end?) the machine is Greek to me.

"I should have told you from the onset . . ."

"What you need is a nurse, not me . . . "

After all had been said, and all attempts to sway had failed, the man was searching for a boy-toy, preferably young and agile. After thanking God on High for leaving unscathed, I phoned Sarah from a corner payphone to explain the frantic call earlier. We laughed, and I returned home. About two weeks later, I noticed that Mr. Kline had placed the identical ad in the NY Times.

Round Two.

ScribeNYC is a contributing author to The Diary of a Pauper, a Freelance Writer/Editor, and Creative Writing Instructor in NYC. His feature articles, film, and dance reviews have appeared online, and in various print magazines. He writes and edits commercial and literary fiction, creative non-fiction, and screenplays. He's the moderator and a participant of Morningside Writers Group.

I was all set to start work on a TV show today. Sure, the start date had been pushed back before, but it seemed to be a go this time around. This shoot would have been fun, involved travel, been far more interesting then a lot of my other jobs, lasted several weeks, and paid me extremely well. Then I get a phone call from the production manager yesterday around 6:30PM

PM Tom: Hey its Tom, afraid I have some bad news. There was a problem with the family we want to follow, and it looks like the shoot is not going to happen.

My voice: What? Oh. Ok. Wow, that sucks. All right.

My thoughts: Are you fucking kidding me! You guys are going to fuck me over like this the day before I was supposed to start because you did not do your background checks right?

PM Tom: Yeah, I will be calling you tomorrow to let you know where we go from here, but no need to come in for preproduction tomorrow. Sorry.

My voice: Ok.

My thoughts: If you need me, I will be at the bar down the street.

What kind of ridiculously fucked up person decides to freelance, knowing full well that this sort of stuff happens on a regular basis? No amount of creative pursuit is worth this. I like what I do, but I also like being able to pay the rent. No real job would do that to someone. I have a friend in finance that got fired a few weeks ago, he got one month of severance pay, and went off to play on the beach for a week.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. Last time I was, pretty much, fired from a steady TV on a talk show, the production manager pulled me into her office. She explained: Well, we are trying to make some changes in production. And while we all love you, really, we think we are going to try out Kristen as our PA next week. So, yeah, thanks. I will call you in a few weeks and maybe we can bring you back.

That was on a Friday, so they gave me three days notice. Slightly better than this show.

I was scheduled to do an independent film last year that I had several friends working on. They hired me to do it three weeks in advance. Then I got a call from my friend, the assistant director, a week later who informed me that he got the call sheet that day, and I was not on it. I called the bastard producers, and found out they hired someone who would work for far less than me, and just did not see the need to call me yet to tell me this. Resisting the urge to call them cheapskates and assholes, I convinced them that I was worth the extra money. They agreed, and the shoot was back on. And then it was pushed back a week. And then two weeks. And then a month. And then I never heard from them again. Amazing how you forget all these stories when you have steady employment, and how quickly they popped back into my head when I got off the phone with the bastards from the reality TV show. That and how much money I was spending on moving to a new apartment soon, and how many bills I had to pay, and how the next few weeks were going to be spent sulking and watching reruns of Dawsons Creek. Pretty much, I felt like I had been dumped without any warning by a loser boyfriend.

Oh, and since writing those last couple paragraphs yesterday, the show called me back again. Change of plans. The shoot is back on. I am still going down to the bar.

Monday morning I walked out of my apartment and after just 3 steps and my eyes still adjusting to the sunlight, this freak of nature comes out of nowhere running straight at me. He was screaming and shaking a miniature rubber octopus thing in my face (One of those deals you get out of the 25 cent machine at Kmart). As I worked my way around him, he turned in an attempt to sort of follow me slobbering and laughing. It was quite disturbing - especially since that was my first human contact for the day.

With that, I decided to actually pay attention to the number of homeless people that I routinely encounter on my daily 17-27 minute walk/subway ride to work.

2 blocks down cuddled in the front door entrance of The Museum of Sex there is a young guy with his girlfriend and dog that are usually still asleep when I walk by. It’s scary to think of how close I’ve been to being in their shoes.

Either on my way to them or just after them, I attempt to dodge the guy who looks to be in his mid-forties staggering on the sidewalk looking for handouts. Once safely past him, I wonder if he is freshly drunk at this hour or is it the same buzz from the night before?

One more block to the train and down the stairs is the Hispanic woman standing silently with her cooler. I'm not so sure about her status.

Once on the subway, I am usually lucky to have a quiet ride, although there is the occasional person begging or just a passed out person taking up 3 seats. Off the subway and up the stairs a bit there is a new regular guy that just claimed his spot there late last week. He’s the most annoying of them all because of his location and I would like to suggest that he choose a different location. I have already climbed close to 50 steps with only 14 to go by the time I reach him and the last thing I am going to do is stop to hand him something. My only mission at that point of the trip is to get above ground for some air. I am assuming that most other people feel the same.

Once I’ve surfaced, I pass the overweight “Spare a Quarter” guy sitting in the window sill of an upscale shoe store. I have a feeling that before my time is done here in NYC, I’ll toss him one.

The final stretch is just a matter of getting through all of the flyer pimps. You know -- Fashion Avenue, so there one or two people at every corner pushing a flyer in your face about a sample sale, a coupon for Subway or some sort of political statement about people suffering in China. What's the deal with the china movement? I keep seeing people meditating on the streets, holding signs and screaming about their people being abused - but they aren't very clear on exactly what is happening and how I can help them.