Home is where you die

The subways always smell like someone attempted to cover up a crime scene. Mornings at Main Street in Flushing reek of it, all over the platform and in some of the cars, like bleach was sprayed everywhere to hide something and it just reminds you that there was something to hide at one point. The 7 train’s my unfortunate lifeline to the rest of the world, and my lifeline smells like chloroform these days. A few days ago I got off the 6 (now that’s a lovely train, smells like A/C and runs like a dream most of the time) at Grand Central Station and the smell hit me there too. Seems like another bloodbath had to get covered up there…or they were cleaning.

Album of the day;

Dead Reckoning by Small Brown Bike. Get with it, kids. Picked it up yesterday along with some other stuff, and been rocking it since about 9 pm last night. Great fucking band.

The Holy Grail of pants? What the fuck?

Tip mania in Philly these days…

The picture attached to this is just awesome.


About Costa

Writer. College professor.
This entry was posted in 7 Train, blogging, MTA, nyc, punk, Small Brown Bike, what the fuck?. Bookmark the permalink.

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