Yikes

Oh spring is springing in Auld Manhattoe, mindless rages and tight buds on tree branches not yet showing green. I was walking through the gallerias on my way to 52nd Street and I see a buncha guys repainting the giant round terracotta orange planters that grace the fine weather outdoor dining area of the adjoining restaurant and one of the fellows just burst out in expletives about some boss or other, oh I had to laugh as he bellowed "fuck that fucking fuck!" and they saw me laughing and they laughed too, but oh the edginess, we all are hit with it.

Me, I got a gripe of my own, those damned new N trains with their obscene fake almost musical sound as they move, it's enough to drive a person mad, almost music, almost rhythm, but neither, just mindless awful sound, the seats aren't deep enough, they're a putrid pastel blue that has already become scuffed, the automated woman's voice that announces the stops is hideously cheerful and when she announces "Broadway," you'd think she was getting a lascivious slurpy lick or two from some mad louche lover.

For this is New York after all, we got real live folks on the trains who sound like the rest of us and they ought to be announcing the stops, not this creepy automated voice. Ah, yikes, rages forming, foaming, flailing, and spring is on the way, oh yikes.