Everyone Loves Catch

The past few weeks have yielded some interesting events, not in the sense that I've changed as a person or turned a new leaf, but more poignant, quirky, that-wouldn't-be-out-of-place-in-an-indie-flick. The first of these episodes occurred a while ago (probably towards the tail end of February) on, or "in" as a friend likes to say, the Tube, the good ol' reliable London Underground where people don't really converse unless they know each other, preferring to read the free tabloid papers where they complete suduko puzzles or read up on the latest celebrity gossip. They insulate themselves with their music of choice, eyes darting around from Tube map to person and vice versa, never settling on one for very long, and on the very likely chance that two sets of eyes meet, the encounter produces, well, nothing. No recognition, verbal or otherwise. It's as if the event doesn't even get registered, but more like an item gets scratched off a list. Then again, you can apply this to any form of public transportation. Such means of traversing amongst cities produce small windows of time where accurate judgments of people aren't entirely feasible and accurate, though Malcom Gladwell will argue (quite well, I may add) in his book Blink otherwise.

On this particular night, after filling our stomachs with mighty fine Mexican food, Mike and I board the Tube, take our seats, and await for the ride to commence. Before long we leave the platform, saying goodbye to the tiny and exceptionally cute mice that make their homes there, and it's here that the ride takes a turn. (Metaphorically, of course; literally, we knew where we were going.) A few seats over from us were two guys who were tossing around a little foam football, the kind that as a kid you would've traded tickets for. I didn't think much of it, and neither did anyone else. Just two people having a bit of closed-off fun. A few minutes into their game, they toss the ball to one of the many neighboring Tubees; she tosses it back, and, to the surprise of everyone, they proceed to throw the ball to another rider. Pretty soon they have a full-on game of catch going, getting everyone in that section of the train, including the quintessential irascible old man reading a newspaper, to lower their guards and play a game thats as fun as it is simple, which is to say very. No wonder the originators kept repeating "Everybody loves catch." I think it's embedded into our pleasure center, the nucleus accumbens, since conception. Needless to say, it was a memorable and truly unique Tube ride, one that'll in all likelihood never happen again: I played catch with a bunch of strangers, and when I stepped off the train, part of me wanted to stay, not just to say thanks, but to, in a naive sort of way, make friends, or at the least acquaintances who are down for impromptu catch sessions.

The other mildly amusing episode happened two weeks ago. It was a Friday afternoon, and as per usual I had nothing to do. I could've done a bit of work, but let's face it: Do college students ever do so except when they absolutely have to? I opted out of the former and instead decided to treat myself to a movie and dinner, the one-two combo that can knock anyone's ennuic fog on its ass, the kind that you get constantly through adolescence. Make that shit bite the curb and stomp it, as per Edward Norton in American History X, with some steel-toed boots. I decided to see American Teen, a documentary about a Breakfast Club-like group of teens in their senior year of high school. I ended up thoroughly enjoying it. Some parts of it were a bit too sensationalized I felt, but the film's protagonists dealt with problems (girls, the future, being a big pussy, etc.) I can still resonate with. As interesting and engaging as the teens in the documentary were, they weren't nearly as captivating as the guy watching the movie behind me was. I met him prior to the movie starting, in the men's restrooms. I used the urinal and then washed my hands, and down the end of the counter is a guy who would be the end product if the voice of The Boondock's Uncle Ruckus Gary Anthony Williams merged with his cartoon, forming some kind of creepy, definitely weird, and certainly startling version of life meets art. As I leave, he looks up into the mirror from washing his hands and simultaneously pumps himself up and fights the reflection. Our eyes meet, if only for a second, but in that fraction of time I see the look of a man who is very likely to do something crazy. I bolted on to the theatre, walking quickly so as to not be seen. I sat down, hoping the next person to come in wasn't the potential crazy man, but it was him! And he turned out to be actually crazy! Throughout the movie he kept shouting "Fucking white people...(some other expletives)...(expletive)...shut up!" and coming in and out of the theatre. At one point he got pretty angry at something--could've been those white kids; he especially cursed when they appeared, and they were a SHITLOAD of them in the film--and started to play his fat belly like a drum. My initial worry turned to amusement, and then annoyment because he kept doing this throughout the movie. Normally I would've gone up to him and been all like 'Hey Brah, is there a problem?! Are we gonna need to take this outside? Huh?' But I decided against it; who knows what a crazy man would've done? I for sure did not want to find out.

The cartoon character Uncle Ruckus

The voice behind it

Edit: I started this entry March 6th. It's taken almost two weeks to finish. Damn my instantly gratified, scatterbrained ways! But I should warn you, though, the next few weeks aren't going to fare too well either. I'm off to Munich this coming weekend, and the weekend after that I'm off to visit my good friend Chris in Siena. And somewhere in all of this I have to find the time to write two papers.