. . . was absurd. Like I rolled out of bed, took a shower, got dressed, then got kicked in the nuts for an hour and a half. It’s one subway straight downtown, but the MTA finds a way to turn it into a friggin NYSC spinning class. And this wasn’t your garden variety “sick passenger” or “police investigation.” (That’s the best – in the time it takes to clear a police investigation I could get off the train, run up the track to the station, solve the crime, and walk home.) No, this was a “track condition.” That’s it. No further information. Just a track condition. I’m assuming it was a bad condition. But I wouldn’t know, because they never told me.
To make matters worse, I was standing next to a rather insane woman. She wasn’t one of those blatantly crazy ones that have the look in their eye that they might punch you or lick you at any moment. She was a sneaky one – seemingly sane for at least 45 minutes, but then all of a sudden she starts talking, complaining about the train delay. I assume she is talking to someone she knows sitting next to her. I glance up from my magazine and see the people on either side of her doing their best to obviously avoid her. It wasn’t so hard for the one on her right who had a book, but the one on her left had nothing, so he stared at his fingers as though he had just found something he never knew he had.
We’re all waiting for this woman to stop talking, but she just keeps on going, getting louder and louder. At this point, I’m convinced she’s either drunk or she has, just at this very moment, “gone crazy.” Because she wasn’t dressed crazy. She wasn’t even dressed sort of crazy – like Hilfiger Outlet sweat pants and a “Local 38” t-shirt. She looked like she was on her way to work; but at this point the thought of her “working” somewhere was beyond belief. The next thing I know, she is asking anyone who will listen (no one) if the speaker on the wall (for the automated voice) is a “radio.” She proceeds to tap it and say loudly and slowly (as though the imaginary people she is speaking to on the imaginary other end might be a little crazy), “Hello? This train isn’t moving. Do you know this train isn’t moving?”
I think I actually heard the large man next to me fart in an effort to hold in his laughter, because if they hear you laugh, they know you’re real, and then they try to talk to you. All the way to Wall Street we rode like this, in the face of the funniest thing most of us had seen in weeks, maybe months, unable to even laugh out loud.
Then I get to work and the first the thing the receptionist says to me is, “Did you hear about Tom Cruise and that little girl?” Apparently overnight the rumors had changed from Tom Cruise “dating” Katie Holmes to Tom Cruise doing something inappropriate with a little girl? Either that or my receptionist is crazy. Oh, that’s right – my receptionist IS crazy . . .
Regardless, I don’t know how to feel about this whole thing. I loved Joey before Joey even loved Joey, back in a time when Dawson had her racked with self-consciousness and sexual inhibition. But Tom’s a good guy, great catch. The age thing shouldn’t matter either – I mean, Joey was already three years old by the time Tom did his first movie. That may not be old enough to form a long term memory, but it’s certainly old enough to sit in the movie theater with your head upright and play with your ba-ba.
The best thing about this whole gossip orgasm? Pictures of Katie Holmes everywhere. She even cracked Yahoo’s most emailed. And she didn’t even have to sleep with a contestant on the reality show for which she is a judge. Good for you, Joey.
"Tom will be the best thing for my career since my nude scene in The Gift . . ."