Sweat.

So hot. Want to touch the heiney.

New York is gross right now. I, being my usual brain-a-tron self decided that such an environment might be ideal for busking. I'm sure I don't need to relate to you the details of what I discovered.

But I will. I think I'm becoming a manly man, in the sense that I sweat all the time, but unfortunately still don't have muscles or an imposing presence. I suppose I'll take what I can get. Subway stations are particularly bad places for sweat glands to be. Above ground, you can at least air out smothered areas of your body, and if you're lucky there might even be a stray gust of wind to refresh your heat-addled existence.

In Subwayland, there's nothing like that. Well, there is actually. With every roaring train comes a boiling maelstrom of engine exhaust that's very likely to strip away the flesh on your forehead if you're not cautious. Other than this unpleasantry, literally NO AIR MOVES in the subway stations of New York City.

Not a good thing. It sucks enough when I have to go off to my mindless office job or to gorge upon delicious milkshakes uptown. But these trips only require a ten-minute wait, tops. Imagine being in a station for, say, three hours. While strumming fast enough to fuel multiple strum-o-matic power plants. While singing with the efforts of a hundred men, women and children, none of which are strong enough to counter the fearsome thunder of incoming trains. While pressing an increasingly warming guitar body up against one's own, creating a wondersome jungle of steam, friction and discomfort. Then add in the part about a cockroach trying to stowaway in my guitar case, and you've pretty much recreated my typical Friday night.


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