guy smoking on the subway

A woman starts making eye contact with me on the uptown 2 this morning and for a second I'm impressed with myself. When I look back though she looks back at me again, less in an aren't-you-so-interesting-you-paunchy and unkempt-yet-sexy-creature-you kind of way and more in that way people have of looking at you when someone's doing something crazy on the subway.

There's a sudden distinct smell of smoke. I look back at my sister in travel like sister is that a we're-all-going-to-die kind of look you've been shooting me, but she's given up on my Goofus reflex time and has opted to ignore the entire car for the rest of the ride, possibly to ignore all train passengers for the rest of her life, possibly to ignore all humankind and live out her days a Nicorette hermit in some remote corner of the globe, e.g. Jersey City more than 4 blocks from the PATH.

In uncertain and toddling/obesely wheezing fashion I get off my mental ass and note the source of the stimulus in question, a guy smoking a large off-brand cigarette on the subway, strong like a clove but less sweet, a cigarette strong with a certain air of off-track betting and municipal court lobbies, a cigarette strong indeed and latent with a filtered premonition of will be jabbed swiftly and with great aim into the face sockets of errant objectors.

In short as the man in question smokes this portentous stick resplendent with martial energy the mental adjustment for his fellow passengers is simple: there's a guy smoking on the subway and isn't it the most natural thing.

Five minutes north I've completely adjusted, I've actually chosen to sit closer to the guy, the smell of smoke is helping me to concentrate on my book. Someone gets on at 125th and has the gall to complain, in what can only stand as a small betrayal.

how voodoo works

All of my teams are born losers. The Eagles always tank. I gave up the Phillies for the Mets in '01 when I met L, who has an 86 and a particularly coked-up looking Doc Gooden tattooed on her right bicep. Things started looking up. But now all of a sudden the Mets are Charlie Brown trying to kick a field goal, and the Phils are wizards, world champions.

I suspect that my grandfather--my mom's dad--can control the outcome of sporting events with his mind. He's a knowledgable man, and could he string together a focused sequence of games I believe he might guide the Eagles to the Super Bowl.

There are two problems with this flight to victory. First, for late games like last night's, he goes to sleep by the 4th quarter, and some night-owl Chicago area grandfather was probably able to sneak in his own psychic tomfoolery to tighten up the Bears' goal line defense. Second, football games always seem to bring out the man's nostalgia, prompting him to pour a glass of something strong. Andy Reid and Jim Johnson have complicated playbooks, and if grandpa's vision is blurred, he might dial up a blitz where something a bit more conservative would be appropriate.

What I'm saying is that when the Eagles lose, it doesn't bust up my theory. You have to look for other factors. McNabb's inconsistent brilliance is one thing I would watch very closely, if I were you. Cross-tabulate with my grandfather's mindset at any moment.

Another reason the Mets can't win is that my dad's parents met at Connie Mack stadium. It is possible that the jinx hanging over the depressins these past two years has actually been the handiwork of Ed and Lorraine, formerly of Marlton, NJ, now of the sweet hereafter. They're probably haunting the shit out of those sad sack Mets. My mom's dad is a Phils fan too.

To put my ability to jinx my teams to good use, I've taken the amateurish next step of falling in love wiith the McCain-Palin ticket. As my team, they will surely lose...

...but everyone knows that isn't how voodoo works. It'll cross you just for trying to fuck with it so obviously, reverse your jinx. I'll have to get grandpa to show me how it's done.