Pissed Connections: The Pushy Buddhist on the L Train

06/05/2009 9:46 AM |

There I was on the afterwork L train, reading my heavily underlined copy of the novelization of Willow, when a short-haired young woman pushed her way through the crowd to talk to the man sitting in front of me, a slightly balding, handsome muscular type. Evidently she’d noticed the book he was reading was of the Buddhist persuasion, and she leaned in to comment to that effect. The man was a little puzzled at the interruption, but engaged her politely and non-committaly. But then the older Finnish lady sitting next to him got off at Union Square: this was the opportunity the short-haired chatterbox was looking for, and boy could she talk. She talked about her time at a monastery, about her successful development as a Buddhist, about how she “was happier than she’d ever been.” And then she gave the guy her card in case he needed advice about his incipient Buddhism: it was all I could do to not ask her if she was trying to convert the guy or fuck him.

As an incipient Buddhist, the handsome young man went along with her enthusiasms, until she and I got off at the Bedford stop. Never have I seen a commuter as pushy as this short-haired Buddhist: she elbowed, she nudged, she rushed, she swore…

Ok, basically, this is like a Missed Connection, except I’m angry about this idiot and how her banal thoughts on Buddhism interrupted my reading time, so really, it’s a Pissed Connection. And that’s, dear readers, how a new regular blog feature is born. (If you send me your Pissed Connections, I will give you satisfaction. [email protected])

3 Comment

  • So, when someone pisses you off and you decide to do something about it, is it called a Fist Connection?

  • So as to uselessly extend discourse on something that might have already seemed, to some, to be of arguable utility, I proffer, approximately one month too late to engender even less than the less-than-minimal interest that it might have otherwise:

    If the imaginably somewhat mild act of violence topping off the Pissed-Connection-cum-Fist-Connection (what an awfully appropriate word sequence in which to insert ‘cum,’ as Latinate particle or otherwise) were to result in the appearance, for either or both involved parties, an injury to which the body’s natural response is to create a sort of membranous swelling filled with some sort of pus and/or liquid, might one then have good reason to speak of a Cyst Connection?

    If not, then I propose that Cyst Connection be the name for an as-yet-to-be-created (well, I guess, since I’ll admit that I haven’t exactly been searching) social networking site for lepers, not the metaphorical kind but the kind who actually have leprosy. It would have a limited community of users, sure, but it would give said sufferers a place to meet and greet, share stories, chat, blog, liveblog, tweet, upload videos and pics of new lesions, compare and contrast, advise one another on new ointments and bandages, imagine rosy pasts in the good ol’ days when there were many more lepers in the world, quote biblical passages that reference leprosy yet barely graze the surface (pun, unfortunately, intended), write on one another’s walls, comment on one another’s status updates (e.g. “User X is: another oatmeal bath hellz yeah :)”, “User Q likes this!”), link back up with friends and families from whose immediate environs they had to exile themselves indefinitely, post reviews of recent topical literature, post reviews of physicians and researchers, develop a revisionist dialogue and other such things.

    And of course they could finally, and with circumstantially quite limited risk, poke each other.

    Poke.

    Squish.

    Sanitize.

    Ointment.

    Bandage.

    Poke back.

    Repeat.

    Send gift.

    Or rather, Gift.

    The poison.

    The hemlock.

    Tastes minty!

    Like certain roadways in Queens.

    Near desolate cemeteries where one gets easily lost.

    Bringing to mind social networking sites for the dead.

    Why not?

    Poke.

    Ouch!

    Bye.