Dirty Bastards

This morning started out 7:41 (my alarm goes off at 7:00; yes, I did hear it). Whenever I picked out my afro on the left, the right went flat, and vice-versa. I have also been exceedingly busy, so I haven't done laundry since the Carter administration. I still have clothes left, but everytime I would pull out an outfit, if the shirt was good, the pants that I intended to go were not, if the pants were clean, I didn't have a shirt to go, etc. So finally I pulled something together that involves one of my last clean pairs of slacks, and a shirt that is decidedly "clubby."

This SHOULD have clued me in that the workday would be a little left of center. As I get off the train and proceed toward the platform exit, I notice someone on the floor in my peripheral vision. I turn and see that it is a woman, no more than 24 years old, stretched out, and alone on the floor. I am in a crowd, no one is stopping. So I stop to see if she is okay and needs help, and she tells me that she can't breathe. I go to get the station manager, and I notice that a woman is actually returning with him. Which makes me feel better, because that means someone stopped and this woman has clearly been on the floor for a while. However, when I look at the face of the woman who brought assistance, I realize that she was on the same train car as I was. The number of people who had to have passed this woman prior to my

I know people in this day and age like to believe that the sun rises and sets shining on their asses. I find myself becoming increasingly disgusted with the way individuals treat one another (stay tuned for the upcoming weekly installment "Men are from Maine, Women are from Compton"). This, however, takes the proverbial cake. There are four station managers in the Metro Center platform (one at each exit), as well as a minimum of two sales attendants. This means, if you need assistance, and one is preoccupied with, say, a woman literally collapsing out of her chair, you have five other people to assist you. However, for the five douches that walked up to the station manager at the 12th Street exit, collapsing woman or not, they wanted immediate assistance.

I will say this: New Orleans is dirty, ignant, backwards, and you MIGHT get stabbed. Yet, with all of that, when there is a person in need of help, there will be no shortage of people ready and willing to help. I find that when people don't have much, they are a lot more giving and concerned about their fellows. When you know what it's like to be in need, it seems that you're more likely to fill a need when you see fit. Maybe that's what's wrong here - people have too much. Maybe they don't know what it's like to be in need, or to be desperate.

I have seen more people be outright inconsiderate, then justify it because they don't feel it's adequately appreciated. Human concern is FREE. If you open a door, and a person doesn't say thank you, did only do it because you were expecting a parade? If you say good morning, and it's not returned, is that person automatically a bitch or an asshole? I'm a surly mofo, but I know that even the nicest person can have a day where they aren't "on." What does it cost for me to be the person that I AM, not because it will be acknowledged, but just because? Not a damn dime, that's what.