a crosstown

Exhausted but lying here awake because pain. Can’t figure out what happened to me to cause it. Recall a too-big-to-be-carried almost 3 year old insisting on being held while we trekked downtown and crosstown (and back) and yeah, that’s why I’m stiff and everything is terrible.

Crosstown 79 - CrissColfer AU

Title: Crosstown 79
Pairing: Chris/Darren (AU)
Rating/Length: PG-13 / 10,300
Summary: Sometimes you just need a week to fall in love, especially if you’re a witch.


It’s raining and he’s wearing thick glasses and a blue beanie when Chris first sees him, with dark curls peeking out from under the damp wool. He’s also a witch, Chris can tell.

Keep reading

May 20, 2006

After barreling over fellow catcher Michael Barrett in a play he considered hard but clean, A.J. Pierzynski is surprised when the Cubs’ catcher shows his displeasure by punching him the face. The incident ignites a bench-clearing brawl between the crosstown rivals that leads to a 15-minute delay and four ejections during the White Sox’ 7-0 victory at U.S. Cellular Field.
I was fascinated by strangers, wanted to know what food they ate and what dishes they ate it from, what movies they watched and what music they listened to, wanted to look under their beds and in their secret drawers and night tables and inside the pockets of their coats. Often I saw interesting-looking people on the street and thought about them restlessly for days, imagining their lives, making up stories about them on the subway or the crosstown bus.
—  Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
“One Season,” Tony Hoagland

That was the summer my best friend
called me a faggot on the telephone,
hung up, and vanished from the earth,

a normal occurance in this country
where we change our lives
with the swiftness of hysterical finality

of dividing cells. That month
the rain refused to fall,
and fire engines streaked back and forth crosstown

towards smoke-filled residential zones
where people stood around outside, drank beer
and watched their neighbors houses burn.

It was a bad time to be affected
by nearly anything,
especially anything as dangerous

as loving a man, if you happened to be
a man yourself, ashamed and unable to explain
how your feelings could be torn apart

by something ritual and understated
as friendship between males.
Probably I talked too loud that year

and thought an extra minute
before I crossed my legs; probably
I chose a girl I didn’t care about

and took her everywhere,
knowing I would dump her in the fall
as part of evening the score,

part of practicing the scorn
it was clear I was going to need
to get across this planet

of violent emotional addition
and subtraction. Looking back, I can see
that I came through

in the spastic, furtive, half-alive manner
of accident survivors. Fuck anyone
who says I could have done it

differently. Though now I find myself
returning to the scene
as if the pain I fled

were the only place that I had left to go;
as if my love, whatever kind it was, or is,
were still trapped beneath the wreckage

of that year,
and I was one of those angry firemen
having to go back into the burning house;
climbing a ladder

through the heavy smoke and acrid smell
of my own feelings,
as if they were the only
goddamn thing worth living for.


The first mixtape I ever made was probably in the early ’90s because it had Ace of Base and Ice Cube on it, and it was the kind of mixtape that you go and tape off the radio. It was funny, too, because I remember you’d have to wait for the song you liked to come on. You’d have to press play and record at the same time, and most of the times when you’d get the mixtape, it’s like static, or you’d get the radio DJ’s voice, or you’d cut, like, halfway through the first verse. It was also nice because you learn to love it that way, like, “Well, that’s the song. That’s the song I know, so that’s what I’m accepting as the truth.” I would find that even with CDs. I had a Jimi Hendrix record that had a scratch in the middle of Crosstown Traffic, and I was, like, “Wow, that’s really cool! It’s ‘You jump from the front of my— you jump from the front of my—you jump from the front of my car.’” I was, like, “I didn’t know he was into sampling.” So you learn it how you hear it. I like the idiosyncrasies. 

  • Hamilton: Musing on the idea of setting someone on fire doesn’t mean you really want to set them on fire: it’s just the thought of it makes you really happy. But only for a second, then you feel bad, but then that second would feel like a lot of fun.
  • Washington: You thinkin’ of settin’ someone on fire?
  • Hamilton: No, I was just speaking in the figurative, but figuratively speaking, someone should set you on fire for throwing my heart under a bus when you told me congress doesn't like my fiscal plan.
  • Washington: That was the Truth Bus.
  • Hamilton: That wasn’t the Truth Bus: that was the Bitchy Crosstown Express.
  • Washington: By "bitchy," you mean "frank" and "honest."
  • Hamilton: If I want Frank and Honest – well, I don’t want Frank and Honest. I never want Frank and Honest, so let’s just take it off the docket. While we’re on the subject of Frank and Honest, I don’t like Jefferson. Not one bit.
i’m moving

i’ve lived in nyc for fifteen years and, this year, the day after christmas, i’m moving to los angeles. 

nyc has taken this opportunity to relentlessly scatter crunchy leaves that smell like every memory i have ever made ever anywhere amidst all of its sidewalks. soon, to add insult to injury, it will begin to wrap up its lampposts in twinkling lights and then, monster that it is, will start to offer me steaming cups of hot apple cider from its holiday fair tents.

its people will begin to remember all the ways they can wrap scarves around their necks, all the ways puffy coats can mash together during rush hour, all the ways they can fit fourteen shopping bags between their knees on the crosstown bus.

any other november and i’d be bracing for the snow or ice, the chaotic shoppers, the overcrowded trains, the madness of it all. this year i am just standing here, wide-eyed, trying not to miss a single, beautiful, perfect moment.