Chapter 9: And All That Jazz

As you can imagine, New york and its surrounding burroughs have deep musical roots. Wikipedia says, "Beginning in the 1940s, New York City was the center for a roots revival of American folk music. In Greenwich Village, many of these people gathered; the area became a hotbed of American folk music as well as leftist political activism." Do I care? Absolutely not. Apart from the "leftist political activism"-a fun phrase to use at parties or bus stops, I hate folk music. Many people have threatened to burn me at the stake for not possessing a single Dylan album. Last year I refered to him as a wheezing, rotting husk of a man that should be propped up in the neighbor's farm to ward off the crows. Sacrilege, I know. And I'm pretty sure after hearing my declaration, the frumpy-looking woman sitting next to me wanted to shank me with her hair chopsticks. By the way, the food utensil in your hair pretending to be a hair accessory-it confuses me. When I see it, I get hungry, then ashamed. I hope you're happy. Your chopstick hair ruins lives.

Ok, getting back to music. One of the reasons I love New York probably has something to do with its Jazz and Blues history. In this city, you can't throw a rat without hitting a Jazz club. And you might think Jazz is something old people listen to during dinner at the "home". I suppose some of the artists definitely serve that purpose. The old people love Tony Bennett and Glenn Miller. And I guess it might be confusing for some to hear a tune with more complexity than the usual four chord progression i.e. most pop songs. Don't believe me? Check this funny business out: Axis of Awesome.

I've been to just about all of the good clubs (and bad ones too) in Manhattan. I've even made an ass of myself at a few. The Cotton Club, Blue Note, Birdland, Village Vanguard, 55 Bar, The Supper Club, Apollo. I'm fairly accident prone, but not in the usual way. I tend toward the spectacular kind of humiliation. Let me sing you a beautiful ballad...oops, I just fell on your table. What's that you're eating? Yes, it's now stuck on my bosom. Note to self: the Jambalaya is delicious here. Hmm, don't get to close to the bassist. Last time your ring got stuck in his hair. How was I to know he has Alopecia and that chunk I just ripped out has exacerbated his condition? 

I happen to be a big fan of bebop and hard bop. The name comes from the gibberish sung during a scat. How great is that? If only I could incorporate more gibberish into my vocabulary. And yes, it's the form of Jazz that you can't dance to. Improvisation wrapped inside a shell of a familiar standard. It's a little like me: frantic, nervous, probably fragmented, spontaneous, and occasionally brilliant. Ok...maybe I should qualify that brilliant statement. In retrospect, it wasn't a stroke a brilliance to attempt to super glue the hole in my tights.  

Aside from many of the musicians being virtuosos-like Charles Mingus, the musicians are tragic figures; I'm a sucker for unhappy endings. Many died young from drug overdoses or were straight up crazy, in the case of one of my favorites, Thelonious Monk. Poor guy probably had Schizophrenia, but he wasn't afraid to accessorize with some crazy hats. One recording features John Coltrane being suddenly woken up (clearing after being on the nod) by Miles Davis and then producing the most amazing improvisation. I mean, intoxication usually presents some coordination issues. I'm just sayin'. 

But don't get me wrong, I have many guilty pleasures. Just the other night, my daughter and I were doing a booty shake to "Womanizer". Yes, there's room in this elitist heart for train wreck pop stars whose chi-chis point toward true north and whose weave is desperately trying to escape. Whatever, that song's hook is infectious.

Chapter 8: Nights in Manhattan

People might say their city "comes alive" when the sun sets. That doesn't really apply to Manhattan. The streets, shops, eateries, bars-you name it-are almost always crowded. Crowded with locals, tourists, people from Jersey (yes, they get their own category), foreigners, et cetera.  And with them comes the noise, garbage, bad fashion, unattractive offspring, and general sense of entitlement. Sometimes it's more than irritating, but mostly it's fascinating. 

So generally, what do people do at night in Manhattan? I don't know, but let's talk about bars.

Manhattan has a lot of bars...A LOT. Bars come and go here-some more quickly than others. When I first moved here, it was almost a full-time job to hit all these places. But in the name of exploration, I had to do it. There were indoor/outdoor Moroccan bars with sod floors, perfurmed rooms and intricantly carved tables. Mod bars whose walls were made up of raised white lacquer dots, had uneven floors that messed with your equilibrium. Ridiculous bars with bras hanging from light fixtures and mounted dead animal heads entertained tourists, sorority girls, and lecherous man alike. Plenty of bars with filthy floors, bad music, scuzzy patrons, and drunk bitches fighting outside, kept things interesting.  

I happen to like weirdly themed bars fashioned to look like the inside of a Pan Am airplane, a William Burroughs-type library, a spacey bar whose bathrooms have transparent doors that turn opaque when opened or closed, and a tiny bar whose name implies they are "big". Two of my favorites come to mind. One was a bar called Androgyny. I think it was in Little Italy of all places. It was a dive bar with a small neon sign out front. It had a fairly non-descript interior, apart from the low-rent trannies playing pool on two very neglected pool tables. But the real stand-out were the small glass bowls of cocaine strategically placed on many of the tables. Yes, I said cocaine. Believe me, we were very consfused by this open display. While this pre-dated any season of "To Catch a Predator", there was no way I was going to touch it.  

The other was a bar called Double Happiness that had one of the first make-out parties before it became a short-lived trend. It was so much like my 7th grade graduation dance that I wanted to run home and put on a ruffled lace-inset dress, fingerless gloves, and style my hair into an asymetrical bob. And in a perfect parallel, my date that night was also destined to become a gay accountant.

Add that to my regular fondness for jazz haunts, late-night choruses of show tunes, modern-day speakeasies and burlesque, drag shows, showcases of depravity, cavernous dive bars connected to dark alleys (perfect for lascivious acts), and many more places I'd either a) like to forget or b) will deny I have even been to.

Chapter 7: Work It

No matter where you live, you have to get a job. It's one of the most annoying and tedious requirements of living in polite society. I often dream that I win the lottery or get adopted by some wealthy family. But those fantasies won't come true because I never play the lottery and sadly I'm too old to get adopted. I can now only hope for a decrepit, feeble-minded sugar daddy-but it appears my chances of that are even slimmer. It's not that Manhattan isn't filled with ancient millionaires, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they're mostly gay.

So instead I'm working for The Man. Well, not lately. I work in non-profit. But before that, I had some terrible jobs. Over the years, I've tried a lot of jobs-successfully and unsuccessfully. I've exaggerated my resume by giving myself a degree in Physics (which surprise, later got me fired), worked for criminals, been chased, shot at, degraded, sexually harassed, adored, promoted, bitten/clawed, forced to wear polyester, witnessed violence, been heckled by children, and ordered to work in a dank, dark, windowless room making silk flower arrangements. Ok, I made up the last one.

Here's my top 5 worst jobs:

1. My first cocktail waitressing job was at a frat bar that had a clientele comprised of macho buffoons, their dumb-as-a-box-of-hair girlfriends, and skanky bar flys (male and female). The owner hired me because I had "great tits". While I worked there an employee was raped, another chugged a bottle of jagermeister and refused to cook with his clothes on, I hit a man in the face with a bottle after he punched his girlfriend, and I was guaranteed at least one incident of inappropriate groping plus a pitcher of puke to clean up each night. Oh yeah...and I made shit money.

2. I worked a string of activist jobs when I was younger. Yes, door-to-door canvassing. It didn't sound that hard. All you had to do was elicit money from strangers after disturbing them at their homes. And if that wasn't enough, you also had to make a nightly quota or risk getting the ax. I didn't have a lot of success at first until I started making stuff up. I'd ask people what their favorite charity was, and then say I was part of that organization. However, this does not work if the person thinks the NRA is a charity. Said person might pull out his rifle, point it at you, and then send his dog to chase/attack/maim you.

3. Ok, technically this wasn't a paying job, more like court-mandated community service for shoplifting (as a teen). When you are a prolific shoplifter and steal from 14 different mall stores while on a bender, you're bound to get a generous amount of community service hours. And in the case of my partner, a generous amount of bitch slaps to the face and body. The judge may believe you have a demon inside you, so he sends you to a Lutheran church to fulfill your obligation. Cleaning the pews is actually relaxing and gives me time to fantasize about being a backup singer for Siouxsie Sioux. Giving those little privileged brats pony rides in a muddy, pony toilet bowl ring was not.

4. Who doesn't love animals? Why not try a career as a Veterinary Technician or Assistant? I'll tell you why. a) Because it's depressing. You might have to drag a just-euthanized Mastiff down the hall on a blanket (it weights 250lbs) and get someone to help you shove it into a freezer. b) There is always at least one cat who will stalk and attack you every chance it gets. c) Animals can produce a remarkable amount of waste no matter their size and d) Veterinarians. What a bunch of assholes.

5. This one is a tie. Telemarketing and working at a fast food restaurant. There's nothing sadder than this: Cold-calling the old and not very bright folks, telling them they're won a free month at a gym, and subsequently hearing the absolute joy and excitement in their voices. Hell 1, Jenny 0.

Since high school, I've had only one other fast food job. It lasted 2 days. The restaurant had a vintage feel, its well-worn restaurant equipment probably built in the 50's. It felt very waspy and I was afraid to use the drinking fountain for fear they'd tell me I had to use the one for "non-whites". The scariest contraption was a manual french fry cutter. It was a giant silver monolith with an imposing weighted lever, a shiny waffle-pattern grille, and what looked to be an execution block. While holding the potato in position on the grill (suspended over a sink full of water), the operator would need to quickly and forcibly pull down the heavy lever to cut the potato into french fry-like strips. This had to be done in quick sucession and repitition, yielding 75 lbs when completed.

I was opposed to the idea and had refused on a couple of occassions. A manager type escorted me to the machine in an attempt to prove it was safe and "no big deal". To my horror, he began to tell a series of pointless jokes and stories. When he stopped abruptly, I assumed he had run out of material. Nope, he had cut of part of his little finger and it was now floating among the cut potatoes. The man working the grill casually assessed the situation and yelled to the floor manager, "We've got a floater!" Cue emergency procedure consisting of everyone yelling, blood squirting, procurement of ice-filled dixie cup (for the finger), and finally  followed by me running out the door never to return my company shirt.

Chapter 6: Single In The City

I recently read an article on the Huffington Post website called Why Dating In New York Sucks (With Mathematical Proof!). From the article...Satoshi Kanazawa, an evolutionary psychologist from the London School of Economics says, "If you live in New York City you may meet a thousand people before you can start getting serious about finding a mate, so the larger the pool the more people you have to reject."

That isn't depressing at all. Somehow, I have to reject a thousand men or at least 37% right off the bat before I can begin seriously looking for a mate. Aside from the obvious "How is that possible?" and "So I should be a slut!" or "Yay! I've always wanted to increase my chances of being murdered or finally get a stalker!", I start to wonder. Given I have such a high number of men to disqualify, how can I speed things up or cut corners? This morning on the subway I was rejecting nameless men with my eyes. I counted 17 legal-aged men and 4 questionably young men/boys before I finally gave up. Math is not my strongest subject-it makes my head hurt.

This is especially frustrating seeing as I don't really like dating. It's a recipe for disaster. Not only do the guys turn out to be slightly less evolved or psycho, but the whole experience feels so contrived. Jesus! I just met you on the bus yesterday and now you expect me to tell you what I was like when I was 4? Ridiculous. Seriously, stop crying. No, you don't look like my ex. Did you draw on that mustache?

But this is Manhattan. Some times you gotta take one-or several-for the team. And sometimes you arrive at the restaurant, see your date being escorted out by security...and decide to make a fast getaway before they see you. True story. In my world, here's what happens if you decide to go on a date:

Date #1: Cute guy. Seems nice. Not completely stupid, decent manners, doesn't live with his parents. Cut to thirty minutes later..Oh, thanks for announcing you have Herpes while I'm eating my Marsala. Check please.

Date #2: Poor guy can't stop sweating. Oh ok, he's recognized someone at another table. Yeah, this is awkward. It's his ex and he's just told her she should "die from something infectious". Check please.

Date #3: This guy is funny. I'm sorry what? He's just spent the last 10 minutes talking about just how small his penis is. He says, "Seriously, you've never seen one smaller." I have to use a microscope and some tweezers...just to pee." Let me get my glasses...check please.

Date #4: Hot artist invites me over to his place for a quiet dinner. Steak was very nice. Roommate barging in with whiskey and skanks, not so nice. Wants to recreate a Motley Crue video after taking 3 shots of said whiskey...also not so nice. Finding out I have to call a car service to get back to Manhattan-irritating.

Date #5: So maybe I'm not ready to be a cougar. I can't understand what this guy is talking about. How old are you again? Is it safe to say I'll be paying for dinner?

So where does this leave me? My best promiscuous days are clearly behind me. I'm not sure I can rally.

Chapter 5: City Livin' Ain't Easy

Living in Manhattan will put you in strange situations and make you do things you never thought you'd do. I never thought I'd be wedged into someone's armpit almost every morning on the subway, have a shower in my kitchen, listen to bad poetry, have disturbed friends who push Korean bodega owners into a display of Ramen or get attacked by umbrellas, make-out with a Russian acrobat, actually remain STD-free, be chased by a homeless mob, part the Halloween parade on 6th Avenue using only my bosom, have a dog that has humped celebrity dogs, get robbed by a tranny, work with insane celebrities, meet Eartha Kitt, know a guy who had a breast reduction, fall off the stage into someone's dinner while performing, etc etc etc.

But the hardest struggle you've never wanted to endure is finding a decent apartment in the city. And finding the perfect apartment? That could and usually does, take years. And just like dating, you'll have to cycle through a parade of losers. Not to mention the potential broker fees, crazy roommate situations, infestations, loony neighbors, building decay, and landlord requirements that are just...violating.

When I moved to Manhattan in the late 90's, my first share was with a dear friend and his then boyfriend on the Upper West Side. I had the couch, they had the bedroom. My memory is spotty, I think it faced the park. The first day I arrived, a mangy guy with crazy eyes tried to follow me into the building. The building entrance had two doors; One unsecured door opening into a small vestibule with access to the door buzzers, and the other a secured door with a standard key entry. Anyhow, the guy makes it through the first door as I'm shutting the second door. Of course the door is slow to close and he manages to hook a few of his dirty fingers around the edge of the door. Naturally, we begin to struggle-me to close the door, he to pry it open. After several seconds of exertion, both of us had the first traces of sweat on our brows. Fear brings out the nonsense in me so I found myself saying, "Take your hands off the door. I've just had a giant pile of Meth on the plane and I'm preparted to 1. Outlast you with my super-human strength and 2. When you're subdued I will chop off your fingers, paint little faces on them, and make a collage. Unfortunately, he didn't speak any english. But luckily, a neighbor came out and the man let go and ran away.

So began my apartment adventures. Since living here I've moved almost a dozen times. I can now say I have finally found a decent apartment. Here's some of the past highlights:

1. Upper West Side flat #2: Living with foreign exchange student who inhabits the sleeping loft. She is prolific when it comes to bedding the locals. Tonight she brought a large man home from Washington Square Park. All I got from the park was a scrape and the usual embarassment after attempting to roller skate. It's 3 a.m. and he's just come into my room thinking it's the bathroom. Oh how thoughtful, he's just begun peeing on my laundry.

2. Lower East Side #1: Never sublet from a white guy who wears a turban or has dreadlocks. No good can come of it! The rent is super cheap. Why? Today I woke up to a sea of mice rippling and churning around my bed. I can hear their little claws scraping across the floor. I wonder if I can catapult myself into the shower without touching the ground. It isn't that far away, being in the kitchen. Marvelous. Just fell down the crooked stairs and snapped off one of my frankenstein heels. But goody, the squatters across the street are setting the trash on fire again.

3. Lower East Side #2: This roommate might have a drug problem. Nobody is this clean. Puerto Rican neighbors are hilarious. Ernie has a girlfriend named Chichi. She's the most overweight Chihuahua I've ever seen. Next door neighbor practices a "sexy dance" in his window before he goes to bed every night. I think the best part is his serious facial expressions-so much concentration.

4. Nolita: Everyone outside looks like they've either gotten, or are about to catch The Clap. Life is the most disgusting club in the city. Couch surfing again.

5. Christopher Street: Not a lot of foreshadowing needed when there's a porn shop on the first floor of your building. Strangest roommates ever. Neither one quite right in the head, possibly sociopathic. Oh well, the rent is cheap. Thanks for the memories. Bed bug infestation makes it impossible to ever sleep with the lights off again.

Chapter 4: You Hungry?

I firmly believe the Fried Egg Sandwich is the most perfect food on earth. It is a luxurious but cheeky little sandwich. To the innocent passerbys and patrons it says, "Psst... Hey mister, you like what you see? You wanna make a sexy time?" And like any overinflated celebrity, you say yes because it's as pretty as you are, cheap, will make you feel guilty later, and it's magically delicious. I mean that literally. There's some kind of metaphysical process that's triggered when you bite into that goodness. On occassion I've almost cried a lone tear of pure joy.

Manhattan and the surrounding burroughs have some of the most amazing and celebrated eateries you'll find anywhere. Does that matter to me? Um, yes. I love food-love it. Did I mention I love it? But more importantly, people will deliver that food to you any time of day. It's completely genius. And p.s., it's not just for shut-ins.

Let's say "Jane" came home on a Friday night somewhat disheveled and intoxicated. After a subsequent and semi-brief loss of time, she may have woken up at 6 a.m. on her floor, finding random chunks of her hair glued to her face and missing a shoe. What is her first thought? Hunger. She can barely form sentences, but don't worry Jane, the deli down the street delivers. And as an added bonus, no judgy attitude or look of horror from the delivery guy. They've seen it all. Crisis averted. Food coma achieved.

So what happens when you develop an obsession for a type of food? Other than your friends openly mocking you for it, not much. It seems no one really cares what you eat, as long as you don't make a public display of yourself or I suppose, take up violence (in order to get that food). I think I did have a dream once where I robbed a Godiva shop. "This is a stick up, bitch! Put all that chocolate in the bag...now! No! Not the coffee ones! I hate that shit! And don't scimp on the caramels...I got my eye on you." I wonder just how much chocolate you have to steal in order to be charged with a felony?

But admitedly, I'll probably end up with a food addiction. My only hope is that my friends and family don't corral me into an awkward intervention while I'm low-browing it at some chain restaurant like Red Lobster.

Chapter 3: Who Are The People In The Neighborhood?

One of my favorite things about New York is the people. There are people of all colors, shapes, sizes, pedigree, and mental fitness. When you put your headphones on, power up the iPod and take a stroll, you get to be in the greatest music video ever made. Yesterday afternoon was a great example. I walked from the Upper East Side to the Upper West Side. Soundtrack: Off the Wall. Musty old grandmas with their well-worn furs, adorned with every piece of finery they own, shuffling down the sidewalk with their matching pint-sized canine companions. Self-conscious twenty-something girls perfecting their sultry walk in brand new heels. Dapper young aristocrats dripping hair pomade, sharply tailored jackets and freshly manicured hands. Lady GaGa inspired youth wearing fuchsia vinyl hot pants having a solo dance-off. Yellow cabs constantly braking and narrowly missing other cars and pedestrians. Weathered homeless man carrying a sign that reads, "Kiss me, I'm homeless".

In many ways, NYC is more like a garbage dump than a melting pot. Depending on where you are, the people in your neighborhood could be a collective made up of societal cast-offs or recently released mental patients. Remember that teacher who wore really tight jeans and had the unfortunate "giant testicle" affliction? You know, he'd sit up at the front of the class, cross his legs (which would only accentuate the problem), and you you would try not to look? He lives here now as a performance artist. How about the weird hoarder neighbor with bathubs, lawn furniture, boxes, and clothing piles in her yard? Yep, she lives here too, wedged into her tiny apartment among interior skyscrapers composed of who knows what, with her 8 cats. Who can forget the friend of your grand parents who had the mechanical larnyx? Yes, the handheld device used to mimic speech after cancer of the larnyx. The ghetto version of Stephen Hawking's computer voice. He sells fruit on my corner. Helpful tip: do not talk back to him in a robot voice. He does not find it amusing. And of course, the foul-mouthed, rotund and sweaty old landlord who only wears stained wife beaters and dirty sweats...He lives here, but who knows his real name. Everyone calls him Popi. At least, that's what they yell at him every morning when he throws his garbage out his window and into the street.

Frankly, some major cities take a toll on my patience. Too many good looking, vapid people making more money and having generally more fabulous lives than they probably deserve, is annoying. But when you combine those people with a healthy population of interesting, ridiculously outlandish, make-your-skin-crawl disturbing, extra-galactic, literally freakish, or even garden variety eccentric, you get something really special.

NYC, I don't really know you, but I think I love you.

Chapter 2: Say What?

To the people that know me, I am not a rated PG kind of person. Not even close. I admit I don't externalize my rated NC-17-ness as much anymore, but my mouth will always be rated "I can't believe I just said that out loud in front of/to _____".  The blank is always filled in by something completely inappropriate. It's not my fault. It's as if my mouth sporadically decides to defy me. And wouldn't you know, it's almost sure to happen if I'm in an awkward social situation.

Case in point: It was probably not cool to ask the newlyweds if the wife's diamond is a blood diamond. And perhaps I should not have asked that older gentlemen what it's like to wear hair plugs. But shaming the guy standing next to the serial killer van with the thinning, flesh-colored mustache by asking if he had a NAMBLA card...well, come on! He was wearing the uniform! All he had to do was twist his mustache, get an arm sling, or hold out a puppy/some candy. The only thing missing was the 1970's soft-focus lens and Member's Only jacket. Ah crap, now I remember. He was my dentist. Apparently he had just popped out to his van to unload some supplies. Yep, that's awkward.

But sometimes, it would just be wrong to keep it inside. Tonight I went to a rally for work. Perfectly serious subject matter and a movement I support. But I can't get over the silliness of the acronym. Has anyone ever been in the presence of hundreds of people chanting "BJ!" at once? Who among you could resist finishing the sentence with "'(s) for everyone!" or "(s) are the greatest!"

Don't lie. It still counts if you say it using your inside voice.

Chapter 1: My Cherie Amour, Le Subway

I'm one of those people who likes riding the subway. No, I shouldn't say likes, I should say loves...Like a dog loves humping inanimate objects-like a homely, single woman loves poorly written romantic fiction-like a politician loves a call girl...you get the idea. I assume people spend a fair amount of their lives commuting to and from work. I never dwelt on it; Always driving a car back and forth, with maybe an occasional bus ride. But all that changed when I moved to New York.

My first subway ride (circa late 1990's) was on the C train. My first apartment share was on 110th and CPW. Going on my first ride was like a first date. Nervous sweating, furtive eye movement, vascillating on just how much personal history revision I will be selling, and of course-planning a exit strategy in case he turns out to be a psycho or worse, boring. Here's the part where most women would liken a subway ride to a bad sexual experience: No one looks you in the eye, there's a lot of exaggerated shakin' going on, but the duration of the ride is short, anticlimactic, and utimately leaves you feeling complacent.

But what can I say, I find entertainment in unusual places. And invariably, atypical and unexpected things or people find me. So, I began to scribble down the best experiences. Now I have some greatest "hits". I'm going to imagine the Solid Gold dancers perform a dance reactment for each one. Yes, let's make it fancy.

From my notes...

1. I met a man on the Subway this morning who gave Satan a black eye. I was like, "How could you tell? Isn't Satan's skin red?" And he said, "I could tell man, his big eye was squinty after I hit him." Clearly he was not using a metaphor to describe his battle with temptation-he had a real life battle royale.

2. Thank you A train for not disappointing me on my birthday. Two things...1. I watched a man eat the biggest piece of cheese I've seen outside of a deli case (the size of a 1/2 quart of milk) and 2. The most creeptastic toupe. Who says an ill-fitting, greasy barbie-haired mass styled into a severe comb-over isn't sexy? Especially one that slips down a sweaty forehead. Hmm...It's almost like it was trying to escape.

3. When asked this morning to make room on the train (seat), a man replied, "I didn't touch the cocaine! If a man has a stiff tongue, he can go anywhere on a woman. Now get outta here!"

4. My name is Mr. Sutton and I am a local filmmaker. I make films. I turn regular people into tiny raindrops and make them fall into strange, dark places. It's political philosophy-good for the children. With your donation of $1, you can own my dvd. Peace. Yo bitch, you don't like movies?

5. The man standing next to me (on the train) kept saying "Mmm, mmm, mmm!" I suppose he could've been referring to a women, but something tells me he was having a sexy flashback involving food.

6. A very loud and enthusiastic religious zealot on the subway platform said he loves me...he really loves me...even though I'm going to Hell. How sweet is that?!

7. How lucky am I to have been serenaded by a man wearing what I can only describe as pantaloons. Yes, they're not just for Victorian ladies anymore.

8. I love sitting next to people on the subway who are penning their manifestos. This morning's lil' non-conformist was using blue ink on white dinner napkins. I managed to make out the words dictatorship and possibly collectivise...although that might be wishful thinking.

And that's what happens on the train when I pay attention.