I have this very sexy writer friend who has discovered podcasting. So she’s podcasting erotica for the masses now. She told me the other day that one of her secret fantasies was that on the T she’d be sitting next to someone listening to one of her racy podcasts. Rrrroowwwr!

I think it’s racy enough reading “Savage Love” in the Dig on the T. The truth is, people read all kinds of smut on the subway. It’s scandalous, really. But for the most part no one seems to mind. People do get a little nosy sometimes, though. I mean, I’m one to talk. I like to see what my fellow commuters are reading as much as the next guy.

But I’ve been more keenly aware of it lately, since for the past week or so my heavy T reading has been Roger Shattuck’s Forbidden Knowledge: From Prometheus to Pornography, and I always see people trying to read the title from the cover. It’s a little embarrassing, because the title and the cover kind of look like it could be some kind of sleezy potboiler, referring in the title to “knowledge” in the Biblical sense, when in fact it’s straight-laced lit crit from a well-respected, thoughtful, and sometimes prudish octogenarian (actually he died in December ‘05, and was in his seventies when he wrote the work in question).

I just finished the next-to-last chapter (I was tempted to say penultimate there, but I thought it would sound too snooty)–anyway, the climax of the book is Shattuck’s very frank discussion of the Marquis de Sade, with some unexpurgated excerpts from Justine and Philosophy of the Boudoir. This is not erotica, it’s straight-up porn. Shattuck admits that “pornography we shall always have with us. It serves a purpose and in its traditional forms poses no serious threat to decency and morals.” He goes on to say, “the healthiest reaction [to it] is usually laughter, not outrage.”

But Sade takes it too far, he says, and illustrates the point with references to the horrendous Moors Murders in the mid-sixties in England, and Ted Bundy’s killing spree in the following decade. Both cases involved unspeakable crimes, and murderers who claimed to have been influenced by Sade’s philosophy and works, which became widely available only after loosening of obscenity standards in the ’60s in Britain, France, and the US. (Nowadays with the world wide web, we can hardly imagine codes as restrictive as they were before that time.)

Sade’s rehabilitation among academics, marked in the 20th Century by his inclusion in the canon of great works of Western literature, essentially undermines everything the canon has come to represent, according to Shattuck. It has also paved the way for the mainstreaming of Sade. And while the book was published several years before Abu Ghraib, I think Shattuck would have seen that as the ultimate expression of Sade’s triumph over Western Culture. Quoting 19th Century English Historian Lord Acton, he sums up the Nietzschean ethos of the age we live in: “The strong man with the dagger is followed by the weak man with the sponge.”

As the title suggests, Shattuck’s study opens with the story of Prometheus, who, according to the Greeks, stole fire from the gods and gave it to man, for which he was bound to a rock, his liver eaten out by a vulture, repeatedly, forever. Try to do a good deed, and that’s what you get.

But that’s not the end of the story. According to Hesiod, Zeus was so hopping mad he’d been tricked that in retaliation he sent Pandora, the first female, with her “box” (ahem) to tempt Prometheus’s gullible little bro Epimetheus. Being the first stupid het, he took the bait, and upon opening her dowry discovered an endless supply of “grief, cares, and all evil,” which nicely canceled out all the mod cons Prometheus had managed to win for humanity. Ouch.

Then of course, there was Adam & Eve. The snake. The forbidden fruit. Crrruuunnnccchhhh. And now we’re stuck with the Marquis de Sade and Desperate Housewives. What can you do?

QOTD: What are you reading on the T, my naughty little minxes and metrosexuals?

I can’t even imagine how much those new and appallingly useless electronic signs at Downtown Crossing must have cost. Why not just put up an old-fashioned sign that reads: “No smoking.” Not that everybody doesn’t already know smoking’s prohibited. I mean, who doesn’t know that? And you probably can’t read if you don’t, anyway. And if you’re smoking down there and you do know, what good’s it do to have a sign flashing you’re not supposed to? It encourages it, is what it does. And why not flash it in Portuguese and Hindi and Cajun and Farsi?

And what else does the flashing sign say? “For info go to www.mbta.com.” Oh, thanks. Here’s an informative sign that very urgently tells you to go elsewhere for information.

And I’m absolutely sure no useful information will ever be conveyed by this flashy signage. But whatever.

Yesterday I was at Downtown Crossing for the evening rush hour. When I got to the platform, it was packed. And at least three trains came in the opposite direction, so, of course, when finally one lumbered in on my side of the tracks, it was obnoxiously crammed full of commuters. I decided to wait for the next, but you know how people are on Friday afternoon, wanting to get home and all. They were acting crazy. There was one creep on the platform with a briefcase shouting into the car: “move! Move your fat asses! You could get four more bodies in there! Move it!” And he was serious. I mean, he wanted to go home. And I can understand it, but come on.

There’s definitely a hierarchy of evils here, and making a spectacle of yourself in public is higher on the list of sins than not scrunching in sufficiently to allow someone who is making a spectacle of himself onboard. But the sense that entitlement trumps physics was also richly displayed in the incident. Several people simply would not allow the train to leave, although they could not get all the way in. I mean you’d think this was the Fall of Saigon, or something. Wait two freakin minutes, and there will be another train. What’s the emergency?

When finally the train was able to pull out, the wingnut who’d been making a scene, ran along the yellow line, knocking on the window at the passengers who had not heeded his orders to get their attention so he could give them all the finger. And the thing of it is, this freak was with two colleagues. Can you imagine working with somebody like that? I wonder what business they were in. They all three were middle-aged schlubs with briefcases, in their Dockers for dress-down Friday.

None of this excuses the irregularity of trains at rush hour, mind you. There is definitely malicious intent involved on the part of the T. I mean, one last slap in the face on a Friday just to show you who’s who and what’s what, right? But have a little dignity, people. Acting desperate only encourages them, after all.

As expected, not long after another train came, and it wasn’t nearly as packed. It was crowded, yes, but then it was rush hour on a Friday. You’re not gonna have the train to yourself. One thing that bugged me instantly when I got on—and I will admit up front it’s probably just me—was this tall dude who had a hand-held DVD player about the size of a book he was watching. Why does this bother me? I mean, it was about the shape and size of a book, and people reading books on the T definitely don’t bug me, so why should someone watching a DVD with headphones?

I don’t know, maybe it’s that 64% of twelfth graders are below proficient in reading. 26% are below basic. And according to Richard Restak, neuropsychiatrist and clinical professor of neurology at George Washington University Medical Center, author of Mozart’s Brain and the Fighter Pilot: Unleashing Your Brain’s Potential, a kind of user’s guide to your brain, watching TV really does turn your brain to mush. Alzheimer’s has been linked in studies to excessive time spent in passive pursuits, like watching TV. In fact, one particularly rigorous study compared seniors with and without Alzheimer’s, and found that “the only single activity in which Alzheimer’s patients on average significantly outperformed their counterparts was watching television.” Maybe someday it will be an Olympic sport, too, just like everything else. Links between too much TV and obesity? Aggression? ADHD?

But then, why should I care whose brain turns to mush in the end? For me, there’s something else to it. It’s that disconnect from reality. More than that, it’s a defiant disconnect. A repudiation of shared reality, of the concept of “here” and of “now” in which I have tremendous faith.

There’s such a wealth of stimulating reading out there, too. At the same time this dude was watching his DVD, I spied this chapter heading in a course packet the guy next to me was reading: “Situations and Circumstances Conducive to Sexual Intimacy.”

I’m just saying, reading can be informative and fun!

too-toooot!

There were a couple of interesting things in this week’s Dig, though the so-called “style guide” was not one of them. The sad thing about fashion these days is so much of it is so self-consciously unfashionable. And just a note to Ys or Nexters or whatever they’re calling you nowadays: be beautiful while you’re young. You have the rest of your life to be ugly. And you will be, trust me.

What I liked in this week’s Dig was “Oh, Cruel World!” which was relevant, as it so often is, to our mission here at T-rage! It was addressed: “Dear T riders clipping their nails in front of me,” and can be summed up thusly: “knock it the fuck off.”

Of course, there’s no question that clipping your nails on the T is mind-bogglingly appalling behavior. But I would add brushing your hair and eating to the list, too. I’m not trichopathophobic (if you are, you can go here for help), but there is something somehow slightly unsettling about a stranger combing out her hair next to you. Why should hair and nails cause us to recoil in disgust? For an interesting discussion of the matter, see William Ian Miller’s The Anatomy of Disgust . Whatever the cause, we all know the horror of finding a hair in our food.

But why eating? Well, eating as public spectacle is itself a recent evolutionary development. The restaurant dates back to just the 18th century. When people think of the modern restaurant, with individual tables, menus, and so on, most think of Monsieur Boulanger, of sauce fame, who opened one in Paris in 1765. By the way, Boston has the distinction of being home to the first restaurant in the Americas: Jullien’s Restarator, which opened in 1794.

When you look at the giant leap mankind took with Boulanger & Co., not to mention the millions of years of evolution that went into utensils, paving the way for necessaries like tables and table manners, fast food is as giant a step backwards for mankind. Here’s the thing: eating ain’t pretty. Especially ripping animal flesh from the bone. I’m all for it, but it ain’t pretty.

And if there is one rule I hold to steadfastly and believe wholeheartedly society should heed, it is this: by all means, unsightly things should be hidden from public view. Enough is enough. I know I’m turning Le Corbusier and all of modernist art and architecture and modern culture itself on its head here, but as Yeats once wrote (I have quoted him fondly before in this context and will again, no doubt): “The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told.” This is why most people don’t have sex in public, too, by the way. Because most of the time (and there are exceptions) sex is almost as disgusting to watch as eating. If you don’t believe me, get your camcorder out and shoot yourself doing it. Alone or in a crowd, doesn’t matter. You’ll see what I mean. Only thing is, you may want to shoot yourself afterwards, too.

No personal grooming, no eating, and please, no sex on the T. I mean, monkeys do these things in public, not people. Precious little sets us apart, let’s not forget that.

Speaking of. The other interesting feature in this week’s Dig had to do with porn star and hedgehog Ron Jeremy’s appearance at Northeastern. Talk about unshapely things. I have never seen this particular porn-hedgehog in action, and have no desire to, whatsoever, but I have to say I admire the guy for following his dick to its logical conclusion. 1,800 porn flicks he’s been in. Bravo.

(I was gonna do another picture here of human carnivores in action, but you can imagine it on your own, I’m sure.)

Ever have one of those days when everything and everyone looks shabby and you just want to go somewhere spotless? Or is it just me? It can’t just be me.

Anyway, yesterday was such a day. Everyone on the train seemed to be an un- or under-employed and shabbily-dressed middle-aged beardo. There’s one guy like that I’ve seen a couple of times on my way into town from JFK who always sits at the front end of the first car, curled up in a corner seat scribbling in a notepad. I mean, he’s curled up in a fetal position practically. And this is a man in his late thirties, probably. Talk about age-inappropriate. Time to leave the womb already.

Of course, I have an instant dislike of anyone who puts their feet on the seats. It’s one of the most inconsiderate, offensive things you can do on the T, and God knows there are about a million inconsiderate, offensive things you can do on the T. I don’t get it, personally. And it seems like when someone does it, they sort of look around the car defiantly. Like, “yeah, I’ve got my muddy boots up on the seat. Whatchu gonna do about it?” It’s provoking behavior, isn’t it?

A couple summers ago I was on the orange line on my way in from Stony Brook, and there was a fat, mean-looking Latina sitting across from me and my roommate. And she was eating cherries out of a plastic Safeway bag, and throwing the pips on the floor, and each time she threw one on the floor she made sure to look up and give us the evil eye, like we were the ones acting like assholes. She was sort of daring us to say something, and clearly poised to retaliate should we decide to do so. I mean, who wants any of that?

But back to the beardo with the scribble pad. He was a little like that. He would look up from his scribble pad to see who had noticed his exquisite eccentricities. You can’t but stare at sods like this, is the unfortunate thing. And staring at them makes them think they’re worthy of attention. But it’s got nothing to do with merit. I mean, you ever see someone have an epileptic fit in public. People stop what they’re doing to observe the spectacle slack-jawed. They can’t help it. It’s the rubberneck gene.

And this guy was like a car wreck, somehow. I mean, he had that car-wreck aura. He’s one of those tiresome crazy people who knows he’s crazy. Kind of like Andrea Yates. I don’t know who’s crazier, people who know they’re nuts, or people who don’t. I think in some ways people who know they are have lapped those who don’t.

One thing is for sure: crazy people who know they’re crazy are more tiresome, because they want to draw everybody into it. I mean, if knowledge truly is power, you’d think knowing you’re crazy would empower you to, I dunno, take your meds or something. At least make an attempt to act normal. I mean, manage it somehow. but this sort of somewhat self-aware “hey, lookit how crazy I am!” shtick. Irritating. I mean, “look at me curled up on the T with my big, muddly clodhoppers on the seat scribbling in my notepad like a nut!” Well, bravo. How very original.

My idea of heaven is a sanitarium. I think of Prince Muishkin. I’ve always thought The Idiot had a happy ending. Off to the santiarium for an endless vacation. In Heaven everything is white, just as people imagine. There are no TVs, maybe off in the distance you can hear a radio, but all they play are accordian waltzes. The lamps are old fashioned. No skittering, nervous fluorescent lights. It’s summer, and gets dark late, and the lights are dimmed at night. They comfort you. There’s a big window, across from your bed, and an oak tree outside. There is a courtyard, and sometimes the nurse-angels wheel you out in the early afternoon, if you cleaned your plate at lunch, and you can feed the sparrows and the pigeons, talk to the squirrels, whatever. There’s an old gardener, who’s very kind. He’s the only one who sometimes you talk to, but he doesn’t expect you to say anything. He may ask you a question, like ‘lovely weather, eh?’ but you don’t have to answer. He’ll smile at you (in a nice way), and tell you a story, leaning on his spade, about when he was a boy. You love his stories. They never go on too long.

The beauty of it is, you can sleep just as long as you like, and nobody disturbs you, and even if you have a visitor, which you don’t often, you can close your eyes. You don’t have to talk to anyone, and you can listen or not, as you choose. No one expects you to understand them. And after a while you don’t. You never really did, you were just pretending to. Now you don’t have to. They make sounds like the birds, or some of them like the squirrels. Maybe they are speaking a different language. No matter. In the divine sanitarium you are taken care of. You don’t bother yourself about whence come your meals, or whether the nurses get a fair wage. Everything is white. Everything is clean. Everything is taken care of.

Well, I hope Sassy is satisfied! This backpack debate has certainly been cathartic. I want to thank Patrick and Andy for their conscientious comments. Give ‘em some love, people.

I would like to say, I have absolutely no moral authority to make unilateral proclamations about how anyone else should behave on the T. I mean, I’m not sure I’d be able to bear the burden of being T-Etiquette Guru. What I’ve always thought about essential etiquette is that it’s intuitively obvious. If you are paying attention to what you’re doing, what others around you are doing, and what effects all these doings are having on each other, well, then that’s half the battle isn’t it?

Because etiquette is not some highfalutin behavioral accoutrement of the cultural elite, it’s a survival mechanism. If the goal is a measure of social harmony, etiquette is the means. Politeness is really the shortest distance between point A and point B. Or, if you prefer, it’s the oil that keeps the machine of culture humming along. Without it, things fall apart.

But it does require the development of a social conscience. Etiquette is institutionalized empathy. But we live in an omnipotence society, a Culture of Narcissism, in Christopher Lasch’s famous phrase, where self-fulfillment, not social harmony, is seen as the goal.

Social harmony is merely assumed, because intuitively everyone understands that without a high degree of social harmony, self-fulfillment becomes impossible. So there’s a paradox here. We’re going about it all backasswards. The foundations of self-fulfillment are to be found in social harmony. Without a degree of effort towards the goal of social harmony, we can’t achieve self-fulfillment. Because lack of empathy promotes fear of the Other, and fear promotes violence towards the other, and violence promotes further fear which promotes further violence, and so on. You can’t flourish in a society where fear is pervasive, where you feel your survival is at stake in even minor confrontations with the Other. And certainly survival is an issue. But it has more to do with ego-survival. Because your omnipotence is threatened when your real powerlessness is exposed in social interactions.

Remember: etiquette provides predictable outcomes. Politeness diffuses potential confrontations.

Etiquette is even more important in democratic societies, where it is an uncoerced expression of mutual deference, acknowledging equal status. In a society where men are free to act as they please, politeness carries weight.

Anywho. I have to say, aside from a slightly longer than ordinary wait for the red line Ashmont/Braintree train at Park, yesterday’s commute was smoother than usual. I was pleasantly surprised at Downtown Crossing on my way into town when the throng on the platform actually stood aside and let the passengers on the train get off first. I don’t know what secret quantum phenomena are at work in these things. I wish I did.

It may have been that the throng inside waiting to exit looked leaner and meaner and readier to rumble than our enemies on the other side of the sliding door. We may have had more Alphas on our side. Maybe the stink of our testosterone cut a path through the sea of estrogen on the platform. Dunno really. It was not out of politeness, necessarily, but it was close enough.

It does seem as though cities have personalities just like people do, and various moods, like us, too. Maybe it’s the weather, the day of the week, sunspots and ozone. Who knows? it’s probably an inconceivably complex combination of things. Still, I bet there’s a formula.

As for moods. I myself am back on my Saint John’s Wort, having gone off it for a couple of weeks after my trip to Sarasota. That and a good multivitamin and a daily workout regimen–45 minutes a day is all it takes, people, and it makes all the difference, believe me. Remember, your physical health and mental wellbeing affect the mood of the those around you, and ultimately the mood of the city itself.

Patrick and Andy. You obviously both have big ass backpacks, and I have obviously hurt your feelings. Heaven forbid.

Let me clarify.

It’s really not all about you. That’s the bottom line here. When you or I or anyone has a big ass backpack on, we tend to kind of forget that it’s there, and sometimes we bump into people without even realizing it. If you swing it around on one shoulder and hold it under your arm, you at least know where it’s at. It’s hard not to realize you’ve bumped into someone then. And you should, of course, say “excuse me,” when you do. You would expect at least that much of an acknowledgment yourself if someone did the same to you. And, by the way, if you don’t have the strength to carry your backpack that way for a few minutes during your commute, get thee to a gym!

If the train isn’t crowded, don’t worry about it. But if it is, be aware of those around you, and take appropriate measures. That’s really all there is to it. I’m not a behavioral dogmatist. It’s true I believe in behaving yourself in public, which amounts to trying your best to treat people as you want them to treat you. That is a matter of principle for me. But there are infinite variations on that theme, aren’t there?

The point is that a little awareness goes a long way. A little empathy works wonders.

I detected defiance in Patrick’s declaration: “I will continue to wear my large backpack on the T. I have to bring books and a laptop with me from Beacon Hill to Northeastern everyday.” That’s very informative, Patrick. It’s a very Beacon Hill attitude, too. The entitlement mentality that Boston is world renowned for. Me me me! I live on Beacon Hill! I’ll do this! I’ll do that! I’ll do what I want and you can’t stop me! It’s my life! Don’t forget it! The rest of you are just an extras in it!

I can’t argue with you or your big backpack, Patrick. Just hope you don’t bump into me with it, is all I can say.

The ever-sasstacular Sassy brings up a very good point in her recent comment, about backpacks. She’s right that the issue is one that must be addressed post haste!

When I was a student many years ago in Rome, and later, as a teacher in Budapest, I noticed that the public transit system was self-policed, mostly by cranky old people. If you got out of line, they all ganged up on you. If you wore a big backpack, they would shout at you–”what are you doing? And good heavens, what on earth do you need such a big pack for? What have you got in there anyway? Get off the bus! Go on—git! There’s no room for you and your backpack both!” It was like that. Unless you have ever experienced the wrath of a mob of septuagenarians you can’t possibly understand how effective this was. I mean, once they start shaking their umbrellas at you, and swinging their shopping bags, you better run.

And it worked because in the old country old people have a kind of immunity. Especially these Eastern and Latin cultures that venerate mothers and grandmothers. Because, hey, even thieves, thugs and gangsters have nanas.

It’s the same as with children in most cultures. There’s almost nothing more abhorred in society than child- and elder-abuse, and with good reason. The fact is, the rules of fair play, which say it is not only unjust but downright villainous to pick on the helpless among us, extend even to thugs–in most societies. Whether ours will remain among them is a question.

Not only are our scruples about abusing each other publicly in serious decline, but we have done everything in our power in American society to eliminate the elderly from the equation altogether. By sending them off to the assisted living gulag. You just don’t see many really old people on the T, or out and about in general. And that’s a real loss to our public life, let me tell you.

So, lacking this, what is to be done about the backpacks? Well, that’s another one for the commuter’s rule book. Packs should not be worn on the back on a crowded train, of course. That’s just common sense. You can wear them on the platform, but take it off before getting on the train.

But of course, you know that. The real question is what to do about those who don’t. And it is an age-old question. That’s what I’m getting at here. When a bunch of old people, with the wisdom and moral authority most societies bestow on the aged, get on your case, you learn the rules pretty quick-like. And from there things run pretty smooth-like. But when there is no one that society says is wiser than you, why should you follow any but your own rules? And that’s where we are.

Alternatively. The T could put up posters with pointers for riding the T and helpful hints for keeping the peace in the underground. If the ads were catchy enough, had a cute little snarky slogan, manners might catch on, too.

In fact, I think the T needs a cuddly mascot. And the mascot would be on the posters. His name could be something catchy like Teddy T. And he could have a host of less appealing pals, all with catchy names like Bratina Rudevic who wears a big, bulky backpack, and bumps into Teddy without saying “’scuse me,” and Paddington Pisspants, who’s so high on glue he’s lost bowel control and is drooling on Teddy! Some, like Ugolino Uzi could brandish weapons. But Twitter the Sprinkle Fairy would always be on hand to diffuse any tense situations.

Yesterday–Sunday–the train from JFK was fairly deserted up until South Station, and then there was a real throng at Downtown Crossing waiting to get on. They blocked the doors in a thronglike manner so that passengers inside couldn’t get off, and poured in before letting us. Apparently not everyone reads my blog. Or at least not everyone reads it attentively. Imagine.

Now, I know. You see free seats inside, and that all-consuming hunger takes over. It’s like, “God, if I can only get to that seat before this old goat next to me, everything in my life will be OK. My miserable existence will be bearable, at least for another twelve minutes!” Isn’t that how we live our lives in these topsy-turvy times? Little mercies. Some of them stolen.

But let me tell you something, people. When this internal monologue kicks in, the one that says “seat on T = +/- 12 minutes of bliss”, that’s when you have to step back, take a breath, and ask yourself, is this life for me? Because if getting a free seat on a SUNDAY when there are scads of them is important enough for you to blindly push, shove, kick, bite, potentially scratch someone’s eyes out, to risk life and limb, it’s time to cash it in. That shit’s for Filene’s Basement, not the T.

Life and limb, you say? Yes, life and limb. Not long ago I was on a crowded orange line train, hanging from a meat hook, and a number of angry-looking young thugs got on. In itself, it’s not unusual. But I overheard one mumbling to another that he wished someone would just bump into him so that he could beat the living daylights out of them. I very carefully scootched away. In the opposite direction, needless to say. Careful not to bump into anyone.

Most of us, when we’re feeling blue, we pop a Xanax, or go home and eat a bucket of suet and cry ourselves to sleep watching endless reruns of Law & Order SVU. But there are people who, when they’re feeling blue, the only thing that perks ‘em up is to break someone else’s bones, disfigure them for life, or at the very least, beat the shit out of them at the least provocation. In other words, there are people out there just waiting to kick your candy ass just for breathing on them. Don’t forget that.

As for the rest of us. Don’t tempt us. Should you assume that otherwise civil people will react to incivility in a civil fashion? The real reason most people tolerate bad behavior from strangers is simple fear. Plus, if they’ve already got a seat, they’re not gonna let some fool keep them from their own +/- 12 minutes of bliss. But fear is definitely a factor. Most people aren’t really civilized, they’re just really afraid. It works, more or less, most of the time, but still it’s the least common denominator. Not everything need be based in fear, though nowadays nearly everything seems to be. And with some justification.

So when you are riding roughshod over your fellow passengers for the Holy Grail of the morning commute, a free seat, ask yourself how you would feel about you if you weren’t afraid of people who act like you do. Because one of these days you’re gonna end up flat on your back with your face split open. And no one will help you, because it’s the T. Some will laugh, some will look down at you pityingly, maybe one or two will mumble “dag” or “ouch, dat hurt.” Most will pretend you aren’t there at all. But you can count on one thing: no one will help you. You’ll have to collect your shattered face all by yourself, and ride to your stop in shame.

And that’s the last I’ll say about that.

There’s an article, “Seven rules to avoid a total breakdown of order on the T,” in the Weekly Dig here. Most of these have to do with getting on and off the train, and, of course, no reasonable person could disagree that following the common-sense and universally agreed-upon practices listed would not only make riding more efficient, but would make life in general considerably more pleasant on a number of levels, too. But do we really want that?

Think about it, Red Sox Nation. I mean, remember the collective whine that went up after the euphoria of the curse-reversal wore off? Bostonians don’t want things to go well. They don’t like it when things run efficiently. They feel disoriented. It scares them. And they would totally short-circuit if all the sudden strangers turned all polite on them. One or two a year is OK. Restores our faith in humankind, and all that. But if it happened all the time? It would turn our reality upside down. We’d have to reconsider all our assumptions, and who has time for that? And then you’d be paranoid about whether it was real, or you were in some kind of through-the-looking-glass twilight zone nightmare alternate reality, or what.

I mean, it’s gotta be psychological, because I’ll tell you this: it takes more effort not to follow the “rules” on the T than it does to follow them. Everywhere in the world, everyone knows them. Because they’re intuitive. You can’t get on the train until the people inside get off. That’s not etiquette, that’s physics, people.

Granted, there are a lot of different kinds of folks using public transit, and many seem challenged in various ways. You got your immigrants and agoraphobes. And these nervous types who are always afraid the train’s gonna take off from the station without ‘em. Or maybe that they’re gonna get chopped in two by those lethal “non-recycling” doors (or at the very least that they’re gonna lose their tails).

Sad as it is, I really do think fear of mutilation and dismemberment is their motivation, and I think the T plays on that for its own evil amusement. Especially on the orange line. Orange line conductors are brutal. They clearly enjoy shutting the doors on people, because it gives them the opportunity not only to take out a few, but to scream and curse at the passengers they so despise.

There are also those who have been socialized into the underground war of all against all. Their daily commute is about survival of the fittest. And I say to them: who’s the enemy here? It’s not you and me, brutha. It’s the T. They want to divide and conquer.

Worst of all are the Commuters With Attitude (CWAs). These are the cunts who block the doors inside the train. “You want out, you’re gonna have to go through me.” I mean, what’s the point? You wanna be a real rebel? Be polite.

I think in addition to better conductor-training, the T should have a rider’s handbook. And roving psychologists to address the various fears, inhibitions, megalomania, and psychotic tendencies of commuters.

The other day I saw a very good-looking, well-dressed buppie around my age picking his nose on the T. It wasn’t this quick, sort of surreptitious swipe you see occasionally. It was brazen, almost defiant. But what I admired most about the gesture was his technique. He used his pinkie finger, which gave the whole procedure a refined, even dainty air, making the activity seem almost cultured.

Of course we have laws—in the form of social taboos—meant to discourage rhinotillexis (the clinical term for nose-picking). In fact, we have taboos against all such extractions and bodily emissions. Anything that comes out of the body, from mucus to menstrual blood, from saliva to semen, even our exhalations are taboo. Solids, fluids, gasses, doesn’t matter. (See Wm. Ian Miller’s The Anatomy of Disgust for an interesting, if occasionally misguided, discussion of all of them—I have to disagree with his conclusion that semen is the most polluting bodily substance, when it’s well-known all traditional societies have explicit taboos for menstrual blood, and very few have any such taboos for semen—but I have discussed this elsewhere).

At any rate, this much is clear: anything that’s been inside somebody else, we don’t want to have much if anything to do with. With pretty good reason, I would say. Especially on the T.

Now I am not in the practice of discussing rhinotillexis ordinarily, but you knew it had to come up here at some point. Let me be very clear about this: while I do not condone nose-picking, I understand that it is sometimes necessary. I know it seems, in some cases, the most efficient and effective manner of extracting dried mucus, which may be obstructing nasal passages. But beware: it can be dangerous, too. According to the experts at damninteresting.com:

“If the skin inside the nose is broken while picking away, the veins in that region are situated in such a way that sometimes an infection can migrate inward to the base of the brain and inhibit the blood flow, a serious condition known as cavernous sinus thrombosis. This condition can also be caused by squeezing zits on or around the nose. Because of these risks, the triangular area of the face from the corners of the mouth to the bridge of the nose is referred to in the medical community as the ‘danger triangle of the face.’”

And of course, regardless of its efficacy, efficiency, or the strange, inexplicable pleasure and pride people seem to get from producing all manner of bodily substances and noxious emissions, no one wants to see you do it. It can have a negative impact on your social standing. Some adults, perhaps because they were too enthusiastically encouraged in their potty-training days, still seem to think there is something marvelously fascinating or funny about their bodily functions. All I can say is it’s a pity your fondest childhood memories took place on the potty. It is a very fine line, parents. Encourage your children to dispose properly of their bodily waste, but do it in a businesslike way. To be sure, mastery is a praise-worthy accomplishment, but it’s not like winning the World Series. Calm down.

As always, there is a larger issue. Knowing the negative impact of public rhinotillexis, why on earth do otherwise respectable people, who obviously put a premium on appearances, do it where they are sure to be seen? It’s the paradox of public spaces at work again. People feel liberated in their assumed anonymity to do things that they would not do in front of anyone they knew. This, too, is a social problem of epidemic proportions, and our society encourages it. With ipods and a host of products that force the private into the public realm, and subordinate public mores to private whims, people have forgotten what manners are for.

Think of that horrifying ad from Amp’d Mobile where this geeky guy with a foreign accent’s on the bus, and he’s controlling everyone. He points to a big black guy and a skinny little old man and says, “you and you: fight!” They go at each other. Next he turns to a skinny white guy sitting with a boombox on his lap, and says, “you: turn the radio up!” And the guy turns it up. Then he turns to a black woman with a big bottom. “You: shake your junk!” She gets up, grabs a pole and shakes her ass. He turns to two conservatively dressed women. “You two: make out.” And, of course, they go at it with gusto. The message: “Have the power to entertain yourself.” God help us.

But this isn’t really so much of a stretch–you already see it to some extent in the way people behave in public, as if those around them are somehow less real than they themselves are. If they could control them for their own entertainment they surely would.

So what does this have to do with picking your nose in public? Well, we’re as real as anyone else in your little world, and we don’t want to see it any more than they do. So cut it out.