Last
week, I was on my usual train heading somewhere I always go, sitting
and staring north out a large window (which is odd because I usually
sit north and stare south … oh well). As I stared, I started
thinking about Diddy; later, I would worry about Diddy.
I noticed
a construction worker sitting on an opposite rail, watching my
train roll past. As I saw him, our sunglassed-eyes met; I wondered
if he had seen me. Fear ensued: He was looking at me look at him
— the New York cliché about not staring at one person
too long, but objects are fine. I tend to think everyone’s
staring at me wherever I go (“like I have a penis sticking
out of my forehead,” as my ex-ex would say), and as a native
New Yorker, I’m scared shitless of the idea. So at this
point, as most times, I’m scared shitless.
I wear sunglasses
for as often and as long as I am possibly, safely able to. I wear
sunglasses in the dark, in the night, inside, while I read, while
I take a nap, while I shake “hello,” while it rains.
I love sunglasses. Tremendous invention (who is that guy, by the
way?) Perfect for such an occasion; I suspected that the construction
worker, even if he did catch me staring, could be convinced when,
of course, he decided to either jog-chase the train or jump onto
the moving, electrically powered train and confront me furiously,
that I was not in fact staring at him as it was impossible to
tell through my sunglasses (I mean, c’mon), herein leavening
my fear. (Likewise, in “reality,” he stopped staring
at me immediately after our eyes met, so I was sure I was in the
clear; I’m a human being after all.)
Danger averted,
I thought about Diddy. If Diddy wanted a New York subway car stopped
for some reason, would he be able to? Say Diddy and I are feuding
(publicly or privately, doesn’t matter), he has some beef
with me and wants to, say, find me, would he be able to, even
though I’m riding a rather anonymous, (socioeconomically)
public form of transportation, minding my own business in the
broad daylight on a weekday?
With Diddy-strings,
can he physically stop a train? Like Don Corleone? “Don
Diddy”? That’s what I wonder.
I thought
I told you that we won’t stop?
I thought I told you that we won’t stop?
Diddy asked.
What is P.
Diddy after? Why won’t he stop? When, in theory, will he
stop? Why, by now, hasn’t he reached a satisfactory stopping
point? And what, precisely, is he waiting for?
So, if Diddy
were offered the power to stop trains en route, would he? Would
he sign such a bill? Yes. Absolutely. No doubt, despite the fact
that Diddy fancies himself a man of the people — a self-made
man who worked his way up from intern (I believe) to achieve renown.
And does
this make any bit of fucking sense — that an implied/professed
man of the people would have no problem using his standing to
stop New York City trains, despite the number of real headaches
it might cause for real people who actually work for a living,
albeit not in the studio or da club? Whom exactly is Diddy fighting
for? This all is fine, aside from the fact that he seems to think
he’s fighting for me: broke, work-a-day, social bottom-dweller,
etc. C’mon Diddy!
Point is,
I don’t think P. Diddy will truly stop until he possesses
absolute and total control over all of New York City, including
its system of transportation, and, perhaps, its local utility
companies (albeit less pressing.) I’m serious. I think P.
Diddy would love nothing more than to be able to yank me, or Ja
Rule or Mace or John Waters or Liam Neeson or Andy Richter (people
I’ve actually seen riding the subways), or, for that matter,
Jigga, off any moving subway, either legitimately or on a whim,
and give any of them/us the wherefore.
Thankfully,
I think the rest of the country is safe for now. He just wants
us. Marlon Brando didn’t give a fuck about Seattle, did
he? (As my brother in North Carolina said, “Diddy doesn’t
really affect my day-to-day life.”)
Real gangsters — Marlon Brando, Christopher Walken, Jon
Polito, Sly Stallone, Scott Baio, etc. — made their living
off of making “statements” to their enemies. Stopping
the subway would be Diddy’s horse head.
When I was
a kid, I was a huge pro basketball fan (still am, actually). I
used to watch Magic Johnson and Larry Bird play and envy the fact
neither had homework; and I’d fantasize about each one’s
day-to-day existence (turns out, only Magic’s was worth
the dream). Diddy must spend each and every day conceiving of
ways to expand his reach, his empire. What else does he have to
do?
Not a bad
gig. Imagine spending your day talking to powerful people on the
phone (Simon LeBon, Danny Glover, Coral from “Real World:
Back to New York”) discussing ways to tighten your grasp
on what’s left of free America and how best to rub it in
everyone’s face. Yes!
A few days
after my Diddy dream on the train, I was walking south (this time)
down Broadway, around 50th Street, in Manhattan. I looked up (a
rare thing; I once heard the late Gene Siskel, of all people,
advocate keeping one’s head up while walking through New
York in order to fully experience the joy of the city. I think,
Gene, that people in New York look up so seldom because stars
never shine) and what did I see? None other than a 30-stories-tall
billboard of our man, Diddy, head slightly bowed, arm raised effortlessly,
fist clenched resoundingly. Even now, I forget what in the hell
he was shilling. Point is, he in effect is campaigning for your
vote in the race for most powerful human being ever. There’s
no official vote (yet), no place to cast your vote (the Viacom
building?), and no incumbent (Tom Hanks?), and it doesn’t
figure to be a close race.
While the
rest of us sleep and dream and eat, Diddy plans.
- Stage
One: Design and develop a line of clothing (“Sean John”).
- Stage
Two: Become a movie star (“Monsters Ball,” “Made”).
- Stage
Three: Dominate the summer social scene (the Hamptons).
- Stage
Four: Conceive and develop a TV show (“Making the Band
2,” a redux, alas).
- Stage
Five: Become a celebrated athlete (see New York Marathon 2003;
also, on the road to absolute power, feel free to combine stages
Four and Five — see MTV’s “Diddy Runs The
City”).
- And, lastly,
miraculously, Stage Six: Become a star on Broadway (the forthcoming
revival of “A Raisin In The Sun”).
I figure
by fall 2004 it’ll be official: Welcome to New Diddy
City, NY! New York Post’s for everyone!
Then no one
will be safe. No one will truly be free. Ever again! There’ll
be no (hope of) swift service. No justice. No laws. Ditty-dome:
Two men enter, one man leaves. As David Mamet says, “Grown
men [will be] going up to police officers and begging them to
shoot.”
I, of course,
will never ride the subway again. Think of the immeasurable delays
in service. I’d miss our choice, coherent subway announcements
explaining delays: “Due to an earlier incident …”
or “Due to necessary track work …” etc. Instead
they’ll hear “Due to Diddy’s beef with Chingy
…”
Diddy will
have won. And then, I suspect, Diddy will stop. Absolute power.
Diddy power. Don-like-power. Don Diddy. Power over your own instinct.
Power over the rails.
Have I mentioned
my fear of being hit in the face?
For
past columns by George Lowry, visit his archive page at http://www.rawstory.com/exclusives/lowry/ |
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