This is a real actual IM conversation

TheEnormousBeast represents my friend Nicole, and SunshineDonut represents me.

TheEnormousBeast: hey do you know tims screenname
SunshineDonut: yup
(pause)
TheEnormousBeast: can i have it
TheEnormousBeast: please
(pause)
SunshineDonut: yes
(pause)
SunshineDonut: you may
(long pause)
SunshineDonut: do you want me to tell you it now?
SunshineDonut: or later?
TheEnormousBeast: yes that would be nice
SunshineDonut: ok
TheEnormousBeast: now
SunshineDonut: oh, now?
SunshineDonut: hmm, ok
(pause)
TheEnormousBeast: yes now
SunshineDonut: i guess i could do it now
TheEnormousBeast: right now
TheEnormousBeast: not later
(long long pause)
SunshineDonut: ok
SunshineDonut: here goes
SunshineDonut: brb
SunshineDonut: phone
TheEnormousBeast: WHY ARE YOU SUCH AN ASS
(long long long pause)
SunshineDonut: back
SunshineDonut: ok what were we talking about?
TheEnormousBeast: grrrrrrrrrrrr
TheEnormousBeast: i hate you
SunshineDonut: hey hey
SunshineDonut: what's all the hostility about?
TheEnormousBeast: can i please have tims screen name now
(pause)
SunshineDonut: definitely
TheEnormousBeast: and phone number
SunshineDonut: wow
SunshineDonut: and phone number too?
SunshineDonut: which one should i give you first?
TheEnormousBeast: screen name
SunshineDonut: ok his screen name is
SunshineDonut: 914-693-oops
SunshineDonut: i was about to give you his phone #
SunshineDonut: but you want his screen name first, right?
SunshineDonut: well i guess it doesn't make a difference which one i give you first
TheEnormousBeast: matt
TheEnormousBeast: please
TheEnormousBeast: give
TheEnormousBeast: me
TheEnormousBeast: his
TheEnormousBeast: screen name
SunshineDonut: whoa that's a lot of IMs
SunshineDonut: whoa
SunshineDonut: all right his screen name is...
SunshineDonut: tim
TheEnormousBeast: thats it
SunshineDonut: yup
TheEnormousBeast: no
SunshineDonut: why don't you believe me?
TheEnormousBeast signed off at 7:19 PM

What We Google When We Google Matt Koff (episode 2)

That's me, second from the right, in my Norwegian death metal band. I'm warning you, dude, do NOT piss us off.

What We Google When We Google Matt Koff (image search edition)

Those of you who know me best know just how closely this resembles my deepest thoughts, hopes, and feelings. Especially the bottle of "Koff-b-gone."

G is for “Good Lord Almighty”

It’s late. You are leaning against a beam in the Metropolitan Avenue subway station. You are one stop away from your apartment in Greenpoint. You have to pee. Badly. You should just walk home already. But you can’t. You have to pee so badly that if you take four steps, you’re certain you’ll piss yourself on the third. You just got these pants dry cleaned. What possessed you to drink four pints of Guinness and then get on a subway to Brooklyn without going to the bathroom first? Did you honestly think it would be easy to get home? Did you expect to step off the L, and find a G train just sitting there, doors open, refusing to budge until you were safely on board? This is the G train. You’d have better odds waiting for a flannel unicorn to take you home.

Some people love the G train. Because of the MTA’s service cuts to the G train in 2001, some see it as the orphan or the stepchild of the New York City Subway System. Admittedly, I’ve only lived in Brooklyn for about 6 months, but based on what I’ve seen, I’d say the “little bitch” of the New York City Subway System seems like a more appropriate title.

And when I say little bitch, I am being quite literal. See, it’s only four cars long, even though every station it passes through is built for eight. I had to learn this the hard way.

It was last April in the Nassau Avenue station and I was excited. I had just moved to Greenpoint from Westchester and was about to take my first subway ride as a resident of New York City. I sipped my coffee and straightened my tie. I was on my way to a job interview in Manhattan. Or, rather, I was on my way to being on my way, since the G train doesn’t actually go to Manhattan, but rather runs parallel to it.

I looked around and noticed that everyone else was waiting all the way down on the other end of the platform. Did they know something I didn’t?

“Is it my breath?” I felt like yelling, which no doubt would have been met with the same Polish reaction I’ve come to expect since living in Greenpoint: the cold, blank stare.

I considered joining the throng, but then I thought, “Fuck it! I’m an individual. I’ll wait right here, thanks very much!”

When the train arrived, I finally realize why no one is standing on my half of the platform. Because the other half is where the train stops.

I can’t remember exactly what was going through my head as I ran like hell to catch up to the G, spilling coffee several places on my suit, shirt, and tie—later prompting the man interviewing me to begin the session with a “Whoa, what happened to you?”—but I’m fairly certain that it was something along the lines of, “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE REST OF THE TRAIN?”

People take pride in the G because it is the only subway train that doesn’t stop in Manhattan. They consider it the only “true Brooklyn subway.” Clearly these people don’t have to depend on the G to get to Manhattan every morning. I associate the G train with a feeling of limbo that resides in my stomach. It is only until I am on the L or the E that I can truly relax. Having to depend on the G is like having a friend who says, “Sure, I can drive you to work. Except I can only take you halfway. Oh, and I’ll probably show up late, just so ya know.”

But late nights are the worst. Literally waiting hours for the G to bring me home. Sweaty, smelly, exhausted, my swollen bladder threatening to annex my stomach, these are the nights that I truly feel as though I am paying for all the sins I’ve committed in my life thus far.

I no longer fear God. I don’t need to. Now I fear the G.

“What? He cheated on his geometry test in 5th grade? Let him wait another hour! He broke up with his first girlfriend over the phone, you say? I hope he brought a blanket, ‘cuz this asshole ain’t getting home tonight!”

Many of the people I thought were my closest friends never come and visit me simply because I live near the G. Sometimes I think that I should be grateful to the G for helping me to separate the true friends, the ones who will endure obstacles to see me, from the phones, the ones who don’t believe my company is worth dealing with G’s sparse service and faint urine stink. Yes, I would thank the G, if it didn’t so often provoke in me thoughts of suicide.

In a perfect world my life would be G train-free. In a perfect world I would have enough money to live near the Bedford or Lorimer stop on the L. The most painful part is, I live just one stop away from the L, which is, in my opinion, just outside of reasonable walking distance. When I am running late, I often trick myself into believing that I will get to Manhattan faster by taking the G to the L instead of simply walking to the L. Sometimes it happens, but most of the time I just end up waiting a long time and hating myself for not leaving, much the way Tina Turner hated herself each time she opted not to leave Ike in What’s Love Got To Do With It?

One day, I will escape the tyranny that is the G train.

Or maybe I’ll just buy a bike.