“Monday, Monday,” by The Mamas & The Papas: Ahhh…. It’s Monday morning. The sky is blue. It’s the beginning of the week. Your emotional state is analogous to fresh laundry. You feel Downy soft and lovely. Work is work, how could you possibly feel anything but mellow love on this Indian summer day?
“Extreme Ways,” by Moby: “It fell apart.” It went to complete and utter shit. Forget the birds. Forget yo’ love. You are officially in Satan’s thunder dome. The caged walls are packed with people streaming out from the subway you just missed. People are jostling you and knocking you. Keep your hand in your pocket, in case you needa take out your keys and scratch a bitch.
“Blue Period” by Kind of Like Spitting: You made it past the turnstile, but not all is roses and daisies. You look up at the mechanical sign that tells you when the next train is coming. Twenty minutes. You forgot your paper at home, so you sit down and contemplate suicide instead. It’s Monday.
“Major Tom,” by Peter Schilling [in German]: Shit is getting weird. Tension’s rising. The homeless dude lying on the full bench just farted and it smells like a dead cat. And then the announcement comes. “Because of MTA traffic ahead of us, the train is slightly delayed,” you come to a halting stop. People are sweating. Angry. Violent. Switch blades come out, and briefcases are wielded as shields.
“Bullet with Butterfly Wings,” by Smashing Pumpkins: The knife fight starts slowly. A Wall Streeter stabs an old lady, who for some reason has a flail on her. She swings it and bashes his head in. The uproar gets out of control, while the homeless guy keeps farting dead cats. You take cover between cars. Until the delay ends, and everyone falls back into order.
“Hand Covers Bruise,” by Trent Reznor: As you make your way to Union Square, a strange unease settles. Everyone is about to get out. You have to stay on, get to sit in the naked car as it clears out. But aw crap, here comes the next wave…
“Lapdance,” by NERD: So you got a seat when everyone cleared out, but then everyone came back in, and now a fatty is sitting on top of you, and the bouncing of the train is making it a rather uncomfortable experience. She calls you a pervert, but doesn’t move. Weird.
“On the Silent Wings of Freedom,” by Yes: Congrats. You made it to your stop. You’re alive. And stronger because of it! Prepped for the onslaught of the 5 PM rush. Godspeed.
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