A finger is a terrible thing to waste

Last week, I made someone on the road so angry with me they almost crashed into the median while violently giving me the finger. It is one of my proudest moments.

On the way home from my last class of 2008, I was driving along the NJ Parkway when someone came zooming up behind me. He stopped just short of my bumper and began flashing his bright lights at me. Now normally I move out of the left lane when I have gotten past the slow-moving car I wanted to pass, but with this numbskull doing his best to make me curse his name, I decided to have some fun. The Parkway at this point has three lanes, so I slowed down to go the exact speed as the car next to me. As the doofus behind me started swerving in and out between the two lanes, I began a maniacal laugh, knowing he could not get around us. After a few seconds of this, he tried to go into the right-most lane, but couldn't get over there either. He came back behind me, flashing his lights again, but I continued to shadow the car in the next lane. He eventually got back in the right lane and passed the car in the middle lane; at this point I sped up and blocked his path into the left lane as he looked desperately for an opening. I laughed a bit more, but by this time I started to grow tired of this - it had been going for over a minute, and it was hard work driving someone this crazy.

So I gave up and let him get in front of me. As he drove by me, he gave me the bird. But this was no ordinary middle finger experience. He had rolled his window down and stuck his hand out the window, pumping his arm back and forth in a most violent way. He continued this as he drove by me, got in my lane in front of me and drove off. As he drove off, his arm violently pumping with that one finger reaching skyward, he failed to notice the slight bend in the road, and his car veered out of the lane and towards the large wall separating the Parkway. He just managed to turn his car - using one arm of course - before ramming into the concrete. And of course, this made me wonder what I would have done had he crashed. Am I morally obligated to help a man who badly injures himself while shouting some of the most vile obscenities available at me? A question for the ages.

On board with a scary loud shouter

I'm now into month six of working in the city, and until today I had never felt scared. Sure, I had had situations that seemed odd, but nothing like what happened on the subway this morning. After the last stop before mine, a large man interrupted the calm commute by shouting at a unknown, horribly scared and quiet anonymous person in the corner of my car. Most of it made sense in that I couldn't make out complete sentences, but I heard phrases like "... you former law student ..." and "... won't get out of MY seat ..." But what scared me was when I heard him say something about "the end" and I noticed that he had a large suitcase.

This was when he started walking to my side of the car. It was funny, later, as I thought about it afterwords, that at this moment, as the large man, unabashedly shouting at something who was not saying anything, walked down the car, the heads of everyone who had been looking at him suddenly and violently shot down, eyes on the floor, like something out of a Rockette's show for the head. This, you might say, is when I really got scared.

As he got closer, he started saying more nonsensical things like "... as the white man says ..." and "... Jesus himself ..." (I don't think he was implying that Jesus was the white man.) But then he said the greatest thing which only added to my fear then (but which, had I heard it 10 years ago, would have been my senior quote in high school): "... talkin' 'bout a check. The next check you get is going to be in Hell. And they don't cash checks there."

You can see how, at the time, I might see these as the last words of a suicide bomber. As soon as I saw the first hint of Spring St, I stood up and walked to the door, crowding the man standing in front of me, eager like never before to get out of the subway.

Beware the wrath of leaves

I had a first this week, a first which both tickled me and irritated me - a sort of cat hair french tickler for trains. Wednesday afternoon, as I rushed home to turnaround and get to class, my train encountered a serious delay as we moved between Short Hills and Summit. After about 10 minutes, the conductor came over the speaker and announced:

"Sorry for the delay. We are being delayed because of the rain and the leaves. Sorry for the inconvenience; we should get to Summit in just a few minutes."

Yes, you read that right. Our worst fears have been realized: Trees have decided to fight back and, ironically, are shedding their leaves - that which soaks up our carbon rubbish - and concentrating them to slightly inconvenience our public transportation. It's a sort of double death comeback for the green team. And among the most asinine experiences of my commuting life.

On board with Stephen King?

I think I saw Stephen King on the subway today. I say I think because I don't actually know, and while I was staring at him as much as I could, he was only on for one stop and then left with two young girls, whom I assume were his grandchildren. He wore a barret, which I believe the master of horror would wear, and his face had those pot marks that I recognize from Red Sox games. But this whole thing brought up two questions:

1) Would Stephen King ride the subway?

2) Why am I thinking about Stephen King this much?

The answer to the former is, why not? Is his face really famous enough to make riding public transportation such a problem? I don't think so. And the answer to latter - we all know I'm a loser.

On board but without a seat

NJ Transit has interesting priorities.  This morning, on a cold and rainy October morning, we -- the hard-working people of Summit who pay full price for seats on the train -- boarded the train (a few minutes late, of course) to find that essentially all of the seats were taken.  This left people -- including your faithful narrator -- standing in the aisles of every car, door to door. Naturally, the conductor still made her way through the train to collect tickets because even those people who cannot sit must pay for seats.

When she reached our train I turned from my spot (on which I was vibrating as the train bounced down the wet tracks) to listen to her.  "No luggage in the aisles, people! Luggage cannot sit on the floor in case of an emergency.  Safety first, people!" Now I have a few issues with this:

1) No one taking the 7:15 express train to New York Penn Station has luggage. We carry purses or bags which may or may not contain a laptop.  But no one has planned a weekend getaway for this morning.

2) Can you please keep your voice down? It's dark as Satan's birthday still and we are all miserable and tired. Your voice does not need to ring in our ears like a banshee giving birth to Fran Drescher.

3) The aisles are full of people.  In the case of an emergency, this train will be ass-to-nose crammed full of people in all positions pressed together in an unholy mass of humanity.  Does it really matter if there are three laptop bags in the aisle with 20 people? Will those bags spell our doom? Will the police report following the investigation of our tragic, early-morning crash read: "If only that luggage had been properly stowed underneath seats or on the overhead racks.  When the fires broke out and the commuters - piled high from the impact with the oil truck - tried to escape through the emergency exits, a laptop bag unfortunately blocked their exit. These commuters, dazed from the impact of the collision, could not devise a way to get around it. In the minutes that passed, the fires grew and eventually enveloped them.  This all could have been prevented if that luggage had been put away."

It's all about priorities.

A stranger, a train, and a relationship I can't come back from

This morning's commute produced a great number of tantalizing subjects for this blog, among them: 

• The State Police cars lined up outside the station and the police helicopter circling above when I arrived
  
• Walking into the train station behind a police officer brandishing a very large, very loaded assault rifle
  
• The delays that were produced with ANOTHER power outage along the lines, resulting in people being bused into Summit Station
  
• The fun one derives from a two-hour commute
  

But once I arrived at Penn Station, something happened that topped them all. Yes, even something more amazing than the fact that I've now reached a point of numbness from living in the NY area so that large men carrying large guns doesn't phase me in the least. 

You see, because of the problems this morning, my normally express train into the city became local, and because NJ Transit refuses to think in an efficient or helpful manner, we made four stops, even though the train was standing room only as we left Summit.  So, somewhere along the line, I - sitting in a aisle seat - ended up on the wrong side of a just-past-middle-aged woman's caboose.  The woman ended up standing right next to me ... or as would be more appropriate, above and on me.  Because for 20 minutes, her posterior was in near-constant contact with my left shoulder and arm.  This produced a level of discomfort I have not felt since my last colonoscopy, and I was at least asleep for most of that.  

Now, with her butt to me, I didn't actually see her face the entire ride.  This, unfortunately, changed when we reached Penn Station, and when I rose to collect my things and squeeze into the aisle, our eyes met for the first time, and I was left thinking: What does one say to someone after that sort of bonding experience?  In the last 20 minutes we had reached a point in our relationship that I have reached with few others.  I was completely speechless.  But she, God bless her, looked at me and grinned.  Perhaps this was the most action her beginning-to-wrinkle body had seen in some time.  And if so, I am happy to have been of help.

Such a bad blogger

It's been awhile since I've written anything, but I've been traveling a bit and therefore not commuting. You deserve my apologies. But you won't get them because I regret nothing.

I was in New Mexico last week. I flew in for two nights and met with two national research labs. By coincidence, we were there for the Balloon Festival - annually the biggest event in New Mexico. Well, just look:


My experiences there were probably the complete opposite of working in New York. Driving along Interstate 25, on one side of the care: a wide swath of nothing for miles and miles, desert as far as you can see. On the other side: plateaus like something out of a John Ford movie. No congestion (except around Albuquerque - did I mention it was Balloon Fest?) No pushing, no shoving. Oh, to be a cowboy.

On board with speed commuting

Commuting can be a dull, tedious enterprise. I walk to the train station – now the sun’s not even up yet! – I ride on a quiet train where everyone is wearing black suits or black sweaters, I ride the subway where people are crammed together but refuse to speak or even look at one another. And then I do it in reverse 8 hours later.

And yet, I can count on one thing to brighten this experience everyday. Waiting for my train to post at Penn Station, I always see middle-aged men dressed in their finest suits sprinting through the train station.

These people are not sprinting to catch a train that is set to leave; no, these people take off as soon as the train posts, hoping to be among the first on the train and have their pick of seats. I assume they will spread out in their seats, hoping to sit by themselves, catching an hour for self-reflection before wives and children invade on their otherwise peaceful existence. And, as I’ve said before, their dreams will inevitably crash around them as the train fills up and some thoughtless person asks to sit next to them in the seat they had so diligently staked out. Hopefully, they will have visions of other well-dressed men sprinting through the train station to keep them happy. It is one bright moment in an otherwise monotonous, habitual exercise.

Train haiku

Stinky man sits down
Nose hairs tickle with male musk
Time drags breath by breath

On board and sitting in MY seat

I’ve noticed recently that people feel a sense of ownership of the seats they choose on the train. Often, these people will sit down and spread themselves out – either by literally sprawling out over the entire seat or by putting their stuff in the seat next to them – in an effort to claim their seat. In essence, they are a dog marking their territory, with their bag, thankfully, taking the place of urine. It’s a noble effort because really: Who wants to sit with a stranger on a train?

The trouble, of course, is that during rush hour, odds are you are going to get a seat partner. Or two. And it’s better to realize this going in, I think, than coming to that realization after you’ve sat down and sprawled out. Because you’re only going to get disappointed. Or, as I’ve noticed, irritated.

Increasingly, I’ve noticed that people who have laid claim to a seat are visibly annoyed when someone asks to sit down with them. “Do you not smell my urine?” they seem to ask. “Do you not see my flag sticking out of this seat, claiming this territory for me?” The train can be standing room only, and these people will feel as if you’ve greatly put them out by asking to sit with them. As if they paid more for the seat than you. Or have a special relationship with the leather of the seat that you wouldn’t – that you couldn’t – understand.

So please, save your exasperated sighs for someone else. If you’re going to Wall Street, don’t you have more pressing concerns?

On board or at least you better be

You have only a window of time before you can jump onto the subway before the doors close. The process is unforgiving and emotionless: Even if you are running towards the door, there's no guarantee that the door will wait for you.

Unless, of course, someone stands in the way of the door closing.

Some cars have an automated voice that rings out, "Beware the closing door." The lines I usually ride do not, and the conductor has to come on and announce the doors are shutting. This afternoon, something went horribly wrong. Some thoughtless soul stood between the conductor and his departure (i.e. between the doors) and we couldn't leave. The conductor asked in his usual manner to step away from the doors. A few moments later, as we had not left, he got on the intercom again, but he was not calm. In fact, I would go so far as to say he was mad. He yelled over the intercom, "Stand away from the doors!"

I was a bit shocked. I've never heard an employee of the MTA get so upset. I never thought about it before, but this is not a taxing job: You push the gas, you hit the breaks. Doors open, doors close. Repeat. But I suppose dealing with New Yorkers can get tedious. And if someone is interfering with one-fourth of your job responsibility, hey, that could upset the best of us.

On board with VOGUE VOGUE VOGUE VOGUE

For the most part, I am pleased with technology. I like my TV, iPhones are cool, and air conditioning is great. Oh also indoor plumbing is nice. However, one downside to technology is that people are fast and loose with cameras these days. Ignoring, for the moment, cell phone cameras, people have taken digital photography to great highs and great lows. The low: without the expense of film to deter shutter-happy fingers, people do not hesitate to take picture after picture, no matter the inanity, sometimes reaching 30 CMP (clicks per minute).

I thought of this today when I was waiting for the subway. No less than 4 people were taking pictures of the subway, some even taking pictures of just the tracks. No people. No action. Dark, ugly, disgustingly filthy tracks. With film cameras, I have to think that people would not waste time taking pictures of such boring subjects. Of all the things you see in New York, surely the subway is one of the least you're eager to picture. But with room on a memory disk for 200, 300, or 400 shots, people feel as though they can take these pictures. Will they ever look at these pictures again? Of course not. But God help you if you try to take it away from them. Technology. Blah.

Putting the sport in transport

I started classes last week, which isn't such a big deal except that it means that, after two months of driving no more than 15 miles a week since my office moved to NYC, I am driving regularly again, to and from class twice a week. Yesterday, I was reminded of all the reasons I don't like driving around New Jersey. But is commuting in a car worse than public transportation commuting? Here, I will decide once and for all, which is better: public transportation or driving.

Some of you know that I enjoy singing along to Les Miserables loudly and wonderfully. In the car, no one but me knows I'm pretending to be Jean Valjean. On the train I get stares, but is that going to stop me from singing along to the greatest musical ever? No. Point Car.

On the train, I can sit back and read a book or listen to music and drift in and out of consciousness. When I do either of those in my car, I tend to veer off the road and into on-coming traffic. Also, it's hard to turn a page with one hand on the steering wheel. Point Train.

In the car, I have plenty of room to spread out and I rarely have large sweaty people touching me. (Thought there was that one time when I pulled an Eddie Murphy ... ) On the train, unfortunately, I seem to attract the affections of large men. This is my curse. Point Car.

On the train, I do not have to worry about congestion except when we get around the tunnel, and even then it's not ME who is concerned with moving along. In the car, I have to deal with a mass of humanity trying to squeeze into three lanes of highway with idiots cutting one another off without any thought of others while my blood pressure slowly rises to a boil. Dealing with these ass clowns* takes the gentleman out of me. Two Points Train.

I have tried to keep this blog profanity free, but you try driving on the Parkway and leaving it a gentleman. Give me 5 minutes on the Parkway, I'll give you new and wonderful ways to offend the ears of God.

On the train, you are putting your time and life in the hands of a few others, whom you must assume are competent enough to get you where you're going. In the car, you are putting your life in the hands of thousands of people I am quite certain are not competent. Point Train.

Alright, by my count it's Train 4, Car 2. And I grow tired of counting, so that's the final answer. Public transportation forever.

On board with can you hear me now?

When did we as a society decide that we needed to talk on the phone at all times, no matter the time or the place? I ask this because Friday I had to listen to people talking on their phones the entire way to and from work on the train. Most mornings you can count on the commuter train being relatively quiet, as people read newspapers or mentally prepare for another day in the office (i.e. sleep). But on Friday, the guy behind me spent the entire ride talking on his phone, discussing something work-related. And on the way home, a woman discussed personal matters the entire trip.

The worst, though, was listening to a teenager sitting behind us talking to a friend Sunday morning for 20 minutes. He had an incredibly annoying voice, sounding like a valley girl (yes, valley girl). I can tell you this: He worked at McDonald's for 6 months (beating his friend by 4 months), he spends about everyday in Brooklyn, he so badly needs a new phone, and when he gets his tax refund next year, he is soooo going shopping.

Do we really need to be available 24 hours a day? Do we really need to be able to talk about mundane things in public places whenever we want? And most importantly, should people feel comfortable speaking on their phones in public? In this age of social websites, blogs, and message boards, very little is private. But shouldn't we keep something things to ourselves? Shouldn't we respect others enough to not broadcast everything all the time?

Okay, you're right - I'm just bitter because no one ever calls me.

On board with a lamp

On a typical morning, taking the rush hour train into the city, I will see people carrying only briefcases and newspapers. And while I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read anything other than the New York Times, I see more copies of the Post and Daily News than is healthy. But that is at least understandable; at least these people are reading rather than snorting coke or something. I suppose a titillating, skimpy-on-the-truth story about Britney Spears is a decent way to start the day, though I would prefer a skimpy-on-the-shirt story. At any rate, these sights are common and I hardly notice them anymore.

This morning, however, brought a surprise. A woman on the train this morning had a lamp shade. An honest-to-goodness lampshade. Nothing more, nothing less. Her commute boiled down to the transport of a lampshade. Where she was going is anyone’s guess, though I like to think that her previous lampshade was destroyed in a fit of fury after her secretary accidentally hung up on the President, who had called to congratulate her on winning the most recent National Spirograph Contest. I miss spirograph.

On board with ... oh wait while I finish what I'm doing, which is more important than anything you could possibly say to me

I am, indescribably, consistently surprised by the self-absorption of New Yorkers. Everyday someone will sneak through a closing door in front of me without pushing it open behind them, leaving me to walk into a closed door. Or someone will sit on the train beside me and proceed to call everyone in their address book and talk loudly about inane things that would make even the most Prozaked person on earth go on a three-state killing spree.

Today's example came on the subway ride after work. A gentleman was sitting in the middle of the bench, typing away on his iPhone (nothing wrong with that!), with a bag sitting on the seat next to him and his oversized, extendable-pull-handled briefcase resting on the ground next to him, sticking out further than his legs so as to block anyone from sitting near it. This man, in other words, was taking up more than half of the bench, as people filed into the car, walked by, and were forced to stand in front of him. The man sitting next to him (and I use the word "next" as I would in the sense that "Pluto is next to Neptune ... with millions of miles to spare") actually hugged himself into a tight ball so a woman could sit down, and all the while Mr. Oblivious looked down at his iPhone, probably writing a congratulatory note to himself for an excellent presentation at work today:

"You absolutely rocked that PowerPoint today, Greggors. I could hear that woman at the end of the table, her knees quaking under the weight of her desire to rip my clothes off and throw me on the floor of the boardroom. What a sight that would have been! I only hope she allowed me to shut down my computer first ... I was running on battery power and, more importantly, the porn I had been looking at earlier was still open (but minimized!) I would probably want to take my tie off, fold it up, and neatly place it on the table, as well. But after that, the passion would have been HOT. Also, my boss seemed to like it. You go, Greggory!"

This is probably the same guy you saw at the movie theater last weekend, the one who had his coat laying in the seat next to him, his feet on the seat in front of him, wearing the stovepipe hat and talking on his iPhone during the bloody climax. Luckily, I didn't see a wedding ring on his left hand, so we can only hope that the man has not spread his seed because the last thing this world needs are his spawn crawling around, doing the Dark Lord's bidding.

Four rules for choosing a seat on the train

I often wonder how people choose their seats on the train. I have a few rules which I live by:

1) Avoid fat people. I hate to rag on the obese again, but it makes perfect sense: large people take up more of the seat, leaving less for those who sit with them.

2) Avoid people with pens outs. I have a paralyzing fear of being written on by a neighbor who is waving a pen around next to me. This has happened to me before. At a school board meeting in Hillsborough, way back when I was with The News of Orange County, a reporter from a rival newspaper, writing furiously on the pad in her lap, wrote so long and hard she did not realize that her pen had reached the edge of the paper and moved onto my left leg. This was my favorite pair of pants, please remember, and I was distraught. The boring people in the meeting were talking about school lunches or how better to embezzle money (I have since forgotten, overcome with remorse) but all I could think about was what do to with my pants. I eventually decided to take them off, run to the bathroom, soak them in water in the sink, return to the meeting in my skives, and rock back and forth muttering, "I miss my pants. Definitely miss my pants." Long story ... um ended ... I fear that people writing on the train will repeat this dark episode of my life.

3) Do not sit near the door. For some reason, people - who have paid a fair amount of money for their seats - enjoy standing up well before they reach their station and standing in a line, rocking back and forth, as the train slowly brakes and then stops. Inevitably, these people will hit you in the head more than once. So sitting nearer the middle of the car lessens the chance that people will be standing near you.

4) Do not sit near teenagers or people traveling in groups. Everyday commuters are quiet throughout their rides. These people are severely beaten down by capitalism, and the harsh reality of working so long for so little leaves them depressed and silently rethinking their life choices. In other words, a commute is typically quiet. However, there are sometimes people - usually these are students - who talk very loudly. These people are annoying. These people make the rest of us even more depressed. I hate these people.

There are probably more rules, but I've managed to talk myself into a deep sadness and must lay down and rethink everything in my life.

On board with man-on-man bonding

Today on the subway I started worrying about this blog. How could I reasonably assume that something interesting would happen to me enough on my commute that I could write 3-4 entries a week? (This assumes, of course, that anything I have written here is interesting. Is it? Is it? Love me.) I wondered about this as I approached Penn Station. Just then, a man who had been sitting near me (as I stood holding the pole) stood up anticipating the train stopping. The train stopped, indeed. And the man, holding onto nothing but his briefcase, flew forward. Luckily, I was standing in front of him. He crashed into me.

I looked at him, waiting to say, "Don't worry about it" after he apologized to me. He did not. He turned to face the door. We stopped, I turned to the door (which I was standing in front of), and he barreled into me again as he tried to speed out. Was he embarrassed and eager to get away? Was he in a rush? Was he mentally imbalanced? He wore a suit and carried a briefcase, so he must have been gainfully employed ... that or he was on his way to an audition for "The Nutty Professor: On Broadway!"

At anyway rate, God bless you crazy falling briefcase man. You have given my blog another day.

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And now it's time for everyone's favorite feature: "Did Phillip get touched unnecessarily by a stranger on the subway today'?"

Seriously? Did you read this post?

On board with THE DAILY SHOW

When I told people in North Carolina that I was moving to New Jersey, I got a wide range of responses, from "Why on earth would you do that?" to "What's wrong with you?" to "You may the dumbest idiot I know." At first I wondered if they were right, but in the last three weeks I finally found the answer. (Yes, it took me two years.) On Thursday, I sat in the studio during a taping of The Daily Show, just three weeks after doing the same for the Colbert Report.

For those of you who remember my Colbert exploits, you know that it marked the pinnacle of my life, a point from which I was only bound to fall mercilessly back to earth. While the Daily Show helped to ease that fall, it definitely did not live up to the Colbert high. At first i wondered if this was because I had essentially entered the Colbert Report as a TV audience novice, and The Daily Show was merely Take Two, but I don't think this is true. I entered Thursday strongly a Colbert man, and I went to sleep that night the same. For me, Jon Stewart - while excellent - does not live up to Stephen Colbert, and the experiences were very different.

There were many similarities, including the long lines to get in, the heavy security, and more. But the atmosphere at The Daily Show was much different. Being older and more established, there was almost a sterile air in the studio. Whereas the people at the Report emphasized so strongly that the show depended on our laughter - indeed, it seemed as though Stephen would go home and cry if we were not loud enough - we were told just once to laugh at the Daily Show, and even then it didn't seem that important. Jon came out and spoke to us, and he was certainly funny (even more so than he is during the show, oddly). The show began, and it was almost as if we were an afterthought. We couldn't hear him too well, especially if there was any laughing, and Jon played more for the cameras than for us. The studio was much larger, and Stewart was further away from us, almost kept at a distance. Colbert was exactly the opposite. During the show he looked at us and not always the cameras, playing to us, as if to ask us to laugh.

Perhaps most emblematically were the way the hosts entered and exited the studio. Stewart emerged from the back of the stage, spoke to us from in front of our desk, did the show, and then exited the way he came, never coming too close, letting the large studio act as a natural buffer between audience and host. Colbert, however, ran from behind the audience, jogging down the center aisle while slapping people's hands. He paced the studio while answering our questions before the show. After the show, he walked along the front row, shaking hands with many of us, and then - as you recall - walked up the aisle by me and graciously touched my ever-graced hand.

So perhaps this is my long-winded way of explaining why I prefer the Colbert Report to The Daily Show. Stephen Colbert is everything Jon Stewart was 10 years ago: the upstart, eviscerating mainstream ideas while remaining deeply in touch with his audience. Jon Stewart has reached a level of popularity which has made that impossible. In a way that is sad, because I have watched TDS since Craig Kilborn first debuted his "Five Questions." But, at least we have Stephen Colbert.

And did I mention: Stephen Colbert lives down the street from my school. New Jersey isn't all bad.

In board with grammar

What is with you people up here? "We had to stand on line for 10 minutes at Starbucks!" That is not American. You can stand IN line for 10 minutes; you can be visiting starbucks.com ONLINE for 10 minutes. But you are not physically on a line ... unless you've managed to convince your linemates to pass you above their heads, forming a sort of impromptu Starbucks crowd surfing phenomenon.

Also, stop saying "supposably."

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This is going to be a new feature of the blog: "Did Phillip get touched unnecessarily by a stranger on the subway today'?"

The answer today is yes. The woman sitting on the bench by me stood up as the train approached her stop and grabbed onto the pole I was holding on to. When I say "grabbed onto the pole I was holding on to" I mean she grabbed my hand. And held it until I moved it lower ... and then her hand fell down to mine.

Can someone seriously explain this to me? Why all the touching? I thought New York was supposed to be cold and isolating. So far it's been uncomfortably warm and rife with inappropriate togetherness.

On board with drool

There is an unwritten rule in New York that you do not look at anyone on the subway. Looking at someone for 1 second results in an ugly look back. 2 seconds: a profanity-laden tirade. 3 seconds: a hard slap across the face. 4 seconds: a swift kick in the fanny. 5 seconds: death by drowning in rat urine.

But today, I had to stare. The guy sitting across from me had fallen into a deep sleep. So deep, in fact, that he had started to drool on himself by the time I saw him. I am not talking about a bit of saliva falling gently from the corner of his mouth; there were lines of dark drool streaming down his chin, leaving numerous water stains on his polo shirt. After two stops, he woke up and, noticing the liquid flowing from his mouth, sat up and wiped his face. And then he looked down and noticed the three pools of drool festering on his shirt. This was a image I could not have looked away from if you had paid me. Here sat an adult with drool covering his chest, wondering what he was going to do to hide his shame.

So, after noticing that I was staring at him, he opened his shoulder bag and wiped his shirt with the underside of the outer flap. Of course, this did nothing, and the drool remained. And I continued staring. I would have sat there staring for another hour if I hadn't reached my stop. Risking my life to see this, I'd do it all over again.

On board, almost

There are two types of people in this world: Those who stand on the edge of the platform, longingly looking down the line for the subway to arrive and those who stand aloof, almost apathetic against the wall, indifferent to when the subway meanders down the line. I am most definitely the former.

And we can infer a lot about people from where they stand waiting for the subway. Those who pace along the edge, turning around obsessively to see if the train is coming - those people are anxious to get where they are going. They don't want to be late. They are punctual, they are Type A. Or they're high on crank.

Those who stand back, patiently waiting for the subway - they are laid back. They take things as they come and take them in stride. They are Type B, they are calm. Or they're high on grass.

On board with a ballerina

Living in the New York area, I've grown accustomed to seeing all sorts of people I never bumped into in North Carolina. Needless to say, very little surprises me anymore. I've seen the Barry White/Johnny Cash karaoke singer, dudes in shirts not big enough for Olive Oil, and so much more. But Tuesday I saw something truly shocking. Waiting in Penn Station for a train stood a six-foot tall, wrong-side-of-50, gender-neutral* ballerina wearing a bright pink tu-tu and showing a fair amount of leg.

* I say gender-neutral, but I assume the person had a gender. I just don't want to guess what it was.

What was truly remarkable was not that this person was there wearing a giant tu-tu but that this man/woman was standing there as if nothing crazy was going on. S/he stood straight upright, at one point pulling out a brush and calmly styling his/her shoulder-length graying hair. And through it all, I my lasting impression of this was thinking: Hum, that tu-tu bottom is quite large. It was probably 6-feet in diameter and looked like a gown from Gone with the Wind. In fact, I have an artist's* rendition of what this person looked like:
* This was drawn by no artist.

On board with obesity

Train travel, like real estate, is about three things: location, location, location. Every morning the train stops at exactly the same spot at the station, so I stand right where a set of the doors opens so I can get inside and find a seat to my liking. (By the time I get on, it's a choice of middle seats in a three-seat row, but there are still degrees of middle seat badness.)

Unfortunately, this morning the train pulled a fast one on me, and by the time I got inside, my options were limited.

Unfortunately, I ended up sitting next to a fat man.

It was unfortunate, not because I dislike fat people, but because he was taking up half of the clearly defined area that was supposed to be for my rump. And for 40 minutes, we were cuddling. (And as I think I've mentioned before, I don't care for bodily contact in my strangers.) I don't mean to offend anyone*, but I think fat people should have their own trains.

* In case you are unfamiliar with these types of qualifiers, by opening a statement with "not to offend our alien overlords but ..." or "I have nothing against poor people but ..." one can say absolutely anything and not get in trouble. It's infallible. I dare you to fall it.

Okay, I don't honestly believe that fat people should have their own trains ... just their own cars.

On board with second base

Just Monday I mentioned that I grow tired of New Yorkers groping me on the subway, whether accidentally or not, as the cars jerk back and forth. Today I had an entirely similar yet horrifyingly worse situation. On the way to Penn Station after work, I stood on a not-too-full car holding on to one of the poles. A man and woman (they were together but I don't know their relationship) got on and joined me on the pole. However, the man grabbed the pole and felt the need to touch my arm in multiple places between my thumb and elbow. I did not care for this, but I do not move on the subway while in motion. The woman, meanwhile, stood on my right - obnoxiously close but at least not touching me. She held on to the pole while we started but let go once we got moving.

That's when the fun began.

Along the way we hit a jerk and the woman went flying. Her left breast went firmly into the back of my hand. She looked at me (after removing herself from me) and what seemed like the entirety of Dances with Wolves passed before the gaze broke. I felt like I needed to say something, but what? I didn't want to apologize; I wasn't the one putting my life in the hands of a subway driver who may or may not be qualified to teach a course on shoe-tying. I stood perfectly still as a woman lunged at me with her baby feeders. I had done nothing wrong.

So what else could I say?
"Thank you."
"Those feel real."
"No thanks, I'm married."

I mean, I was stumped. So eventually - and eternally - I said nothing. She mumbled something and turned away. She and the man spoke Spanish, so I can't be sure whether or not she told him that I got to second base with her, but I didn't stick around to find out. At the next stop I scurried to the next pole, stared in the other direction, and got off without ever turning around.

Should I feel bad about this? What is the proper response in this situation? I ask you.

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On board with cool/disease-free people

Public transportation is not a clean business. When you step on a subway car, you expect to contract any number of diseases including Hepatitis, gonorrhea, Tetanus, or Whopping Cough. I find a good way to fight off communicable disease is to wash my hands when I get to work and home - my soap claims to kill 99.6% of all bacteria, and I assume that means all bacteria in the universe. What are the chances that the 0.4% it doesn't work on are actually on this planet? I'll say small. This is my plan, and in the now more than four weeks I've been doing this, I have yet to get terribly sick. The plan works.

I've noticed, however, that others are not willing to leave their health up to something that comes in either liquid or solid form. (Pick a state of matter, soap! Don't make me swift boat you, flip flopper!) These people chose to not touch anything. And as soon as the subway gets moving, they start sliding all over the car. They assume, I presume, that those of us taking care to prevent violent movements enjoy strangers knocking into us, the feel of their sweaty skin on ours as we roll down the dark tunnel to a land of gonorrhea-free companionship.

This has to be true, or these people think they are too good for bars. "I don't need to hold on to a bar, you weak, transplanted Southern," they seem to say with their snares. "Watch as I stand in the middle of the car, holding my horrible free tabloid newspaper telling me Batman beat his mom and sistAHHHHH. Oops, I fell down. What is this liquid on my pant leg? It has to be urine or blood. God, I hope it's urine." This repeats a handful of times until they reach their destination, limp out of the subway, and scurry to their too-cool-for-me homes filled with first aid kits and penicillin to fight gonorrhea. Because, come on, when you are too cool for metal bars, you're bound to contract a disease or two somewhere.

On board ... and off ... and on ... and ....

If Monday marked the highlight of life in the city, Wednesday certainly marked the lowest point. It was on this day, of course, that the rails leaving from Penn Station had no power, causing unimaginable confusion and a mass of humanity in mid-town I had not been introduced to before.

For me, it introduced more than just running around the city, cramming myself onto a PATH train, or finding Hoboken. I had the pleasure of meeting (read: being crammed against) some of the most selfish people in the tri-state area.

I got on board the 4:50 Dover Express, and soon after the conductor came on to announce that we were significantly delayed because of an overhead power outage along the lines. After sitting for about 30 minutes, they "recommended" that we take a PATH train to Hoboken and pick up a NJ Transit train from there. I walked back up the stairs and people had overtaken every tile on the floor, staring at monitors that read:
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed

I muscled through, got outside and walked a few blocks to the PATH station and it was much worse. Taking baby steps among hundreds of people trying to cram through two doors, I eventually got downstairs. The station opened up and I was back in time at my first Hanson concert. A train was approaching so I "ran" as best I could down the track; every car was completely full, with people crammed so tight not even one of the Olson twins could have gotten in. I kept walking, knowing that time was running out until it would leave, got to the end and saw the tiniest space I could squeeze in ....

And the woman at the door would not move. She literally and completely did not move as I turned sideways, squeezed my bag close to my stomach and snuck into the car like the weird kid who ate his boogers trying to sneak into prom. I got in, and she said to me, "Sir, I'm going to need to hold onto something." I turned less than a quarter turn and PRESTO she had plenty of room to hold her arm by my head as I fought the urge to lovingly caress it with my cheek.

We stopped at every stop, taunting those waiting to get on, some of whom even walked up and tried a few times to squeeze in. It would have been comical if I hadn't been dripping sweat off my face.

We got to Hoboken and it was like the start of the Boston Marathon - people sprinted up the stairs and to the tracks. I can't be sure, but I think I saw a man shove a pregnant lady down, step on her hand and say, "Watch it, whore." It may not have happened, as this part is still a blur as I tried to keep from being trampled by the Pamplona bulls poking me in the ass.

The rest is boring: I got on the train, we waited about 30 minutes because our crew were themselves trying to get from Penn Station to Hoboken on the PATH. We slowly made our way down the line, and I got home about 7:30. Just your average three-hour commute. After seeing the best human on earth Monday, I got up close and personal with some of the worst Wednesday: those so eager to get home they act like gazelle running from an lion. Survival of the fittest, and the lame are Darwin's prey.

On board with STEPHEN COLBERT

"He looked at me and stared, yes he
Bumped me
My heart was unprepared when he
Tapped me
And knocked me off my feet
One little touch
Now my life's complete ..."
- "I Can Hear the Bells" from Hairspray

It's been just a week with this blog, and already I am going to break my word and write about something other than commuting (although I did have to commute to get there ... does that count?) On Monday, July 21, I sat in the audience of The Colbert Report. This is the story of my adventure. This is the story of the apex of my life.

I arrived at the Colbert studio around 4:00 and held a place in line until my friend - and the woman responsible for my tickets, Sara Pugh - came around a few minutes later. Though we had tickets, they overbook the show (because if there is one industry you're going to mimic, why not make it the airline industry?) so we had to get in line an hour early to ensure we got in. We waiting in the heat (though under an awning) until about 5:30, at which time we were very slowly let into what I will call a holding cell just outside the studio entrance (but thankfully inside with air conditioning). Along the way we were given laminated cards with numbers.

After waiting in the line for the bathroom for some 20 minutes (a long story, all attributable to one, unfortunate mystery 18-year-old), the audience manager of the show came out to speak with us. He told us that Stephen feeds off of the audience so we needed to remember to laugh louder and harder than we normally would. He said it's natural to get in and be so excited that you don't even laugh but just smile - we must fight this urge, he told us, because the audience from last Tuesday was a "suck fest" and the "show suffered because of it." We practiced with a few hearty Ha's, thought we were told to not actually shout "Ha" because that would be creepy.

Then we walked in in order of our laminated card numbers (mine was 30, Sara's 29 - ladies first) and were seated, but not like you did when you went to the planetarium with your sixth grade class; a talented stage hand found us seats according to the number in our party seemingly at random throughout the studio. Sara and I sat on the far left of the audience, in front of the left side of the main desk, from your TV viewing point of view.

My stomach actually and truthfully lurched a bit as we walked in - this was my Graceland. The studio is very small, and the audience is only large enough for 109 people. We sat for a few minutes as the rest of the audience members filed in, and looking around I noticed things I hadn't on TV: a nest for little Stephen Jr in the far back left corner; his Emmy and Peabody on the hearth above the fake fireplace.

After a while the warm-up comedian came out to get us going. He made fun of a few of the people in the audience, including the old couple next to me that did not want to laugh out loud and a group of business men sitting on the opposite side of the studio. One of these men, from Germany, had never seen the show - the other three had brought him here as part of a wine-and-dine business trip. While the comedian explained to us when to go crazy at the opening of the show (when the eagle comes out and rears his talons) he asked us all to make our own talons - these four businessmen refused to do it. I was embarrassed for them.

After about 20 minutes of jokes, he introduced us to Stephen, who ran out and danced around a bit. He answered a few questions from audience members out of his TV character, though none were really clever. Then he got behind the desk, and the show was nearly underway.

It is completely different watching the show in person than watching it on TV. For one thing, I felt compelled to laugh at everything - and not just chuckle but really laugh out loud. It was hard to even focus on the funny because I felt obligated to laugh whenever I needed to. "Here's a break, I should laugh!" "Punchline - laugh time!" I laughed so much that by the end my cheeks physically hurt.

One of the best parts of being there was watching Stephen during the commercial breaks. The show is obviously not live, but he has breaks where they go and discusses jokes with his writers, fixes his makeup, and gets prepared - but he's always on, dancing in his chair or making faces for the crowd. And during the second part of the show we watched a pre-recorded interview he had made with someone from the Sierra Club. We in the audience watched Stephen watch himself on tape, and the experience is quite interesting. He watched it very intently, laughing when we were supposed to laugh or making this funny face with his lips pulled back and his teeth pressed together - he must be self-conscious watching himself on TV as we watch him. I know I would sit there nervously hoping that people would laugh the way they are supposed to. Of course, he needn't worry about us - the man is great.

Also, during one of the commercial breaks he pointed out to the audience and smiled. I will go to my grave believing he looked at me.

After the show, he walked down the front row shaking people's hands. He got to our end and walked up our aisle. I am not ashamed to admit that when he got to my row I leaned way over and stuck my hand out. AND HE SHOOK MY HAND! He looked me in the eye and said, "Thanks for coming." He might as well have said, "Phillip, I love you," because they would have had the same effect on my fragile, sensitive psyche.

In shock and realizing that nothing in my life will ever top this moment, I followed the others out of the studio, back through the small holding cell, and emerged in the setting sun shining down on a world much different from the one I had left two hours before. In this new world, I have been touched, literally, by Stephen T. Colbert. This is a world I can live in.

Then I walked to the subway and hopped on the C line back to Penn Station. There it is - I commuted.



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On board with Barry White

I had a surprise on Friday walking through Penn Station on my way back home. There is a spot just under an arch as you walk from the A-C-E line towards the NJ Transit gates where musicians typically set up to play and suggest you pay them for their troubles. Yesterday, however, was a man with nothing but a karaoke machine and a mic. Wearing only black and with silver hair, the jovial man chose for his first song "Can't Get Enough of Your Love." The man appeared emaciated, but he had an insatiable hunger for my love. I'll be honest: I was touched. And as I stood in line waiting for a pretzel, the dulcet tones ringing throughout Penn Station, I had to admit that this was probably better than the guy with the clarinet.

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On board with animal cruelty

Today I stepped onto the subway right after a guy wearing a Michael Vick jersey. I never know what to think of people who wear Michael Vick gear - is this man a big fan of Michael Vick the player and hesitant to get rid of the jersey, hoping that the quarterback will return to his level of greatness (or even the NFL)? Is he showing support for a man he thinks has been unfairly/overly punished for a crime? Is he a Falcons fan and hasn't found a current player to replace Vick as his favorite?

I'd like to think that dog fighting supporters/animal cruelty enthusiasts have chosen his jersey to be a calling card: If you see someone with the Falcons 7 jersey, you can stop him and ask where the fight is that night. I encourage you, the readers, to try this tomorrow. I, however, will not be doing this because I don't care to get punched, and having a black eye before senior picture day would ruin me.

On board with a scare

One advantage to commuting by train/subway to NYC everyday is that I don't have to drive, leaving myself free to do other things, from reading to staring into space and everything in between. One of the disadvantages is that you have little control over how the ride goes and who's around you. On Tuesday, this fact became most obvious.

At the first stop on C-line after I had gotten on, a large man in a sleeveless shirt pushed in a cart carrying a bunch of Amazon boxes - about 6 columns of 7-8 boxes each, all apparently containing something. My first thought was, "Hum, this is odd. Usually Amazon uses truck services to deliver their packages." Before I had a chance to think more on it, the guy moved immediately across the car and faced a door opposite. "Rather trusting of his deliveries," I thought. At the next stop, the man got off the train without the cart.

At this point, I got a bit nervous. When you are walking through NYC you are warned to be on the look out for suspicious behavior and this certainly qualified. Could these be bombs? I thought now, "If I were a terrorist, I think I would blow up a subway train at Penn Station" ... and of course, this was where I was headed. So I was not incredibly happy to be on the subway at this time. At the next stop, I very seriously debated getting off. Never before have I been so concerned about blowing up ... and I had a gas leak in my apartment when I first moved in to it last July.

I stayed on the train and things I should not have been thinking about continued to race through my mind. "Which way should I face? If I look at the bombs and the blow, my face could be messed up. Of course, if these boxes are all bombs, it's probably not going to matter which way I look." This went on for a few more minutes until I finally got to Penn Station, got out, and never looked back.

I never reported the boxes, but I did watch the news that night to see if New York had exploded. It had not.

Looking back, I probably witnessed a drug delivery or someone transferring hot merchandise to an accomplice somewhere up the line. Whatever the case, this was the first time I missed driving to work in New Jersey.

On board

I'll be the first to admit: I lead a pretty boring life. I work at a desk, I'm happily married, and I don't do anything dangerous. However, as of July 1 I have begun commuting to New York City from New Jersey, and I have noticed that there is a story hidden in every trip. From the guy sitting behind me who downed 3 king-sized Budweisers in the 35 minutes he was on the train with me this afternoon to the woman filling out sales records for DSW Shoes this morning, there are interesting people traveling every day.

These are their stories.

I am going to update this blog as often as possible, so check back, tell your friends, and enjoy.