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.