Commuter Chronicle #3 - Hey, That Was my Aorta

As I found out back in August 2008, you don’t always need to be on the train or a subway car to experience a moment of commuting Zen.

Sometimes the transit gods offer you a personal sacrifice. The Aztecs believed that on-going sacrifice sustained the universe and that everything had a bodily presence. They believed that all things - earth, crops, moon, stars and people, sprang from the severed or buried bodies of the sacrificed. If only I were a fly on the wall in the great Cholulu pyramid back in 1494. I can only imagine the conversation that was occurring around the board room behind closed stone.



Ahuitzotl (Aztec Ruler 1486 – 1502) - “Huemaci, I need to see you at my alter.”
Huemaci (Aztec Minion) – “Coming King.”
Ahuitzotl – “I have not seen a full moon in a month. Summon Miahaxiuiti”
Huemaci – “King Ahuitzotl, Miahaxiuiti is away on business in the valley of kings gathering virgins.”
Ahuitzotl – “Then tell Tenoch I need a sacrifice. He has done it before hasn’t he?”
Huemaci – “He has only sacrificed one virgin, my king, and that was only in celebration of the termite festival. He is fresh out of the University. But a full Moon?”
Ahuitzotl – “Your heard me right, Get Tenoch! I want the Moon God Coyolxauhqui to rise. Have him summoned immediately.”
Huemaci – “Right away king.”
Ahuitzotl – “Huemaci, wait… while you are out, have Pikachuchi sacrifice two green parrots and a moth, it is very hot and I would like a breeze.”

Now on that warm August morning, inside the train station, I was given a chance to sustain the universe, but not quite like an Aztec. I wasn’t going to split someone’s thorax open and offer a still beating four chambered heart to Cochimetl, the Aztec god of commerce and bartering, but I was going to drive a verbal spear right up someone’s arse. That would sustain my universe... at lease for a little while.

I ride the train with this obnoxious loud mouth who often takes the opportunity to expand on his political leanings whether you want to hear them or not. Instilling his opinions on anyone within listening range. Picture if you will for a moment, Captain Merril Stubing, you know, the Love Boat skipper.












Picture him without the skipper’s hat and wearing a slightly wrinkled, black, three piece, pin striped suit. His white oxford shirt has no collar stays so his collars are flaring up at 30 degree angles towards his ears. He has a pair of slightly rounded and tinted eye glasses pulled tight to the eyes. By his side is a brief case. It’s one of those large leather square ones with the gold combination locks that lawyers cart around. By the way, what do lawyers keep in those cases? 45 lbs of case law? Granola bars, Red Bull and No-Doze? Their egos? I digress. Let’s refocus and get back to Captain Stubing.

Now, remembering his suit, his arcing collars, the glasses and the brief case, let’s just add one more attribute and then we can continue. He is sitting in one of the comfy chairs in the station. It’s a brown tweedy chair with cushions, probably donated to the station by some one moving up to a leather Ethan Alan recliner or a Potter Barn clearance couch. In the chair, his legs are crossed. They are crossed up high and they are crossed up tight. You know what I mean, the bottom of the right thigh is resting on top of the left thigh.

Ok, I am about to digress here a bit again. Men of the world, hear me now and hear me good, sitting like that is not manly. I repeat, sitting like that crushes the boys. I repeat, sitting like that makes my boys feel your boys’ pain. It is not natural. The ankle on the knee, natural. Legs spread apart, natural. Sitting like your trying to hold back a wee wee, not natural. Well, unless you are holding back a wee wee. Then you should just get up and go pee, but that’s not what we are here to talk about. We are here to discuss a sacrifice.

Captain Stubing, is resting in his chair, reading his New York Times and commenting on the news out loud for all to hear.




“Ah come on, The Times is agreeing that we as a nation need to be thinking green… lower our reliance on foreign oil. Who are they or anyone else to tell me how I should live. Crude is high because of the speculators, not because of war or OPEC.” Well, as a Popeye the Sailor Man once said, “I cants stands not more!” I had to comment. And I did knowing well aware that me and the Captain were about to go broadside, cannons a glowing.

"How can you not be for greening it up just a bit." I fired back. Keep in mind that gas in NJ was selling for $3.89 a gallon for regular at the time of my counter strike. "Do you enjoy paying such high prices for gas?" I added. I set meself up for a blast on my port side. I don't ever remember the real Captain Stubing ever looking this upset or bewildered. Even in Love Boat episode #14 - Love on the Aloha Deck, when Charo told the Captain that she loved him but was not in love him.

I added that there is nothing wrong with down sizing a bit when it comes to vehicles. Hummers? Escalades? I said everyone should be free to choose but then how much is enough. Unless you really need that 13 foot SUV for work or for a large family, I did not see the hard core need. Then Stubing, with misdirected cannons fired back. The air smelled like sulfur and dumbshit. He blurted, "When I drive my big SUV, I am in my happy place!".

He said "Happy Place". Ha ha ha! Ever put a guy in checkmate? Stubing just layed himself across the sacrificial alter like a lamb. I first responded with, "did you just say happy place?". He said, "Yes, happy place". That's when I pulled out my figurative knife... Aztec style. Gripped it in both hands, held high over my head, my eyes staring straight into Stubing’s. I should have been wearing one of those Aztec head dresses with gold and feathers shooting out in every direction because I was feeling all Aztecky now. I thrust the knife forward. "Dude, I don't know about you, but my happy place doesn't have Firestones or a Vanilla Tree deodorizer in it.".

The 10 or 15 people in the station erupted in subdued laughter and hidden snickers. His sternum was ripped open and there was blood everywhere. I could see his heart.
I continued and added that my "happy place" consists of human contact and that it doesn't come with a lease or financing.

The Captain just sat there, heart in hand realizing that the Aztec god of comebacks was going to require a much bigger sacrifice.

I smiled and walked outside to wait for my train. The universe sustained.

Commuter Chronicle # 2 - Right Between the Toes

It has been one day since I chipped molar #15, as identified using the Zsigmondy System which was created by Hungarian dentist Adolf Zsigmondy back in 1861. All it took was a little downward pressure on a small, rounded and salted pretzel. The same amount of pressure used to crush a grape. A baby bite if you will. By the way, I am curious, let’s say you were a Hungarian tuber farmer back in 1863 and had a cavity in molar #15 from eating too many of those delicious candied Hungarian white fish tarts, would you go see Dr. Zsigmondy for your wood filling? And I always thought dentistry wasn’t invented until 1934 in the back of a broken down Chevy truck in Overbite, Indiana. Well, looks like yours truly was wrong. At the end of the day, here is some advice, when looking for a morning munchie in the office vending machine, check the date on the package. I am convinced that the aforementioned pretzel must have been baked in a clay pit somewhere in Pennsylvania Dutch country back in 1882. And before I rant on, I just want to make a quick, yet belated shout out to the late Ms. Zephirina Leopold, Lancaster County’s Pretzelmeister from 1880 – 1884 and also to her clay pit from hell. Thanks for the soon to be implanted crown on molar #15.

So, I got to the train station at regular time today, got my coffee and a buttered roll from Lorraine. Have you ever met someone who really meant it when they said “good morning darling, how are you?” If not, go to Ridgewood, NJ and get a coffee at Lorraine’s breakfast nook inside the Ridgewood train station. Regardless of how you may have started your day, Lorraine will always find a way to brighten it up.

During the summer, I started a very hot and humid Monday morning by stepping in a pile of thoroughly digested Senior Plus Chicken and Rice Alpo left at the end of my driveway by my neighbor’s 16 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Radar. Old Radar, that blind in one eye, completely deaf and incontinent palindrome should be chewing on oversized cow femurs in canine heaven. The poor dog walks like a crab with a limp and bumps into bushes and curbs when turning right. My neighbor’s wife keeps thinking that he is going to live forever. Hate to break the news to you honey, but poor old Radar figuratively died in 2003. All that is left is a frizzy haired, tri-colored muppet that breathes, eats and relieves itself in my driveway.

Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs.. can’t you tell. I have one myself and she is as much part of my family as are my children. However, pets by nature don’t last a human lifetime. We all come with expiration dates. That’s life and that’s being a realist. It is just that dogs have a shorter expiration and I believe that in all cases that quality of life for your pet is very important. It is never an easy decision deciding to put down a pet and it is hard to say good bye to that lovable ball of fur that chewed and shit out your $80.00 leather Birkenstocks back in 1989. I cry every time I have to make that trip to the vets. Hey, look, it’s better than being the family guppy that is in a constant race to out last the jug of 2% milk in your fridge. By the way, my money is always on the dairy product when it comes to aquarium life. Have you ever really looked into a fish’s eyes to see what’s going on? Not much there? Especially in the guppies. After eating another fish’s crap and spitting it out ten times an hour and bumping into the filter now and then, they don’t bring much to the table… but an icy glass of cold chocolate milk does, especially 5 days before expiration.

Well, I eventually removed the last remnants of Radar’s feces from my naked foot and headed back in the house walking on my heels to the bathroom so I could disinfect my sole and keep the hard wood floors free from fecal destruction. By the way, you are probably asking yourself how I knew it was Radar’s feces when it could have been some stray dog or maybe a fox. Well, Radar’s deposits are quite unique. As a matter of fact, Radar’s piles can be classified using the Bristol Stool Scale developed at Bristol University in Bristol, England. Radar was easily a 6 on the scale but it was the color that made it unique. I am convinced that his 16 year old doggy digestive track had a can of Krylon orange spray paint resting near the colon spritzing every log before it hit daylight. I bet if you shook that dog up and down, you could hear that little ball bearing bounce around in his body.

I got to the train station on time with perhaps the cleanest feet I have ever had and as I opened the door to go inside, Lorraine was already pouring my coffee as she had seen me on my way down the parking lot. “Good Morning, Darling!” I smiled and said good morning and continued to tell her the abbreviated story of Radar and his orange pile of crap he had left me 100 feet from my house. Did I mention that Lorraine could brighten up a day.

Commuter Chronicle #1 - Look It's Sputnik

Many of us choose to take public transit to work on a daily basis. I say leave the driving to someone else if you can swing it. It saves gas, you can read a book, you can veg to some Pink Floyd, Metallica or Burl Ives, whatever floats your iPod. You can catch 30 extra minutes of sleep or you can stare at the chick in the seat ahead of you with the fake balloons and botox lips or at the guido with the muscle shirt showing off his mad skills at being... well, a guido.

And sometimes you are simply blessed with a view to a kill. It's times like these that seem to shave the minutes off of the train commute as you get lost in your private personal world of wonder. Nothing is more priceless when you catch a glimpse of a middle aged balding guy, wearing a red Member's Only jacket cramming his pointer finger half way up his sinuses. And somewhere behind his Eustachian tube and the graying 2 inch untrimmed nose hair of his left nostril, he catches hold of something, and with the dexterity of a kid trying to remove the funny bone in a game of Operation , he exposes his finger to the light.







At the end, he balances a hardened slab of mucus, dust, Cinnabon sugar and pollen. Ahh, behold the magic that is the human body. What is it not capable of? He then observes his nugget and then with the stealth of James Bond hiding inside Auric Goldfinger's estate, he slowly deposits it on the seat ahead of him with the hope that no one has seen him. But I have and I love it... and those are the good times.

Whether it is NJTransit, the MBTA, Long Island Railroad, subways, taxis, buses or your local rickshaw service, we all have the dream that the ride will be quick, quiet and completely event free. Well, that rarely happens! Actually, with me, it never happens and at 41 yrs old, I have already become a grumpy old man, how you doing Mr. Matthau... and it didn't take long.

Now the fun rides and moments are great. The booger watching, the botox queens, the extra sleep and even the cool conversations with a fellow commuters but they don't happen everyday. However, something upsetting always occurs on my commute. I will expand on more of those days in future blogs. I have hundreds of stories and I am sure I am not the only one who has lived through them.

But have you ever started your day and felt like some 7th grade, Jay Z shirt wearing, Dippy-Do hair, snot sleeved kid from Herbert Hoover Elementary School just plastered an Annoy Me sticker on your back so all of the numbnuts within a 25 mile radius of your poor ass can find you. Whoever said the freaks come out at night got it wrong. They are around us at all times. Unknowingly, poking around the otherwise uneventful starts to our day. We are all just another task that these bone terds can check off on their things to do list. Whatever you call them, freaks, chuckleheads, A-holes, or bloviating know it alls, and they have all pissed you off enough to either age you at least 4 years or make you want to go postal.

How was your December 1st, 2008 commute? Mine sucked. No boogers, no botox and no dancing guidos.I caught the 7:39 to Hoboken and found my seat. An empty two seater. I took the window seat. We pulled away and soon stopped at the Radburn station. The Radburn stop is located in northern NJ and has slowly become a Little Moscow. Many Russian immigrants have made it their home. I know three of them that I would like to send back. Does UPS deliver overnight to Odessa?

One of the three, let's call her Anzhelika, sits with me. The other two women, let's call them Boris and Mrs. Breznhev, decide to stand next to the seat. Then it starts, Boris starts yacking in Russian, then Mrs. Breznhev cackles in her two cents. They begin fighting for verbal position. Back and forth.. yack, yack, yackov.






Then the mother of all Russian sounds breaks her silence. Anzhelika, now known as the AK-47, pierces the air with her machine gun like ability to rattle off responses to both Boris and Mrs. Breznhev. It was rapid fire. Never missing her targets. How could they keep up with her? It was unreal and it was loud and it went on for 35 minutes.

Now, working in technology, we have many Russian software engineers in my office who have taught me a few Russian phrases and words. Important ones like - poshli pit piva Let's go drink beer and idi ne hui - "F%ck Off". Now being a gentleman, it was not in my heart to tell the three little sputniks to F%ck Off and I am quite sure I would never want to have a pint with any of them, especially Boris. So my Russian responses were limited.

But then there was the guy sitting behind me. A Russian Lone Ranger, a czar in shining armor, a captain in the 22nd Cavalry...He let one of the only other Russian phrases I know, rip from his lips with vigor - ZATKNIS!!!

Translation - Shut your mouth.
I never did see or get to meet that man. My hero of December 1st, 2008.
But I will thank him now with the best broken Russian I do know... Spaceba ze zatknis comrade!

Translation - Thank you for the Shut up friend!

By the way...
Dosvadanya Boris, Dosvadanya AK-47 and Dosvadanya Mrs. Breznhev... Lenin just called, he wants his annoying women back!