Commuter Chronicle #10 - Going for Gold

Lennon and McCartney scribed in 'A Day in the Life'

"Woke up"
"Got out of bed"
"Dragged a comb across my head"
...and if I had a chance to enhance those lyrics, I would simply add,

"Then I puked all over the stainless steel toilet on my train"

What an exciting morning in hindsight. Me and my very own norovirus. Me and my new friend were about to play host to my very own gastroenteritic Olympics, trumpets and all.
To host your own intestinal olympiad, you need to start by selecting a mascot. Every Olympics has its own cute little symbol. Remember Misha, that cuddly little Russian teddy bear who symbolized the 1980 Olympics in Moscow. And then there was Sam the Eagle, The United States' entry for the 1984 games. Involuntarily, I chose a single-stranded RNA virus named Noro. Noro is of the caliciviridae taxonomic family which makes him small, round and very contagious. So cute, you could just eat him up.

With Noro the RNA Strand selected as my mascot, it was time for the opening ceremonies. In an artistic explosion of color and pageantry, I proceeded to open the games. After a brief march down the aisle of the passenger car, I made it to rest room at the end of the train. Ceremoniously, I opened the door, slid it shut and marked it as occupied. After one brief look into the stainless tank of jostling blue liquid, the games began. No torch lighting, no anthems... There just wasn't time for such formalities. After a few dry heaves, the tank was christened and I was in the medal round. The train made its next stop and I staggered off and headed back to my parked car... 1 mile away back at the Ridgewood station. I was in these games to win.

Understanding that stomach and intestine inflammation was kicking in, I began feeling some pretty intense abdominal pains. The speed events had started. I picked up the pace and made it back to the car in about 2o minutes. Not quite gold medal time but impressive. In my car, I felt more pain. But this was about pride. I was not going to let myself down. I hit every light and slow rolled through every stop sign until I reached the driveway. 12 minutes! World record time! Another event in the books and another about to start.

Sprint Sitting is an event that is pretty simple. You run to a bathroom, close the door and then you sit. It is more like synchronized swimming than a classic track and field event. Form, grace, precision and placement play a large part. I took the silver.

My closing ceremonies were uneventful. No lasers, no exploding spheres and no silver midgets in helmets walking on stilts. It was enough just to end the games themselves. My body hid the scars of competition. The sore abs, the dry mouth, the pounding headache and the loss of appetite. If relief was an award, it was my gold medal. Closing the games came quick and without fanfare. After starting the games with a heave and a bang, Noro made his final departure as well. I am sure he is happy somewhere, probably splashing around in some diluted sludge digestion tank in Newark, NJ right about now... infecting some poor plant worker's exposed body.

Better start stretching tough guy, the games are about to begin.

Commuter Chronicle #9 - My Chemical Romance

If you are commuting into New York City on a daily basis, you are usually coming in from Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island, the Bronx, Long Island, Connecticut, New York State or New Jersey. You can also lay claim to be living and working in the most densely populated region of the United States. You can also lay claim to be living and working in a area that is home to more chemical companies than any other region in the United States. And if you live in New Jersey, you are a trend setter.

The Garden State has 108 toxic waste dumps which is more in any one state in the nation and it has 116 superfund sites, again leading the United States. Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner!!!

New Jersey, you chemical dumping Olympian you.

Now, why do I mention all of this fluffy talk about paper mill detergents beneath your rose bushes and discarded adhesive residue rivers flowing through the Garden State. Well, it is my hunch... a simple belief based on no scientific evidence or fact, that all of the mutants and unhinged chuckleheads that that ride on my train, have been affected by the trickling mist of tetrachloroethane into their coffee water. It is the only explanation for some of the things I see and hear on my commute. These boobs have to be getting their apples from an acrylamide orchard somewhere on the outskirts of Newark, NJ.

Now, before I attempt to make the connection between the defective genetic recombination of my fellow train riders, and their contaminated strawberry pop tarts and toxic mocha lattes, I would be remiss to not say that there are very beautiful places all over the state of New Jersey. My backyard is full of deer, foxes, coyotes and birds of all species. The air is clean and the well water does not promote the growth of antlers in humans. I know, because my 13 year old has been antler free since 1995 and my 9 year old has yet to show signs of horns. The smoke stacks, chemical pipelines, refineries and storage tanks are pretty much located within a 10-15 mile radius of New York City. Beyond that range, you rarely have to wear a Type F Tyvek suit to get the morning paper or when you take the kiddies to school. But I digress...

A recent observation on the 5:39pm train out Hoboken gave me pause to believe that my theory may be spot on. I was sitting in a three seater and directly across from me was a gentleman in his mid 50's. There was nothing too alarming about him. He wasn't wearing Gene Simmons face paint or cutting his name into his arm. He seemed... normal. However, he was "reading" Hustler magazine. He was reading it proudly and openly. I have to give the old guy credit. He was marching to his own beat. There he was, sitting on a train that was packed to the gills with commuters, flipping through the pages of one of Larry Flynt's finest contributions to 'pop up' literature.

He appeared to be handling the pages as if he were tasting a glass of 1982 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild, he slowly kept turning the magazine... upside down, sideways, clockwise, counter clockwise. Was he looking at the magazine for clarity, color and opacity. Did the content of December's Hustler Honey fold out contain residual sugars. Was she acidic? What were her tannin levels? Was she fruity, buttery or oaky and did she finish cleanly? It looked like he was trying to make the pages come alive. At one point, he actually tilted the magazine back and forth like a steering wheel, as if he was trying to get his one dimensional dream date to dance of off the page and into his lap. All Aboard!

At the end of the day, what kind of person whips out a girly mag, on a rush hour train and without reservation, flips, flutters and twiddles through the pages? I have an answer to that. It's someone whose penne with vodka sauce has been tainted with dimethyl sulfate and flourine .

Food for thought... Next time you and your buddies decide to grab a drink of water after a pick up basketball game down at the Acme Chemical Plant in Hackensack, NJ, make sure you know the difference between a garden hose and Hypochlorite overflow pipe. I need to start a car pool.

Commuter Chronicle #8 - Welche Art der Schaufel es ist

You may be asking yourself, what the hell does welche art der schaufel es ist mean? It is German for what brand of shovel do you have.

Now you may be asking yourself why the hell did I just type welche art der schaufel es ist? I mention it because the guy that said it this morning on my train, spoke with what I think was a German accent. Work with me here.

Now you may be asking yourself why the hell did this guy say welche art der schaufel es ist in English? Well, that's the reason I changed my train seat this morning. You see, der Gunther and the wienerschnitzels got on in Glen Rock today and immediately started cackling like a bunch of Austro-Bavarian crows.

The conversation was riveting.

Gunther: "Hey, vair ees Gary?"
Bratwurst: "I don't know."

Saurkrauten: "Guys, I bought a new shovel last night."

Bratwurst: "Gary's late. He's going to miss ze train."

Gunther: "Saurkrauten, what brand of shovel do you have?"

What brand of shovel? Are you kidding me? That's when I picked up an old chewed up Dunkin Donuts straw that I saw on the floor of the train and contemplated ramming deep into my ear canal just to end the madness. What happened to "Did you see the Sox game last night?" or "My boss is such a mental midget."

To give Gunther and the glockenspiels, credit, I Googled shovels.
There's the Gerber 22-41578 Gorge Folding Shovel, the Yo Ho Tools Pro Series Glasskor Drain Spade, D Handle and the old standby, the SEYMOUR Super Shovel.

I think Gunther may be the only living human being, other than a shovel manufacturer, who can name more than two brands of shovels. A skill I am sure he is quite proud of. Thank Colonel Hogan and his Heroes that we defeated the axis forces in WWII or we'd all be masters of long handled gardening equipment.

Just as an aside... I did move my seat away from the German consulate and ended up sitting next to a woman who incessantly, for 20 minutes, needed to snort and grunt and proceed to swallow the trace elements of her lingering head cold. Maybe I should have asked her if she owned a Gerber 22-41578 Gorge Folding Shovel. It may have been my only defense.

Commuter Chronicle #7 - iThink iMight be Losing It

With the smell of burnt coffee and garlic bagels... as well as some one's lack of proper morning hygiene, (it's called lather and rinse pork chop, lather and rinse...) I sit zoning out with my nano on train car #6568. Car #6568 is one of the new cars. It has tall maroon seats, large clean windows and it comes equipped with a sultry computerized voice telling the morning lemmings that the "next stop is Rutherford" or to "Please take all garbage and newspapers when departing the train...". The voice is nothing more than a computer, a 10 watt speaker and a set of female vocal chords. Imagine a Demi Moore voice over... the voice sounds like a young pre-Ashton Kutcher Demi. I am also convinced that a few of the male riders are falling love with her. You can see that Jeffrey Dhamer twinkle in their eyes. Pretty creepy stuff.

While others are reading the Financial Times or dreaming of kicking Bernie Madoff square in his shrunken global assets... or perhaps sleeping off the previous night's tequila jello shot and jalapeno popper blow out at Matt's Casa de Guapo, there are some with that spacey stare when the voice chimes over the PA system. I can only imagine what these guys are thinking. I would give a few crispy dineros to be a bystander peeking through the blinds that cover the doorways of their dreams...

Demi Voice: "Next stop is... Glen Rock."
Creepy Guy: "No Demi, we are going to the Meadowlands Race Track."
Demi Voice: "Next stop is... Ridgewood."
Creepy Guy: "Demi, you make me laugh. We're going to the horse track. You silly dilly."
Demi Voice: "For your safety, please do not walk in between cars while the train is moving."
Creepy Guy: "Oh Demi, you're so crazy. Hey, want to listen to some Duran Duran or Foreigner?"
Demi Voice: "Please check the all overhead racks for personal belongings..."
Creepy Guy: "Demi, will you stop. You're not at work tonight. Oh, I love this song... ...mouth is alive, with juices like wine... Sing with me Demi! ..and I'm hungry like the wolf?"
Demi Voice: "Please watch for the gap when departing the train..."
Creepy Guy: "No, Demi... it's ...mouth is alive, with juices like wine...
Demi Voice: "Thank you for riding NJ Transit today and have a safe and wonderful day."

Dude, get a book or order go eat some poppers... But I digress.

It's a quiet ride today which allows me to sink deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. My iPod is like anesthesia. Only an iPod doesn't enter you blood stream stream and leave you with a sore throat, muscle pain, nausea or constipation... unless of course you're listening to the Bee Gees Greatest Hits... then I would add explosive diarrhea to the symptom list.

Thank god for Steve Jobs and his ibrain. His neat little invention with the white wire and ear buds numbs the piercing pain I get from having to hear mindless cell phone conversations about where to go to get one's eyebrows waxed... which by the way, if you are ever in Ridgewood, NJ and need that killer Brazilian wax job, I hear the Ridgewood Day Spa is... theeee best. I heard it was something about the cold Egyptian cotton clothes dipped in goat milk and soft piano music... goat butter, rags and Yani? Sorry, I don't see myself reaching that stage of enlightenment.

We are now 30 minutes from the city and I am flirting with a REM pattern which gives me plenty of time and opportunity to decipher the 60,000 flashing synapses I see on the backside of my eyeballs. My Subconscience has now taken over.

Just as we started red lining, Subconscience asks me, "what if all of these musicians on your ipod had TV shows"? I was game and decided to play. I had some time... weren't even half way to work. So, me and Subconscience brainstormed and came up with a few pilots that maybe one day, I'll run by the suits at NBC. They would have to at least listen. Come on... these are the same brainiacs of entertainment that gave us such TV classics as Punky Brewster, BJ and the Bear and Bosom Buddies.



3 Front Men and a Barista- NBC
====================
Starring:
Axl Rose, David Lee Roth, Prince, Joan Jett

Pilot Episode
Axl is jealous and gives David Lee the silent treatment because Roth gets to host VH1's - Spandex Bulges of the 80's. Meanwhile, Prince is contemplating changing his name to either Robitussin or Acetaminophen. Joan Jett accidentally uses sugar while making a sugar free hazelnut frappuccino at Starbucks for guest star Ozzy Osbourne. Oh... the shenanigans.


Hippie Daze - ABC
===========
Starring:
Jerry Garcia, Tom Petty, Bob Marley

Pilot Episode
Tom Petty forgets the words to Refugee during a show and hums the entire song. It soon becomes the inspiration for re-releasing Damn the Topedoes - I've Got a Hummer.
Bob and Jerry discover the Cartoon Network.


Dirty Jobs - Discovery Channel
===========
Starring:
Mike Roe

Special
In this one hour special, Mike Roe learns how to clean Meatloaf by his dashboard lights.
(first of two parts)


Angus' Kitchen - Food Network
===========
Starring:
Angus Young

Pilot Episode
Angus Young shows us how to make Back in Black Rack of Lamb.
Special guest chef Jimmy Page, shares his recipe for deep fried Led Zeppolies


Hey NBC, call me.

It's How We Roll...

Commuting... Indian Style

It's How We Roll...

Commuting... Kamikaze Style!

Commuter Chronicle #6 - Worms in your Pockets

I just read an article that identified the Pompeii Worm (Alvinella Pompejana) as the the world's hottest animal. It can survive in an environment as hot as 176 degrees. If you're going to be a worm, that's the one to be. Nothing says I'm one bad ass worm better then 'Pompeii'. It's volcanic.

Another animal that should be considered is a guy I have nicknamed Stove Top. This guy is one giant human being. When my train slows down near the Rutherford station, my eyes start to peer down the walkways and past the office buildings, always looking to see which car he is about to turn into a furnace on rails.

Stove top is NFL lineman big. Big head, big feet and baseball mitts for hands. He stands over 6' 5" and must weigh in at over 280 lbs.

My core body temperature always seems to hover between 98.6 - 138.6 degrees regularly, so I do not need a 280 lb human rotisserie cozying up to me in a two seater. But fate has often stepped in and has made the introduction.

"Hey, how ya doin', I'm Fate... and dis here is a guy wit a core body temperature of 219 degrees. He's going to sit wit you... you alright wit dat?"

They don't make seats large enough for this guy's left butt cheek let alone both of his butt cheeks and he always finds a seat. This guy is not a stander. I have nowhere to go as I am jammed into the window of my train car. Then the heat begins. You might as well put a heating pad between our legs.

Now Stove Top either has a pocket full of Pompeii Worms or he is very excited to see me. Since Pompeii Worms live in hydrothermal vents deep in the Pacific Ocean just off the coast of Costa Rica, I doubt the creatures are lining the pockets of his Nike warm up pants. But then that leaves the fact that he may be excited to see me. Look, at a short 5' 7" and with a receding hairline and an occasional wild eyebrow hair that often attempts to climb over the top of my head like a an ivy plant, I do not consider myself much to get hot about. So, let's revisit the theory of Pompeii Worms in his pocket. It is a possibility.

• Where does one get Popmpeii Worms? After some research, I found that the worms are available at www.pompeiiworms.com, Amazon and at TrueValue Hardware stores.
  

• Then we need to identify why someone might want to carry Pompeii Worms in his pocket. I think it is obvious, eccentric yes, but obvious... ...cold legs.

• Next, we need identify what Pompeii Worms need to survive in one's pockets. The worms cannot subsist on old aloe infused kleenex scraps or pocket lint or without water. It says that on the wiki page, I read it. So, at minimum, they need saltwater and microbes. Zip lock bags, old medicine bottles or even Tupperware can be used to create the perfect habitat for the worms ...minus the volcanic thermal vents.
  

Going with my theory that Pompeii Worms in the pockets is a possibility, lets cap this rant off. The bottom line here is that whenever Stove Top or anyone who's body temperature can warm up my mac and cheese, comes and sits next to me, I should be prepared.

I just read an article that explained the word torpor. Stay with me here. This is important. Torpor is defined as a state of reduced activity resulting in the lowering of one's body temperature. See where we're going? Guess what animal can invoke torpor? Hummingbirds. It's getting clearer now isn't it?

I now carry around a Playmate cooler full of thawing but living and breathing hummingbirds. You see, I am prepared now. If I happen to catch old Stove Top and his thighs of fire, scanning the seat next to mine, guess who's jamming semi-frozen birds down his pants?

Commuter Chronicle #5 - I'm Drifting Away

There are many different ways to get from Northern NJ to New York City. If you can't chopper in with Donald Trump or have the ability to covert yourself into an energy pattern and then beam that pattern to a target where it can be reconverted back into matter, you pretty much have to drive a car or take public transportation.

If you do not have access to a car and mass transit is not available to you and teleportation is not an option, adapt... make things happen.

Don't be half a sissy. I say... Swim across the Hudson River. That's right, swim. It may take longer but it is a mode of transportation. While this is not always recommended, it can be accomplished. Why? Because I saw Survivor Man do it on A&E once in Alaska. And Bear Grylls did it in Man vs Wild on the Discovery Channel. They swam across bitter cold fjords and icy rivers. The Hudson should be a piece of cake. All you need is a few survival techniques and you are on your way to the office... Action Jackson style.

First, you may need to become SAS trained like Grylls. You will need to join the British Army's Special Forces to apply for the SAS training. Should be pretty easy. I mean, you wouldn't be thinking of swimming unless you were in great shape and had sound mind, right?

Next, you will need to ascend Mount Everest or at minimum the K2. Grylls did this as well and it probably puts you in great shape. All that walking does a body good. Check out "Nepal on $30.00 a Day" by Fodors. They have a chapter on what equipment you'll need as well as a helpful chapter on home remedies for frost bite.














You will need to have access to a dead sheep. A large goat will also suffice. Survivor Man used the skin of a sheep to create a floatation device. This will help you save some valuable energy as you float through the Hudson's current on your ISD (inflated sheep device). Once the sheep's hide has been removed, fold the hide's corners and simply tie up the ends with a piece of small intestine. Sheep intestine is considered the duct tape of all of the sheep parts. There are over 101 uses for a sheep's small intestine.

Now inflate your intestine. This will take a while so you may want to get any early start on the day so that you do not run late for work. Early bird gets the sheep inflated. If you are not a strong swimmer, might I suggest wrapping some small intestine around your arms - and inflating those as well. Swimmies!

Once you get across, both survivor man and Grylls always had a quick snack to provide energy to their exhausted bodies and you still need to walk the six blocks to your office. Granola just isn't going to cut it and pop tarts are way too fattening.

Grylls ate sheep eyes while Survivor Man ate a goat testicle. The only sheep part you'll have time to munch down will be your small intestine swimmies. They'll tide you over until you get a bagel in the office.

I told you there were 101 uses for uses for sheep intestine.


The information contained in this message and any attachments (the "Message") is intended for specific individual(s), and may be confidential or proprietary. If you are not the intended recipient, please notify the sender immediately, delete this Message and do not disclose. Messages are not secure or error free and can contain viruses and the sender is not liable for any of these occurrences. The sender reserves the right to monitor, record and retain Messages.

Commuter Chronicle #4 - Driving with Thin Ice

It is getting cooler here in the northeast with morning frost occurring regularly and I am certainly not one to complain. I'd rather be dealing with 4 layers of fleece and numb butt cheeks than with trying to keep my gray t-shirt from looking like I was lactating due to all of the sweat build up on my chest on a hot and humid August morning. I bet you didn't know that humans have sweat glands on every part of the body except for the lips, nipples and the penis. It's true. And just imagine... work with me here... what if we did have sweat glands in those areas... the television we would get to see.

"...and welcome back to game 6 of the 2010 World Series. Today's game is being brought to you by Budweiser, the King of Beers ...and Mennen's Lip, Nipple and Penis Speed Stick - it's not just for under arms anymore. By Mennen!"

Lately, we have had some chilly nights which has been putting an icy grip on my car overnight. The result… I have been driving to the train station with a windshield that is 85% covered with ice. You see, I am one those people that just jumps into the car, flips on the defroster and takes off, giving the car no chance to wake up and prepare for work. The more I think about it, the more I feel bad for my little German friend. Perhaps I should treat him a little better. Yes, I called my car a him, and why not? Let's throw the automobile a bone here. Ships and boats already have first dibs on all of the feminine pronouns, right? So, what happens when they... "fix" a ship. Does the ship become an "it" like the dog whose testicles are snipped and then dropped into 20 ounces of formaldyhyde.


















Only to later be shipped to some high school where a freshman, percolating in his own testosterone can hack at them on a 10" x 6" tray of black wax. Kind of ironic isn't it?

Now, asking my car to just get up and go is pretty unfair. Especially that early in the morning. I guess it would be like someone waking me up at 3:15am on a cold December morning and immediately plopping my unclean, unshaven groggy ass into a pair of khakis and wrapping my hands on the handle of a started lawnmower and demanding me to mow the lawn. Machine or human, I suppose we all need some time to warm up to get started. I’ll usually give the windshield wipers a quick try but that only smears the ice and frost over the remaining 15% of the window. Look ma, now I have a 100% fully obstructed view.

Now I am basically driving on memory. Getting out of the driveway is pretty simple. Go straight 90 feet and turn left.

From there it gets more challenging. There is a large hill that you have to navigate, sometimes dodging an idling landscaping truck or a hopping crow, standing guard over some half eaten ball of rotting molecules.













I thought crows were supposed to be curious and intelligent and clever. Ravens and crows, the Ivy Leaguers of the bird world, right? We should be seeing crows ringing doorbells and pointing to the bread box or peanut butter jar in our kitchens or hanging outside a Hooters for freebies. But then again, the Crows and the Owls never did get along. The Crows never did trust those birds of the night with their pretentious attitudes and bulging eyes.

And every now and then you have to watch for the deer, especially in the late Fall. You see, right now in NJ, we are in the middle of what is called the Rut. The annually recurring period of sexual excitement and reproductive activity in male deer. The bucks are sniffing out the females and chasing them down all over the neighborhood. Strutting, flexing and sometimes fighting to get some attention, trying to show who the biggest baddest buck is in the woods. I guess it would be synonymous to a summer's Saturday night at Temptations on the Jersey shore where North Jersey's Guido Nation goes to dress, impress, assess, obsess, possess and caress. And I am pretty sure the girls at Temptations do not emit doe estrus urine to attract their mates. But then again, I don't quite understand the whole Guido thing in the first place, so I guess anything is possible. Kind of an ironic word, rut, when you come to think about it . I had a good friend of mine once tell me that he was stuck in a rut... tired of doing the same ol' same ol'. There is one thing you will never ever hear in the woods, and that is a corn gobbling, ten point, mature, white tailed buck say, "huhhh, I just can't seem to get out of this rut."













To a male deer, the rut is a Viagra, Lavitra and horny goat weed cocktail and I am sure there are some pretty intelligent deer out there trying to bottle rut. And if they can, they are selling it at Temptations.

It will take at least 5 minutes before the defroster starts realing warming up and I start to get that little peep hole in the center of my windshield. My virtual periscope. Hey, it's enough to keep my car on the road. My driver’s education teacher back in 1984, who worked out of a Catholic church in Pocasset, MA would have a heart attack right now realizing I learned not a thing from him. I will give him two thumbs up on his choice of movies though.















Death on Highway 71 was a classic 'scare the kids straight' movie. It contained footage of car accidents from the 1950's and the narrator was a tall Ohio state trooper with a message. I want to let that trooper's family know that I every now and then, I still see that 57' Ford Country Squire station wagon sitting on its roof and him telling us, "This is you! That's right you, if you drive fast and out of control. See that shoe on the ground, the driver was wearing it before he hit the pole." You know, I think that trooper reached me. Maybe he knew what he was talking about. But mind you, I would never be caught dead driving a Country Squire in red Chuck Taylors ...but he reached me.

My driver's education instructor's first words every time we took a trip in his two toned Datsun B210 station wagon was “check your view and check your mirrors”. Well, I did. My view was covered with ice and I still had three mirrors. Who checks their mirrors at 6:40am as you are pulling out of your driveway in the dark and chill of the morning. My ass and thighs are still getting over their initial introduction to my car seats. One thing Volkswagen has done is perfected pleather and my Jetta's seats can retain cold temperatures well into mile three of my commute to the train station.

Meandering through the remaining roads to the station is pretty uneventful. You've got stops signs, blind turns, and a Dunkin Donuts. Roads named after trees and flowers. I pass garbage trucks and contractor's vans and see kids waiting for their school buses. I know this because that little hole that was forming in the center of my windshield is now almost the size of the entire windshield. And guess what, my ass is warming up too.

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!