The Package

So I'm on my usual morning train, not really a peaker in the sense that it gets me into the city around 9:40am, but a peaker in the sense that Metro North charges me the peak fare as if this was a hard core rush hour train, which is an interesting point, because according to Metro North, the rush "hour" or peak travel time in the morning and evening are actually two 4 hour windows where they get to charge a premium fare.The opportunity for sticking it to the average Joe is obvious here. Metro North is a little short on cash and all of sudden my 10:15 am train becomes a peaker. Boom! The down economy at work!

Anyway, Im on my normal train and a regular guy, a guy I've seen many times before, gets on and sits across from me. This is a guy I'll call "The Package", like "The Situation", but in Westchester, not Jersey. I've never called him that before. I just made it up right here as I was typing, but he needs a name, and that name is The Package. And the reason for this is simple. The guy has a really nice package. No joke. I mean I'm not going to wax poetic about it, compare it to a summers day or tell my therapist, but in the straight up, no shit world of commuting, every once in a while stuff just jumps out at you as being exceptional, beyond the pale, better that average, and, well, that's what this is. When you look at the dregs of the commuting world day in and day out, the humps of society drooling on themselves as they catch up on their sleep, or trying to get one more misearable day out of that exhausted Van Heusen shirt, well, a guy in a nice suit and a handsome package stands out. Literally.

So, good for The Package. I mean, we all have a package, but if you'rs is testing the sewing on a fitted Brioni suit, well god bless you. My package barely gets to know my suits. For all I know, my suits think I'm a woman. Who cares if The Package tells his taylor with a wink, "just a little higher on the inseam, Boyo". All the better to see you with Grandma. If I had that package I'd do the same goddamn thing. So the next time I see The Package on the train, I'll take a quick look. Nothing to write home about or get the stink eye from, just a glance in his general direction, to remind myself that there are exceptions in life. People and places and "things" that proudly stick their neck out once in a while to the betterment of us all. And in case you're keeping score, The Package seems like the kind of guy who leans to the right, but The Package's package definately goes to the left.

Feet

Well, it's been a long hot lazy summer, and between you and me and the sticky pleather train seats, I wasn't sure the blog was going to survive. Writing a blog, it turns out, is work, and work, it turns out, sucks. So I've really been enjoying NOT writing all summer. Some of the things I have enjoyed are sleeping, playing angry birds, deleting email, and not writing my blog. I've also been making friends on the train, which it turns out is kind of nice. These ARE NOT the kind of friends that you see on the platform and silently beg to sweet jesus that they don't sit with you so you won't have to "make conversation" for 65 grinding minutes. These are really decent, salt of the earth seasoned commuters who are smart and funny and real and they make me...what's the word I'm looking for...? Happy. And we all know the blog has no place in a happy commute. The blog is about misery and disappointment and futility and hopelessness and it is most certainly not about enjoying your friends. A happy blog is a boring blog.

So just when I think I might be done with the blog forever, just when I think I've been saved by my new friends and this new feeling I call happy, I'm jolted back into the harsh flourescent light of reality by two pairs of nasty ass feet up on a seat. Need I repeat? Two feet on a seat! One foot, two foot, three foot, four! Dump those shoes right on the floor! But wait, it's not just feet, it's feet and meat! Four feet and the meat that they bought on the street! How neat! (Actually, it's leftover tappas, but tappas doesn't rhyme with feet). Two prize Westchester hens, fresh off an afternoon of spending their allowances and guzzling chocolate martini's plop their pudgy, calloused, un ped-egged feet onto the precious real estate of a seat on my 6:29 peak train. Like they effing own the place. Like they're home on their sofa rubbing the lint and sweat out from between those toes and there's not a soul around. Except there are plenty of souls on my deadly serious, we-all-effing-work-for-a-living-and-now-it's-going-home-time peak hour train. And we souls shouldn't have to spend 65 minutes trying not to look at your naked effing feet.

And suddenly I'm awake. I'm enraged and alive and energized and bursting at the seams. Im sitting here, staring into a seatful of feet and meat and toes and woes, and I feel the familiar rumblings of a blog coming on, coming on strong like a freight train or a good bm. Because no matter how many friends I may make and no matter how much happiness tries like a strong worm to wriggle its way into my life, the enduring misery and indignities and smells and rudeness and absurdities of my commute will always beat it back down the hole it crawled out of. No happines in the world can win out over three and a half hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year, year after year of riding this effing train. And if I have to watch my life slowly tick away into a big empty pit of blackness, minute by minute for the rest of eternity, well I'm damn well going to do my best to drag you down with me.

The blog is back. Long live the blog.

The Man Boy of Chappaqua

First, I’m not really sure this guy is from Chappaqua, I just wanted to call the post that since the sign over his head says Chappaqua. Second, how cool is my mosaic filter identity disguiser, (used as always on the advice of my lawyer, Billz Just Fertalkin). I personally think its a big improvement over my previous legal safeguard, the eye covering black bar. Feel free to weigh in. So to the point, this guy caught my eye the other day, because, well, frankly because on a peak train full of guys in ill-fitted suits, untied ties, and hopeless gazes, a man dressed like a 3rd grader tends to stand out. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a big supporter of riding the train on a weekday as a civilian. In fact, its one of the rare treats in a commuters life. I love taking a Wednesday off and heading in on my regular train undercover, pretending that I’m an aloof hipster or a trust fund a-hole, who only goes into the city when I feels like it, and who dresses more for urban survival than for corporate conformity. It’s like riding your bike through a traffic jam. You’re there, but your not suffering like everyone else. Or more to the point, you’re not suffering like you usually do. But if you’re going to grab a little bit of life on a weekday for yourself, I say go for it. Let your freak flag fly brother. Break out the temporary tats, pop the collar, toss the livestrong for a little hemp laniard, go for the black chucks, off color yankees lid, some sunglasses, an ipod, anything man. This is your moment. Look around you! Youre surrounded by guys wearing clothes they don’t want to wear, lugging 15 pound briefcases they don’t want to lug, guys who have to drink a cup of coffee at 5 in the evening just to have the energy to walk to the train, a train they have to ride every effing day of there lives. You are free man! In fact, you are not just free, you are a symbol of freedom in a wasteland of incarcerated commuters. You are motherfucking Easy Rider man, and if you’re going to ride this train and stand there in front of all of us, you need to be Easy Rider. And Easy Rider didn’t wear flat front khaki shorts, faux denim low tops and a Dennis the Menace shirt, now did he? No sir, he did not.

The Summer Sartorialist

THIS ONE GOES OUT to all the ladies in the house. As we all know by now, it’s summertime, and the living is anything but easy. In fact, the living is ungodly effing hot. And as much as it pains me to say this, I’ve been noticing quite a few fashion don’ts on the rails lately, so I thought I would take a moment to offer some advice to my fellow female passengers on the proper way to beat the heat without sticking to your seat...

Rule Number One: Leggings are Not Pants.
Yes, I know they are super convenient and super comfy, but they also tend to ride up, if you know what I mean. So here’s a tip. If you can actually see your ass crack (or any other crack for that matter) when you wear something, that’s a hint that its meant to go UNDER something else, say a simple print dress or eyelet top that hangs below the waist. They’re called leggings for a reason girls. They show off your legs! They’re not called asslings, or cracklings, or buttlings. Lets keep it covered.

Rule Number Two: Toe The Line
I’m seeing lots of sandals out there, to which I say “absolutely!”. Everything from simple flats to gladiators (a little 2008, but they still work!). Go ahead and take advantage of a footloose summer fashion moment. But I’m also noticing a few open toe no-no’s, so here’s a few things to watch out for. First, flip flops are really more of a beach shoe and less of a commuting shoe. You see, when you ride the train, It’s possible that I may have to look at your feet for upwards of an hour, and I don’t really want to look at your 2-year-old, rotting, black-soled, fungus-riddled havaianas, so lets leave those for the weekend, shall we. Also, please pay a little more attention to those toenails! Along with the sandal comes a little grooming responsibility. I understand that a pedicure and a fresh coat of polish isnt always on the to-do list , but if you see lots of yellowish discoloration, thick scaley buildup, black dead areas or bruising, ingrown nails, bunions, corns, or if your toenails are simply falling off because you just ran a triathlon last week, well, these are all signs that you should seek medical attention. These are also all signs that nobody wants to see your effing toes.

Rule Number Three: Skin is Not Really In
When it’s as hot as it’s been lately, we’re all tempted to go with a little less on, am I right girls!? Holla! But just how much skin to show is always a delicate balance between appropriate and, well, truly effing disgusting, so here are a few simple tips to follow: If you’re carrying the absolute largest bag that Coach makes, and you’re still having trouble hiding most of your exposed stomach, it’s time to rethink your ensemble. I know its hot and all, and heaven knows your milkshake will bring all the boys to the yard, but some of us on the train may have eaten a meal in last 7 hours, so lets get that under control. And we all know that showing a hint of a bra is a sexy and acceptable fashion summer DO, but nobody wants to see the the whole thing. I mean, when what we’re seeing is less of a delicate lace moment and more of an amazing feat of structural engineering, then its time to scale back.

AND finally ladies, while we’re on the subject of undergarments, please let’s all remember what you learned the first time you sat on stage in a dress. Say it with me...legs together! Especially when you sit in the communal seats that face other passengers. Just like with the bra, a momentary glimpse of underwear isn’t the worse thing in the world to the average Joe Commuter, but lets not go all Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. If the guy across the seat can tell that you’re still on your winter grooming schedule, or that you shop in the discount underwear department at Kohl’s, well then the magic’s pretty much over, isnt it?

That’s it! Not so hard, right! If you can follow these simple tips for dressing for success on the trains, I think we can all enjoy a happy and healthy summer. And for the fella’s out there, flys up, shirts buttoned, and no scratching inside the pants until you get home please. Thanks everyone!

Chinese Fire Drill

I see this every now and then in the parking lot just before I go up the stairs to the train platform. A car pulls into the drop-off area, which is actually not a drop-off area, it’s a crosswalk, which is kind of the opposite of a drop off area, but whatever, and the passenger and driver each get out. The driver leaves to catch the train and the passenger gets behind the wheel and drives off. I give you, The Chinese Fire Drill (I apologize if this phrase has crossed over into political incorrectness, like Oriental Rugs or Hillbilly Weddings). The Chinese Fire Drill exists, I assume, because there are certain men in the world who do certain manly things better than their wives. They hold the remote better, they grill meat better, they play golf better, they snore better, they bury there emotions better, they make onion dip and pancakes better, they hail cabs better, they put Ikea furniture together better, they add extra holes to their belt loops better. If its manly, they do it better. And driving a car is surely one of the manly arts, and therefore these men, these masters of the manly arts, do it better.

So even though these men are the men that will be getting dropped off at the train every morning to begin their manly day, they are also the men that must, by the laws of all things manly, also drive that same car that will be dropping them off. And you can’t drop yourself off, now can you. Obviously, you need a wingman, a partner. Someone who you trust enough to drive the car after you’ve finished driving it, but not enough to drive it while you’re in it. Honey, can you come here a minute....

So the wife rides along, admiring your driving skills I assume, while no doubt listening to the AM sports talk radio station of your choice (Yet another of the manly arts. Choosing things). You arrive at the drop off area, which is actually a crosswalk, you exit the vehicle, meet your wife somewhere near the back bumper, kiss her goodbye, and then she gets back into the drivers seat and assumes control of the vehicle. This ballet of transference adds another 30 seconds (35 seconds if the kiss is PG-13) to the amount of time the car is blocking the drop off area, which (have I said this?) is actually the crosswalk. And it is this minor intrusion into the rest of humanity’s commute that piques my interest, because now, your manly man bullshit is blocking my crosswalk for 30 seconds. Now you are no longer a manly man. You are a D-bag.

And now that you have my attention, Mr. D-bag, I have to ask the question, just how bad a driver is this woman? More to the point, just how good are you? I mean, is all this really necessary?

Evidence would suggest that its ok for your wife to drive alone, and I assume she possesses sufficient skills to drive the children all day, every day. She’s probably able to balance the checkbook, cook dinner, buy the kids clothes, play tennis, get the dishwasher fixed, frontline the dog, run a small business, send gifts, make travel plans, bare children, know who the teachers are, replace screen windows, operate a table saw, vote, drink, fight in a war (if called upon). But lets be honest. Who are we kidding. When you are a manly man, why leave the driving to anyone but the best? I mean really. If she can’t be trusted with the remote, can you really trust her to drive the most important person on the face of the effing planet to the train station? Not likely.

But here’s the thing. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect? A butterfly flaps its wings in Kansas and Bill O’Reilly is never born, or something like that? Deviate from the path for just an instant and it can change the future? Tomorrow, when you’re about to get into the car to go the train, stop for a second. Deviate from the path and let the missus drive. Just try it. See how it goes. Let her pick the route, make the light, or not make the light, choose a radio station, lead the conversation. Give up control for a minute. Or 10 minutes. See what happens. At the very least, you’ll only be in my crosswalk for 5 seconds, which I can live with. And you never know, your wife just might surprise you. She might even amaze you.

Or she might be the worst effing driver in history.

Casual Friday

I wear a suit almost every day. I don’t mind. It’s just part of the deal. I actually have a bunch of suits because I worked at a men's fashion magazine for 6 years and I used to get a deal on suits, so I figure, what the hell, I got em, why not wear em. Second, a suit is a good weight control monitor. If your jeans start to get tight because you spend your nights eating pretzels and ice cream and Samoas and watching baseball, well, no big deal, you go buy another pair of jeans. I have about 50 pairs of jeans in a variety of waste sizes, from “damn, you look fine today sir” all the way up to “maybe we could use your fat ass to plug up that oil leak in the gulf”. But when your suits start to get tight, that’s serious. I can’t just run out and buy a new suit every time I gain 10 pounds, so I don’t mind the suits because they keep me from going off the deep end. So I wear a suit every day. Every day except Friday, because as old fashioned and lame as it sounds, I believe in casual Fridays. It’s more of a personal rule, because I work in publishing and the publishing world could give a shit about suits and Fridays. In publishing, you show up at 10, work until they turn off the AC in the building, and shaving and socks are optional. I could wear spongebob pajama bottoms (yes, I own those) and wife beaters to work and most people wouldn’t notice. I choose to wear a suit. But not on Fridays.

And as you can see in this picture, I am wearing a suit, and as you can also see from the time stamp of this post, it is Friday. You may also have noticed that I'm sporting my eff-you beard today, which is my silent yet powerful protest against the man. And the reason Im wearing a suit on a Friday, and sporting my eff-you beard is that some upper management yahoo whose pay grade is way above mine decided to schedule a get-to-know-you dinner tonight, on a Friday. A summer Friday. So on a Friday when 99 percent of the people in the office are going to leave around 2:30 in the afternoon, I will be sitting at my desk with my thumb up my ass in a suit waiting to have dinner. It also means that on a day that I usually enjoy riding to work with my feet up ( an admitted dick move) in my khaki pants, black converse chucks and an untucked dress shirt that I’ve already worn 3 times in the past 2 weeks, I instead have to sit up straight in my effing suit and be respectable. But that’s not the best part. You want to know the best part? The best part is we’re having dinner at the train station. So while I’m sitting there in my suit on a steamy effing New York Summer Friday night eating a dinner I really don’t give a shit about, I get to watch everyone else go home for the weekend. Somewhere, someone is laughing about this. Maybe it’s you. Have a good weekend everyone...

Mr. Tiny TV Man

Hello Mr. Tiny TV man! I wonder to myself, what do you watch on your tiny TV? What is it that you see on that tiny little screen? Do you watch SNL shorts? Tiny Tots cartoons? Little House on the Prairie? Wee-man? Bugs Life? Gulliver's Travels? Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Could you really enjoy anything so tiny? Can you appreciate the nuance of an expression? The subtle eyebrow lift of a flirtatious leading lady? Nope. You can't see that on that tiny TV. Do you watch hockey? No way dude, do you watch hockey. Tiny puck is way too tiny. I can barely see that puck on my big boy TV. Do you watch a tiny little Yankees games? Do they play small ball? Again I say now way dude. Was it fair or foul? Can't tell. Too tiny. Can you read the scroll at the bottom of the news. I doubt it. I would imagine that the type would be, how shall I say, too tiny. John and Kate plus 8? Nope. Too many tiny kids. Tiny YouTube? Way too tiny. Can you hit the tiny share button on the tiny YouTube video? No you can not sir. Tooooooo tiny. Tiny porn? I doubt it. Too teeny peenie. Way to teeny a peenie to be seenie. Tiny video game? Teeny Wii? Little teeny Wii golf? No no no. Too small a golf ball says I. Too small a ball. Tiny spongebob? Tiny Homer? Tiny Greta Van Susteren? Tiny Simon Cowell? Teeny Charlie Sheeny? I have no idea. Whatever it is that you watch on your teeny tiny TV though, I do know that it must be good, because you've been watching that effing teeny TV for 30 minutes. Time for an iPad dude. Time for an iPad.