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I turned 27 yesterday. I’m now 27/100ths of a century. Been driving for ten years and voting for nine. And while the big 2-7 has yet to open any new doors, my family still was kind enough to celebrate.

Take, for example, this email from my grandmother:

Happy Birthday. I am sending 2 E-mails because I have you in my address book twice–and the a.book is so narrow I can-t read the addresses(only the names)and I can not make it wider. Your Aunt Laura came over and did it once–and now it is back to very narrow again. As you know I have less than a kindergarten handle on this xzxxzx machine;

But Happy Birthday.

I have tremendous respect for any senior citizen prowling the Internet. And I wish more of them would e-mail me.

In case you haven’t met Bailey, here’s her life in pictures.

The first-known portrait of Bailey.

Read the rest of this entry »

We’ve always felt Bailey’s a supermodel who, if not for all the disobedience, could shine on the dog show circuit. To make sure we weren’t kidding ourselves, I recently posed the question of her relative cuteness to the Pikapet community.

By yesterday afternoon, Bailey had climbed to the top of the rankings. While she’s slipped a little (4th place as of this posting), I expect a call from the Eukanuba or L.L. Bean people any day now.

Back in the eighties, when Tom Cruise was a measly OT-I (Operating Thetan I), the Scientology movement took to the airwaves, interrogating the Webster-watching public with hard-hitting questions like, “What gets in the way of clear thinking?” No answers were provided, but a curious or desperate viewer could continue this spiritual journey on the provided Dianetics page number.

I remember my sister and I having a laugh at L. Ron’s expense back in the day; we were still in the single digits. I found this Dianetics commercial on YouTube. And sure it’s ridiculous. But to a nine-year-old? I’m not sure why we found it so absurd. The music is reminiscent of the Goonies II soundtrack. For you eighties-movie buffs out there, you’re right: there was no Goonies II film. Goonies II was the Nintendo sequel in 1987, years ahead of its time in theory.

And of course there’s a Goonies II clip on YouTube. Seventeen glorious minutes.

Getting back to the Dianetics commercial, does anyone remember this campaign? Was the stigma of Scientology as prevalent? Were my parents feeding us anti-L. Ron propaganda? This forced self re-evaluation is why YouTube drives me crazy.

I’m posting this live from the bus, wirelessly connected to the “Super 8″ network a few miles from the Lincoln Tunnel. Not a bad place to be stuck in traffic.

My right knee, stiff and sore from what must have been a forgetful incident, is propped on the seat beside me. To divert attention from my strange, yoga-like position, I whipped out my laptop. That’s when I noticed my little wireless indicator coming to life, like a child silently waking from a peaceful nap.

My Inbox just dinged to signal the delivery of new mail. It’s spam, but that’s irrelevent. I’m so happy, I could go to super8.com and reserve a room. A thank you for making this moment possible.

Ah, and there’s the Super 8 sign. Skeevy discount motel chain, I salute you.

As far as writing an interesting post, I’ve got nothing. And I fear we’re inching out of Super 8’s range. But how great will it be when this novelty wears off and everywhere is wireless?

[P.S. By the time I hit 'Save' to post, the bus was beyond the magical internet capabilities of the Super, Super 8. No other hotel filled the wireless void between Weehawken and New York. I'm posting this from work, where the novelty of an internet connection wore off eight years ago.]

Stay tuned for my July 4th Spectacular. I’ll be posting all the old Commuting Suicide notes, plus a better intro than this one and the first new adventure since April. I’ve been slacking. But in the meantime, I’ve been attentive as ever, filling an assignment pad with quirky observations. Plenty of stories to tell. Looking forward to getting them out of my pad (and my head) and into my secure archives.

Welcome to my Book Club. Rather than a detailed synopsis or critical discussion, we’re going to borrow a format from my college grammar class. If I’m posting about a book, it’s because I enjoyed it. I’ll excerpt a passage that helps explain why.

Augusten Burroughs is a trashy memoirist (his words), recovering alcoholic and former ad wizard. Our first Book Club book is Possible Side Effects, a collection of his personal essays.

This paragraph refers back to his advertising days at Ogilvy, where he was the only copywriter on the Junior Mints account. The client wanted a commercial that encouraged consumers to “cross the mint threshold.” Burroughs has just explained why people eating Junior Mints in the supermarket does not make a good TV spot.  Should be especially amusing to anyone in the ad world.

The client became defensive. “Well, I do think people are waiting to see some ads for Junior Mints. I disagree entirely. We don’t have a presence on television. So when somebody sees the Junior Mints brand name flashed on the screen for a good fifteen seconds, you can be sure that’s going to get a lot of attention. Yes. That’s going to get talked about. Because people just don’t expect Junior Mints to be advertising on television. They are used to encountering the product in a movie theater. Not when they’re home, relaxing and watching some television shows. Seeing Junior Mints like that, in the context of relaxing and watching some good shows, that’s what will make people want to have a Junior Mint.”

It was at that moment I finally reached my mint threshold.

The place from which I start my commute doubles as a mediocre zoo. Perhaps that’s not a fair assessment; I haven’t been inside since a much-hyped 1987 field trip. The Turtleback Zoo proved a far superior destination than Kings Supermarket, site of our other third-grade outing. But the luster has rusted. After a friend’s six-year-old nephew hit up the zoo recently, he said his favorite animal on display was “geese.”

I’m sticking with my opening-sentence appraisal.

On Friday, a crusty retiree joined us rank-and-file bus peons. I’m not sure what business he had in New York City. That’s surprising, considering I know what he did the night before (check out cherry blossoms), his wife’s worst driving fear (negotiating bridges at night), and his “number one pet peeve” (our government’s 1979 bailout of the Chrysler Corporation).

Like the geese at the zoo behind us, we were on exhibit. The retiree bought a ticket. Now he felt free to stick his fingers in the cages of commuters in captivity.

Unlike the geese, I was loving it. This guy was the new character introduced to ripple stagnant waters, in the tradition of The Great Gazoo, Cousin Oliver and John Bolton.

With the bus running behind, our special guest ran off a list of bewildering queries and observations. “You know why the bus is late? The automobile industry sabotages buses and trains in this country.” (I had suggested traffic.)

“If you’ve done any traveling in Budapest, you’ll know what I mean.” (This was in reference to the bus shelter’s unsatisfactory width.)

“Do you have five nickles for a quarter?”
(I think he was just fucking with me.)

Usually, bus entry is governed by the first-come, first-serve rule. Despite coming about 12th, our guest took the star treatment, serving himself first. Just before boarding, he told us what he learned: “I don’t know how you possibly do this day after day. You guys are amazing.”

It was not a compliment.

Screw the zoo. And the Kings. The third-graders should be visiting us.

[Originally posted April 15, 2006.]

After an iPod malfunction, yesterday morning’s only entertainment was the woman behind me. On and on she went about her son’s upcoming bar mitzvah. Nothing to hear here, I thought. But the comment that kept me eavesdropping was this:

“My husband and I have been rehearsing every night for our duet. This really means a lot to our son.”

First, I need some clarification. In the Jewish faith, do parents serenade newly-minted men at these extravaganzas? If the answer is yes, the bigger question is why video clips chronicling this tradition aren’t playing around the clock on a dedicated cable channel.

Are we talking about Hebrew anthems, or theme-appropriate pop ballads, like “It’s Rainin’ Men”?

Your insight is appreciated.

[Originally posted April 15, 2006.]

Sunday afternoon. Driving down Route 10 West. A car driving east up that very road nearly slams me. Head on. He was fleeing the police, who followed a not-very-safe distance behind.

I didn’t know what almost hit me. But in the seconds after the near miss, I realized how lucky I was.

Calling this a near-death experience would be overdramatic. An exaggeration. A desperate grab for sympathy. OK, a flat out lie. The Camry’s safety record is widely documented. And the fugitive wasn’t driving with reckless abandon. More like scared shitless abandon, which equates to approximately a 20mph difference. In that difference, even a subpar hand-eye coordinator like myself could swerve into the shoulder and live to tell about it.

So, more accurately, it was a near-airbag deployment. What I avoided was a big pain-in-the-ass.

Regardless of how close to death I really wandered, it was one of those live-life-to-the-fullest moments. Things were going to be different.

Suffice it to say, those different things never got done.

Speed ahead to Wednesday, three full days after the incident. I’m writing this while watching Giant Achievers: The Story of the 1989 New York Giants, which TiVo’d earlier this week. And I’m eating the finest of French-American cuisine, Pepperidge Farm Bordeaux cookies.

Unlike the cathartic ending to my defensive driving adventure, the 1989 Giants season ended in disaster. Jim Everett hit Willie “Flipper” Anderson with a (playoff) game-winning touchdown. In overtime. Anderson famously never broke stride, heading right into the locker room. A hit and run.

I admit I may have missed an opportunity to grab life by the horns. But watching the Giants fall to the ‘89 Rams was like watching a car wreck. Makes me realize how lucky I was.

[Originally posted April 12, 2006.]

Friday night I set sail for home later than usual, missing the express buses I regularly take for granted (and complain about mightily). There should be a “Warning! This bus makes frequent stops” sticker on the back.

Actually, maybe there is. I never looked.

So, in honor of my far-too-extended journey, today we’ll open with a far-too-extended intro. In honor of the superfluous stops — really, does every corner in Newark need to double as a bus stop? — we’ll touch on several issues worth mentioning, but not worthy of their own post.

•On an absolutely packed bus, more cramped than the bumper-to-bumper traffic in which we were stuck, my only solace was a little TV on my little iPod. Zoning in and out through a disappointingly mediocre episode of The Simpsons, I didn’t bother click-wheeling through the commercials. Then came the one question I didn’t want to hear — “Are You Gellin’?” Seeing that ad in traffic, with an army of sweaty, boring people invading my personal space, might just be the worst 30 seconds of my commuting career.

•A.J. Soprano tried to buy a gun from the snack shop attendant at South Mountain Arena, where my commute initiates each morning. I didn’t know about this snack shop, but I agree with Bobby “Bacala” Baccilieri: A.J. should instead participate in the Golden Gloves youth boxing tournament.

•Overhead in line for the bus on an unseasonably warm Tuesday in February:

WOMAN [Dark hair, late-20s, attractive but not beautiful, ring-less finger, trying way too hard to turn the commute into a social exercise]: This weather puts me in such a good mood, I brought my world famous oatmeal raisin cookies! Have one!

MAN [NJ Devils hat, early-40s, not well groomed. Putting out the vibe he doesn't have much going on and doesn't care enough to hide it. His wardrobe gives no clues to his profession. Manages to simultaneously look completely harmless and totally unapproachable. Drew the short straw, and is waiting directly behind the woman]: What? No. Thanks.

WOMAN [Now straddling the line between polite and pushy]: They’re really yummy!

MAN [Really turned off by the word "yummy"]: “Yummy”?

WOMAN [Advanced well into pushy territory]: Yes, yummy. You’ll see.

MAN [Blank expression I could not read]: I just used mouthwash before I left. It won’t taste good.

WOMAN [Increasingly frantic as our bus approached. Like she was playing a board game with an hourglass timer, and that bus was the sand]: One bite! Save the rest for later!

MAN [His run-out-the-clock strategy seemed to be working, but he surprisingly gave in]: Fine!

WOMAN [Delighted to the point of giddiness. In her own world, maybe she gets commission on each unit moved]: Well? Well? How is it?

MAN [Acting like he doesn't like the cookie. He's not a good actor]: Tastes like Listerine.

[Man proudly gets on bus, woman dejectedly follows. They'll both tell versions of this story to uninterested co-workers later today.]

[Originally posted April 9, 2006.]

Since our little logo contest, I’ve gotten a surprising amount of e-mail from readers. OK, five e-mails. But still, surprising. One of the e-mails included an especially intriguing passage:

“i’m quitting my job. can you help me write a good good-bye message to my coworkers?”

Since I myself just completed the highly underrated Two-Weeks-Notice period, I felt compelled to help. After trading emails, we crafted a few paragraphs his colleagues won’t soon forget.

A lot has changed since I came on board in December of ‘03. Back then, a monthly Metrocard cost $70. The war in Iraq was spinning dangerously out of control. And this company was an unprofitable black hole, where morale was low and career development nonexistent.

Today, a monthly Metrocard costs $76.

Let me thank a few people. First, Maureen, the Director of Human Resources at my new company, for handing me that offer letter.

Actually, I’m good on thanking people.

Someone asked me why I would leave now. “We’re turning this ship around,” I was told. I have to respectfully disagree. This ship is not only not turning around, we’ve been swimming around its sunken carcass for the last eight months.

Let your severance packages be fruitful.

I’m posting this here to encourage more questions. Just email me. I’ve got time.

[Originally posted March 23, 2006.]

I forgot my video iPod this morning. So deflating. Felt like a blackout.

Sure, I could have read Fast Company, or the Stop & Shop circular I found beneath my seat. But instead I chose to sulk, staring out the window, longing for the next episode of Weeds and last night’s NBA highlights.

Then I realized something. I’m such a spoiled bitch.

Fortunately for all parties involved, that’s not where we’re going with today’s Commuting Suicide adventure. Before I was compelled to dirty my fingers with magazine ink, the bus gods offered a seatmate. And that’s where today’s story begins.

(The previous four paragraphs were written with no respect for your time.)

My new bus-buddy fired up his laptop and blew me away. While stealing minutes worth of quick glances, I learned of a technology called BroadbandAccess from Verizon Wireless. This gave my fellow traveler a wireless, high-speed Internet connection for the duration of our trip.

My mind raced with the possibilities. The commute affords me roughly 8 hours per week to piss away. There’s no bigger bucket to catch said piss than the Internet at large.

How did our early adopter put his technology to use? Tracking our progress with GPS. Once I realized what was going on, I stopped pretending I wasn’t looking. He forfeited that courtesy with his ridiculous misuse of power.

A crude form of tracking — big ass windows — had already been installed on this particular vessel. To be fair, he was in an aisle seat.

And when we finally made it to Port Authority, a trip that seemed infinitely longer as a rightward-moving pocket of pixels on a twelve-inch screen, I had to push past him to start the non-commuting portion of the Wednesday. Almost like he didn’t realize our journey had been completed. Rather odd, as he was the only passenger using military technology to gain confirmation of our arrival.

[Originally posted March 15, 2006.]

In the spirit of the Games of the 20th Winter Olympiad, I just accomplished my greatest feat in recent memory.

While preparing the driveway for tomorrow’s commute, I realized why, hours earlier, DirecTV had called it quits. No longer did our dish enjoy a clear view of the southern sky. Instead, it was covered by twenty inches of entertainment-suppressing snow.

Despite spending hundreds on a ladder last year, I had little confidence in myself, in the snow, to fix this problem without breaking my hip. With a yard of accumulation at my disposal, I channeled Peyton Manning and started chucking iceballs at our covered dish.

My first shot sailed 10 yards over the target. In true Manning form, I blamed my neighbor. But then I composed myself. Packed the next ball a little tighter. Took off my gloves. And I knew my second shot was a touchdown the moment it left my ice-cold hand.

This great success was shared with a half-dozen fellow shovelers. Without knowing my DirecTV service had been interrupted, I’m not sure what they were thinking.

I went inside and turned on the cross-country skiing time-trials. And after three minutes, I realized my feat was more fun to watch, and restoring DirecTV service was not that big a deal.

[Originally posted February 12, 2006.]

Ideally, I ride out the ride home without anyone beside me. Less-than-ideally, I’m joined by a silent seatmate. Then there’s the third option.

That third option was exercised last night. I shared my commute with a devout conversationalist.

Before we’d even left Port Authority, he’d already shaken my hand. A strange, two-handed shake our seating arrangement should have deemed both socially inappropriate and physically impossible. I learned his wife’s name. Her employer. Their internet service provider. It was all happening so fast and furiously.

His frustratingly ambiguous intentions left me baffled. Was he trying to sell me something? An upstart religion, perhaps. Or cutlery.

Halfway through the Lincoln Tunnel, my new best friend whipped out his wallet and produced a business card. He bestowed it on me, slowly extending the rectangular paper like a priest with the Body of Christ.

To a veteran commuter like myself (20 months of dedicated service), this was completely out of line. The commuting equivalent of telling a blind date you love her over appetizers, then removing her bra with your teeth. We’re all strangers. The unwritten rule says it should stay that way. You can be polite, even chatty. But I don’t need your work cell, and you’re not getting my fax number.

The Conversationalist is a Senior Analyst, I learned, a title as mysterious as the motive behind his uninspired ramblings. As I studied his company’s logo, I decided this wouldn’t be an exchange. He was the kind of guy who’d call me hours later to see if I got home OK. Someone who’d save me a seat and bring me strange food.

I ran out the clock on the night’s journey, offering lots of nods and a healthy dose of forced laughter. I didn’t see my new best friend today.

Maybe we don’t have to move.

[Originally posted February 7, 2006.]