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During college, I coached a kindergarten/first-grade soccer team in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I had no relevant experience with kids or soccer, which was readily apparent both on and off the field. Our crack staff of volunteer coaches would stumble to 8:50 Saturday morning games. If we weren’t late and somebody brought oranges for halftime, our expectations were exceeded.

Let me hold back my Rainbow Soccer anecdotes for another time, and instead show two quick YouTube clips. First, the most impressive goal I’ve ever seen. If our kids could have perfected this play, all our coaching shortfalls would be moot.

And second, the least impressive. Just because I love gaffes and symmetry.

Twenty-five years ago, Ellen and I showed far more Halloween spirit than we will tomorrow. We might try to stuff Bailey in that Big Bird costume and see what happens.

Inspired by Clark Kent and Tina Fey, I picked up a new pair of glasses yesterday. My previous pair made me a walking audition for What Not To Wear.

Our family portrait is finally on display in our newly painted dining room. And if you happen to be wandering around Montclair, it’s also appreciating in the photographer’s studio on Bloomfield Avenue. Glad we have an original.

This is part two of a two-part recap of a recent ride home. You can read Part I here, but that is not required.

When we taxied from our gate to the Lincoln Tunnel, it was considered great progress. “What great progress,” I remember thinking. Still, it was a long way home. We’d already logged an hour and still had an hour to go.

Our bodies are conditioned by the commute. The average journey takes 42 minutes; I can do 42 minutes in my sleep (and sometimes do). But the second the trip can be measured in hours, my body begins to break down. Subtle things, like a sore lower left sacroiliac joint (“back” for the layman) and the need to reposition my legs. Though I’m working without a protractor, I’d say my legs were locked at an acute eighty-seven degrees for the entire first hour. My legs needed a change.

So I stretched out, hitting 150 degrees and feeling fantastic. I should explain the seating arrangements, lest anyone liken my commute to a British Airways commercial. Mine was the only seat allowing such plentiful legroom. The back row goes five across, with me the keystone. The roominess aside, this is the least desirable seat on the bus, and most unsafe. Any accident would create a Jason-shaped hole in the windshield twenty-one rows ahead. And they really pack you in.* When my cellphone vibrated in my pocket, the Cheetos-gobbling man raced his nasty hand toward his tight-fitting pants. The confusion was inexplicable, as he was talking on his own cell phone at the time.** If elbow room was a widely accepted measurement, I’d tell you mine was negative.

Just as I got comfortable, so did the man to my front-right. As I said, our bodies can’t handle commuting overtime, and he was a fellow regular. For him, getting comfortable meant relocating his hefty briefcase from his lap to the aisle. Except the aisle had just been claimed by my outstretched legs. What we had here was a standoff. Something had to give.

Imagine that Conan O’Brien had quit Saturday Night Live and gone to law school, not aged particularly well, dyed his hair black and embraced public transportation. That’s whose eyes mine were trained on. No words were said; none were needed. This was akin to a staring contest, the kind a five-year-old has with her middle-school babysitter. In my mind, legs trumping briefcase is as universally accepted as paper trumping rock. No jury in the world would see it his way, my lack of legal training notwithstanding.

After a few minutes (or more likely 10-15 seconds), he gave up, stuffing the briefcase under his seat. We both displayed a seasoned ambivalence. Mine helped me win a staring contest. His must kill him in court.

And eventually I made it home. As I gathered my belongings, the woman beside me said a few haunting words. The moment I processed them, I knew they’d end up ending this post.
“You think this is bad? I’ve been doing this since 1971.”

*What’s with the footnotes? During this commute, I was trying to read “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” a citation-riddled essay by David Foster Wallace. Printed out, it was 34 pages with 33 footnotes at the end. Trying to flip ahead in my limited space proved first frustrating, then impossible. I thought adding footnotes here would be fun. Plus this story could use the help.

**Yes, there is a strict NO CELL PHONE policy, a policy I champion. But the general rule during extenuating circumstances is to ignore this specific one.

***This has nothing to do with this story, but I’ll tell you while you’re here. A recent development in the morning commute is the presence of a chain gang.**** In 2004, after years of stolen car stereos and stalked female commuters, the county built a massive park-n-ride facility . Busing in the local felons strikes me strange. It’s like spending thousands of dollars for an exterminator to eradicate a fire ant problem, then going online to order an ant farm.

****That must not be the accepted term nowadays, as the gang is not chained.

This is Bailey under the weather, not at her combative best.

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Am I crazy to think the Mets will come back from 3-1 down in the bottom of the ninth, through a slight drizzle, with all the air sucked out of Shea by Molina’s HR?

Note: I am not a Mets fan.

Update (11:44pm): Yes.

While watching last week’s episode of The Nine on TiVo, I wowed Ellen with my obscure-celebrity-spotting ability. Here’s how it all went down:

Me: “Holy shit, Egan’s boss is Chip from Kate & Allie!”

Ellen: [no reaction]

Me: “Seriously, pause it.” [Using the handy Firefox IMDb search bar, I confirmed my suspicions in seconds.] “Look, it is Chip. And he was on Oz, too.” [We never watched that program.]

Ellen: [now going out of her way to not react] “You are the only person who noticed that.”

I take that as a compliment.

As mentioned in the last edition of Commuting Suicide, I don’t have many actual celebrity-spotting stories, which must be why Frederick Koehler gave me such a rush. The highlight came in 1982. On my third birthday, in the Peoria Airport, my dad saw Mickey Mantle and asked if he’d shake my hand. “I bet this boy wishes I was Mickey Mouse!” laughed The Mick, extending his paw.

Since then I’ve seen Dr. Ruth twice, once in the Museum of Natural History and once in Newark Airport. That same day in Newark Airport I also saw Orlando “El Duque” Hernandez and the parents of former Duke phenom Jason Williams (the one who changed his name to Jay and crashed his motorcycle, not the one who shot and killed both his limo driver and his dog). To force the trifecta, I may be elevating The Williams to a level of celebrity not yet attained.

Former MTV VJ Simon Rex and Marshall from How I Met Your Mother were at my 21st birthday party. I’m not sure either actually knew there was a 21st birthday party going on, and neither were there for me, but if Jason Williams’ parents are on this list, these two certainly belong.

My wife and I ran into Dick Vitale in 2005 at the Hyatt in Sarasota, Florida. I put my arm around him and thanked him for supporting Duke. At first, it seemed like he was going to stab me in the esophagus. But he loosened up and told me to stop by DickieV.com, where Duke was atop his preseason rankings.

I once saw dozens of people taking pictures of someone in Times Square. This someone had an umbrella on the sunniest day of the year, deflecting flashbulbs and piquing my curiosity. I pointed and asked a fellow onlooker. “That’s Oprah’s friend Gayle,” she said. This was way before the Oprah-Gayle-Oprah’s fans-Steadman love trapezoid. I still maintain the attention was not warranted.

Rachel Dratch and I have twice crossed paths.

And I used to walk by Nicholas Kristof of The New York Times at least once a week.

If any better stories come up, or if the kid who played Andy Keaton returns to network television, you’ll be the first to know.

UPDATE: During a DC weekend, my friend Josh and I saw CBS anchor Bob Schieffer and his bodyguard. Big news.

This week, Jim Fassel was fired from his perch as Ravens’ offensive coordinator. Sure, the Baltimore offense is a mess. And I think they’re better off with backup Kyle Boller, who was dominant in the last three games last season*. But I’m not here to pile on. Instead, let’s look back at the defining Jim Fassel moment — no, the defining moment in press conference history. November 22, 2000. The then-Giants coach set the tone for an improbable Super Bowl run and set the record for metaphor use.

This team is going to the playoffs. I’m raising the expectations. I’m raising the stakes. I love it. Maybe I should put more pressure on myself. The way I feel right now, I really don’t care.

I am raising the stakes right now. If this is a poker game, I am shoving my chips right in the middle of the table. I am raising the ante. Anybody who wants out can get out. This team is going to the playoffs. OK?

I want a new attitude around here. No worries. I told the players that I’m driving the train and all they have to do is listen and follow. I’m redefining the season. I’m responsible and no one else is. We’re in a horse race and we’re coming around the last corner. I want to get this team to the finish line. That’s my whole goal in life right now.

I’m having fun. I like it. Beautiful. This is a poker game here and I’m shoving my chips to the center of the table. I’m raising the stakes. That’s the game and anybody who wants in can play. But I’m upping the ante. I’m loving it.

*I think. Can’t muster the energy to fact-check right now.

I started working at Renegade Marketing in March. Out of my first brainstorm came a campaign for Panasonic Oxyride Batteries called Neuter Your Bunny. A not-so-subtle jab at the category leader’s spokesbunny. I came here wanting something different and was not disappointed.

The campaign, which included actual bunny neuterings, was quirky to say the least. It was covered by David Pogue of The New York Times, Brandweek, Adfreak, AdCritic, and Time Magazine.

And now it’s officially award-winning, from an unlikely source.

I don’t have any pictures of the three remote controls, taupe slip cover, or wooden “E” that Bailey destroyed on Saturday when left to her own devices. But here are three random pics for her true fans, who love her despite the recent Axl Rose (circa 1991) impression.

Today I spent over $2,000 without leaving the house. It wasn’t even that hard.

If not for LaDanian Tomlinson’s four fantasy touchdowns or the Giants big road win, this might be difficult to talk about.

Our chimney was diagnosed with the ventilation equivalent of acid-reflux disease. Symptoms included falling tiles and our heat not working. Instead of a simple purple pill, the prescription was an expensive chimney liner. Add in the cost of our plumber’s initial consultation, and that’s where the $2,000 comes in.

Which brings me to this: my company is hiring. Renegade Marketing. Good place to work, great people to work with. Lots of open positions, specifically in account management and media planning. We’re also seeking a good account planner. Employees get a cash bonus for recruiting new Renegade all-stars. So, if you’re great at what you do, but seek a new challenge and want to help defray my home heating costs, send me an email (jasonenglish1-at-gmail-dot-com).

Thursday’s commute was the second worst of my career. This post was getting as long as the ride itself, so I’ll break it up.

According to the official (posted) rules, there is no eating or drinking on the bus. But everybody does it. I myself have been known to smuggle aboard a bag of M&Ms or box of Swedish Fish. I once ate a Subway Meatball Marinara without incident. So when the bearded man seated beside me produced a bag of Cheetos, I didn’t consider turning him in. In fact, I smiled.

I smiled because his blaze orange salty snack jogged a specific memory. My friend Alison, then a student at Parsons in New York, once asked Janeane Garofalo if she’d rather eat Doritos and not brush her teeth or Cheetos and not wash her hands. Janeane opted for Cheetos, and later told this story on The Tonight Show.

I have no good celebrity stories of my own.

This recollection was again deposited in my memory bank, and my bearded seatmate kept chomping away. His eating had a pattern to it. A distinct order. After each Cheeto, he licked his fingers, coating them with saliva. We all could agree this wasn’t ideal. So he’d wipe his hands on the back of the seat before him, then in his dirty nest of a beard. This turned me off both Frito Lay products and excessive facial hair.

When he finished, a distinct orange film covered the seat. (Apparently the sucking wasn’t completely effective.) I’m sure it was also dying his beard, but I absolutely refused to look. Oh, and we’d been on the bus for 45 minutes and had yet to leave the station.

* * *
We knew what we were getting into when we climbed aboard. A bad Lincoln Tunnel accident prevented any forward progress, a traffic report the Port Authority PA repetitively made loud and clear. I was the 49th passenger; the bus had 49 seats. About an hour into our stationary adventure, when the bus first lurched backwards, passenger fifty was caught off-balance. He fell and was laughed at. People were tired and fussy and laughing at inappropriate times. It had been a long commute and we hadn’t even moved. We were on edge and just getting started.

[Continue to Part II, or browse the Commuting Suicide archives.]

This is a short story I wrote a few years ago. I’m posting it here because here is the logical home for short stories I wrote a few years ago. Let it be noted that I’m not very good at the whole dialogue thing. And I removed a reference to The Other Half, which would have been the point many of you stopped reading. If there’s any justice, one day this scene will find its way into a commercial for a savings account.

“The Ring”

As they approached the jewelry store, Craig asked, “How can you afford a decent ring?” Brad held up a Ziploc bag filled with his life savings: $231.27.

“The jeweler knows my deal,” said Brad.

“You can’t be seriously considering giving Molly what that bag of dirty bills will buy.”

“Molly doesn’t care how much…”

“They all care!”

“Who are you, Ann Landers?”

“I don’t want you making a cheap ass of yourself.”

“I appreciate the concern. But you don’t know Molly, OK?” But Brad wondered if Craig had a point.

The front door of Arkin Jewelry was locked. Craig rang the doorbell four times. Brad regretted letting him tag along. Mr. Arkin buzzed them in before disappearing into the back, and he didn’t seem pleased by the ringing.

As they scanned the cases, Brad noticed how few rings were in his price range. Two rings, side-by-side, seemingly identical, were priced at $199 and $3,999. “Why would anyone spend that much money when you can’t tell the difference between them?” Brad asked Craig.

“The girls don’t want to just show off the ring. They want to show off the price tag. Come on, Brad, nothing you can afford here is going to work. I know a guy in the Diamond District. He owes me a favor.”

“Craig, wait in the car. I can handle myself.”

Before Craig could respond, Mr. Arkin emerged from his office. He picked up the $199 ring. “I’m afraid this is the only ring I have in your price range. But it’s a good-looking stone. I think your girl will like it very much.”

The phone rang. “Hang on boys; I’ll be back in a second.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Craig, a crazy look in his eyes. Without consulting Brad, he switched the two similar-looking rings, so the slot labeled “$199” now contained the $3,999 ring. Brad was terrified – initially, he lunged forward to stop Craig, but then recoiled, not wanting to get caught fussing with the diamonds. Suddenly, a tiny part of him was thrilled by the prospect of the expensive ring. Before he could make another move, Mr. Arkin rushed back towards them.

“I just got the most wonderful news,” he shouted. “My daughter is pregnant! They’ve tried for years, and we had given up hope. But I’m going to be a grandfather!”

“Congratulations,” Brad muttered. He wanted so badly to explain what just happened, but held his tongue.

Still smiling, Mr. Arkin stared deep into Brad’s eyes. “I’ve always liked you and your family. And you have impeccable timing! See this?” he said, pointing at the $3,999 slot, now holding the $199 ring. “This is a beautiful piece. The cut is brilliant – a very clean stone. I’m crazy for doing this, but to celebrate being a grandfather, I’m giving you this diamond for the $199 price.”

“How’s the dog?” people often ask. The dog is fine.

Here are some recent action shots.