A Good Start

This is how I would like to start every morning: trying to use the sink that's full of my roommate's dirty dishes(from a Monday night party) and accidentally splashing water so it looks like I pissed myself, followed by delayed trains, and then finally getting to work to find someone else has logged into your machine and locked it.

Fun.

Late Arrival

Arriving in New York late last night, I noticed how long the tunnel from the Port Authority to the seven train is. Completely devoid of people, the lines of the floor tiles stretch out towards infinity, scaling the people at the far end into specks. The next morning, throngs of commuters will crowd around on all sides, making the tunnel just more walking on the way to work. Late at night, though, it can breathe.

The cackle of an annoyingly loud woman is more grating when you've been stuck in a Greyhound bus for four hours. Especially when you had to tell the guy next you, hey dude, I'm sure you've got a nice ass, but I still don't want half of it in my seat. The cavities that form in your head from lack of sleep fill up with her banal, stupid laughter. People shouldn't be this happy right before Monday.

Everything seems amplified, but in a bad way. An old woman singing for meal money on a mostly empty train is the most depressing thing in the world at two in the morning.

The one exception seems to be borderline women, who become more - not less - fuckable.

I need some sleep.

The Things You See On The Subway

Far be it from me to criticize the work of others -- especially work I haven't even read -- but I find this hilarious:



"Flip" Flippen? How can I take anything the man writes seriously? I find hard to believe that a man whose first name is "Flip" -- a sitcom wacky neighbor name if I've ever heard one -- has anything pertinent to say on what's holding me back. If I wanted advice on how to handle dating problems or my arch-nemesis down the hall, then I'll call Flip.

OK, I'm done being an asshole. Maybe his book makes some important points. Next time I'm at a Borders, I'll flip through it a bit.

Limp Lizards

I love a good insult. It's not often you find that in advertising, at least since the Cola Wars(the Apple Switch ads being the exception). This, however, is hilarious:


An ad from one of Geico's rival insurance agencies in New York, taking aim at that annoying, inexplicably British gecko. A literal shot below the belt(the flaccid tail is priceless).

Speaking of lizards in New York, my girlfriend and I saw Primeval over the weekend.

All I can say about this movie is, at some point, the following phone call must have taken place:

A disheveled man, pockets inside out, pay phone receiver between his shoulder and ear as he ruffles through his blazer, makes a call from a deserted city street

PRODUCER: Hello? Fuck, Mike! For the love of God tell them you'll accept the charges! Yes, yes this is Mitch! Your producer Mitch! Look, we've....we've got sort of a problem with Primeval...well, um....what do you think about having a subplot about a man eating crocodile? Oh, then I guess you wouldn't want the entire plot to be that either...

pulls phone away with a wince(manic shouting coming from the receiver), slowly returns it to his ear

PRODUCER: OK Mike, here's the thing...I went drinking last night, I met some guy who used to do animation for Beast Wars, we had some shots, one thing lead to another, and I gave him over three quarters of our budget to animate a fucking crocodile...well I don't know what we are going to do with all the civil war footage we shot! Look, all isn't lost, this thing's based on a real crocodile that's killed over three hundred people over there....What's that? Hmm, three hundred thousand? Really? That's a hell of a civil war...guess that's why we were making the movie! Hahaha...ummm...yes I know this isn't funny....

poorly lit city bus drives by, drowning out the conversation for a few seconds

PRODUCER: I SAID YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT JENNIFER CONNELLY OR FUCKING DEREK LUKE ANYMORE! What? I'm shouting because you couldn't hear me! What? Yes, they are both off the project! Well, why do you think? I don't know, some movie about diamonds with Leo and the black guy from Gladiator...something with Tim Robbins...yes because of the croc....well he worked on fucking Beast Wars Mike, how do you think it fucking looks? Yeah....yeah....well also...I might have drunk dialed Jennifer last night...look what does it matter what I said? We can't afford any of them anyway anymore with all the croc money gone...something nasty about that albino husband of hers...not a real albino? You sure? Wow...well, don't worry, I have already have some replacements lined up...

poorly lit city bus drives by, drowning out the conversation for a few seconds

PRODUCER:...yes Mike, Orlando fucking Jones. Well I don't know what he's been doing since the Seven Up commercials, but he was pretty damn funny in them, wasn't he? What? He was in the same bar. Yeah, what are the chances....oh, for Tim I got that guy from Prison Break...yeah I know it's a good show...no not that one, the dumb one....the one who needs to be fucking broken out of prison...yes, I'll tell him to keep his shirt buttoned...no that's not a fucking promise...look, I've got to go, I'm not even sure where the hell I am...oh real mature Mike...yeah...yeah...see you tomorrow.

Available At Metro Center

My girlfriend has a brand new kind of Metro card. I call it the "Hi, I'm Pretty!" card.

You see, when my girlfriend arrived from New York last Wednesday she bought a seven day pass at the Union Station Metro stop(cost: $32). It stopped working the next day. While I stood holding the things she needed for the day at my parents, my girlfriend asked the station manager at Greenbelt why her pass stopped working. Turns out, the station manager explained, that the pass was de-magnetized. Probably by a cellphone, she said. No problem, the station manager just circled the date on the card with her pen and told my girlfriend to just tell every station manager what had happened. For the next seven days.

So up until yesterday, my girlfriend has had to show every station manager her metro card, complete with pen-circled date and say "Hi...my card was de-magnetized." And it worked. No one questioned it. Apparently, circling things with a blue pen is some kind of secret station manager code.

Of course, when the station manager was a man my girlfriend could have said anything. In fact, I'm sure everything she said was translated through that little booth's intercom and came out as "Hi, I'm pretty! Let me through!".

Every male station manager flirted with her, unaware I was waiting for her on the other side of the gate. One particularly adventurous Columbia Heights manager asked her, on Christmas Eve, if she was his present. What could he do to make her his present? I didn't hear any of this at the time.

If I was smart, I would have stayed with her instead of going through the gate first every time, sparing her the ordeal. I'm not that smart, though. Plus, it was somewhat enjoyable to see the dismayed looks on the station manager's faces when she took my hand as we exited the station.

One manager did see me first, however, and asked my girlfriend if I was a) her best friend, b) her brother(I'm white, she's black, so he was assuming my girlfriend is mixed, which she isn't) or c) her half-brother. He simply didn't want to believe, my girlfriend said, that we were together. Such are Christmas hopes, and how easily they are dashed.

So, I'm sorry Metro Station managers, but she's taken. And yes, she is taken by the whitest looking white man on earth.

You Tried, Cockblocking Greenline

Boy, did you ever try Greenline. I applaud your efforts to keep me from having sex Saturday night.

If there is anything Casino Royale should have been good for, it's being the kind of movie to get men and women in the mood. Scary movies are good for that too, but Bond movies have exotic locales and eye candy for every sex and taste(The movie was very good even if you don't count it's potential to facilitate fucking, incidentally).

Exiting the Regal theater that night, all seemed to be going well. Kisses before, during, and after the movie. Light touches, heavy touches, and just the right amount of anticipation. Then you stepped in.

The wait at the Chinatown stop for a train going back to Columbia Heights was 17 minutes due to track work. A long time to wait. Now, I'm not saying I can't keep anticipation building for seventeen plus minutes - I'm not a teenager anymore - but this was compounded by the fact that we had seen a late show, and some dreaded yawns were slowly escaping both of our mouths. Plus, she hates waiting any longer than eight minutes for a train(that's the New Yorker in her). Fatigue and irritation, twin mood killers staring me right in the face.

I persevered though. Tender embraces on a stone Metro bench; kisses on the forehead. Chemistry that comes from great physical and mental compatibility is a powerful ally. You weren't finished, though, where you? You played your strongest card, Greenline.

Vomit.

I can play around a lot of things to preserve the mood, but a drunk man puking in the phone booth - right in front of us - is not one of them. There isn't much romantic about vomit, or slurred words of apology to no one in particular. You weren't finished with that, though, were you Greenline?

A bar playa sat his very drunk conquest right next to us, and her odor finished off any thoughts we had other than for the love of God please let the next train be ours, before we start running down the tunnel just to escape the smell of puke and bile!

Finally, our salvation arrived, and I'll bet you thought your work was done, didn't you Greenline? I'll grant you, sex was the last thing on either of our minds as we finally exited Columbia Heights and made the cold walk back to my apartment. But that's what John Legend, Al Green, Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye are for. That's what a warm bed and a back massage are for. You failed that night, Greenline, and I succeeded.

The next morning too.