Open Letter To My Fellow Commuter

To the man on the crowded train taking up the seat next to him with his laptop. Your passive agressive attempt to avoid close contact with another human failed miserably today, didn't it? I'm not going to enable you, Mister. I think you need help, and so you are a target for me whenever I board a crowded train.

I don't know if you think other people are dirty, or smelly, or if you're just so self impotant that you think you deserve two seats, but I'm here to help you work it out.

You're right about other people you know. My breath often stinks of coffee in the morning and although I showered this morning and am wearing newly laundered clothing, my car is full of dust and bacteria and my wife is just getting over a debilitating stomach virus that I am probably carrying around. Oh, and I cleaned snot off of my 2 year old's face just this morning. She's got a bad cold as well. Can't recall if I washed my hands before I got on the train.

I'm not angry at you, brother. And I'm ready to help you get over this selfish acting out. I'm always going to sit next to you if I see you taking up that extra seat on the two seat side of the aisle when every other soul is sitting next to someone. You're my boy! Whattup dude! Oops, sorry if I spit on you.

And to the person who sits alone in the middle seat of the three seaters: you frighten me a little. I'm still working up the guts to face that level of self centered dysfunction. But don't worry, I'll come around. People like you shouldn't be left to themselves.

Pale, Bald Freaks

My apologies to any of my fair skinned and shiny bald readers. But while walking by the ol' TV yesterday I noticed what a striking resemblance James Carville and Billy Corgan share. I've always talked about buzzing all my hair off, but the shiny clean shaven look only really works for darker skinned fellas. A Stipelike stubble is neccessary to create a bit of contrast up there. Once a pale man shaves his head completely clean, he looks like a clone of every other guy, and frankly it freaks me out a little.



Honestly, I think Gollum is the only one who's really pulling it off. It's that little bit of hair that's working for him.

I'll Let You Be In My Dream If I Can Be In Yours

Wow. I was gonna write something about how much pale, totally bald white guys freak me out, but I just watched the first half of Scorcese's Bob Dylan documentary, "No Direction Home" and I'm just feeling the love. Obviously I didn't grow up in the Sixties (unless you consider "growing up" learning to walk) and as far as my history of music listening goes, I didn't really discover Dylan until the early 90's, but when I did, he hit me hard. Listening to the likes of Allen Ginsburg, Pete Seger, Joan Baez gush about him tonight, and hearing him talk so frankly about himself was a rush. Watching his story being told by one of America's premier storytellers didn't suck either.

We all get to read about great art and great artists. Picasso, Monet, Bach, Mozart, Shakespeare, Whitman all seem so far away. What a treat to be able to listen to the man who turned pop music on it's ear tell his own story. Sure, if he didn't do it, someone else would have come along and made Rock n' Roll a fertile ground for something other than singing about lost love and partying, but it was him, and there he was tonight in a very rare, candid interview in my own living room. Thank you Bob, and Martin. I can't wait for tomorrow night, when he goes electric and really starts fucking with everyone.

Jim W: The Most Approachable Man in the Metropolitan Area

That's right. For some reason, my good looks and my snappy wardrobe make me the go to guy for lost tourists, novice truck drivers, and other desperate folks in need of directions.

I must get a request for directions a couple of times a week, both in Manhattan and Westchester. Something about me clearly states, "This handsome man with the beard and glasses looks like he knows where he is." Is it the outdated hoops in my left earlobe? My trusty, well worn Birkenstocks? The lovely sheen of my light olive complexion? Who knows. Just last week, a Hispanic truck driver with New Jersey plates slowed down at a green light in a busy midtown intersection and chose me from the 15 people waiting to cross the street to ask, in broken English, which way Madison Avenue was. And yesterday, a young mother approached me at the playground (where I was busily trying to keep my two year old Eva from plummeting six feet into the "protective" woodchips beneath the 5-12 year old playset) to ask where Saxon Woods Golf Course was. I am happy to report that the trucker got perfect directions from me, but sadly the mommy got a bungled mess that, if made into a map, would resemble what happens when you close your eyes and randomly turn the dials of an Etch a Scetch™.

This brings up an interesting point, which makes my approachability even more puzzling. Unless it involves a simple finger pointing gesture (Madison Avenue was just one block east), I'm really piss poor at giving directions, and receiveing them as well. Also, the presence of my earbuds does nothing to deter the confused from my path. Instead of choosing someone with open ears, they walk right up to me, and begin speaking with no regard to the fact that I might not be able to hear them. Of course they then have to repeat themselves while I tune out the music or Howard Stern blasting into my ears at a decibel level strong enough to block out the screetchiest bus brakes. What's up with that? Perhaps they think I'm wearing some kind of clunky hearing aid.

Sir Paul McCartney once wrote "In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make." I only hope it applies to giving directions as well.

TBA: The Jimmyhead

Please excuse the temporary Bill the Cat picture in my profile. After several attempts to compress Jason Ubaldi's famous rendering of the Jimmyhead, I finally gave up and just posted Bill, who is almost as cute and huggable as I am, if not quite as dashing. Fear not, fans, the Jimmyhead is on the way.