Little White Lie

I lied to my 5 year old this morning. She asked for some milk with her frosted flakes and I told her we were all out. I felt that we really didn't have enough to make a "complete breakfast" of her dry cereal. So I held out on my kindergartener.

Oh, there was about a quarter cup of leftover milk that I sparingly saved last night. She had asked to use it to dunk her cookie in, and I warned her that there would not be enough left for her cereal this morning, but she insisted. Of course instead of finishing it, she left most of it to be added to the 2 pints of milk that I usually toss down the sink every week. Thinking myself rather crafty, I extracted the tiny bits of cookie with a perforated toddler spoon, wrapped that cup tightly in cling plastic and set it in the fridge to be used in the morning.

My five year old refused breakfast at first and only later asked me for the frosted flakes with milk. Had I combined the cookie milk with the annoyingly small amount I had left barely covering the bottom of the gallon milk jug, it probably would have been enough for her cereal. But to be honest, I considered the cookie milk mine after she abandoned it on the kitchen table last night. Finder's keeper's. I'm man enough to admit that I rescued that milk for the sole purpose of cutting my morning coffee and never gave my poor girl a second thought. I used it before she ever got a chance to ask for it this morning. That left the sheer layer of milk in the gallon jug which I lied about, and used for my second cup. More milk would arrive later.

The milk's really just a vehicle for the sugar frosting anyway. It's secondary to her cereal experience. But I absolutely hate black coffee. My need simply superceded hers. Without my coffee I cannot get within spitting distance of my children's energy level and successfully care for them on a rainy weekend morning. So with love in my heart, I sipped my mug of lies while my girls played with play dough on the kitchen table, snacking on dry frosted flakes.

Denim, Leather and Drugs

My wife threw out her back yesterday. Her doctor called in a prescription to our local pharmacy. Sitting in the shadow of a big, shiny, red CVS Pharmacy, this is the pharmacy that my parents used when I was growing up. Although it's changed hands a few times, we've continued to frequent it in defiance of the red monolith next door. As a result, my face has been known there for years. Ye Olde Pharmacy recently changed hands again, and although some of the clerks seem to have stayed on, there is a new couple of chemists behind the counter. They don't know my grubby ass.

Apparently the doctor's office got my wife's birth date incorrect. The druggist came from behind the counter to give me a look see. I was wearing my excellently faded jeans(frayed perfectly behind the ankles), sneakers, white t-shirt and trusty, well worn leather jacket with torn lining.

(Yeah, I looked pretty tough, punk.)

My wife's prescription must have been some good stuff, because the pharmacist seemed very suspicious. She looked me in the eye and asked "What is the date of birth?" Pausing to think just a bit too long, I answered correctly, and although she still didn't seem completely convinced, she explained that the script had the wrong birthdate on it and went back to her perch.

Now I worked in a pharmacy when I was in high school, and I can remember a certain customer who also favored well worn denim and leather jackets. His presence in the store inevitably lead to an intense, hushed conversation with the nebbish pharmacist who would come out from behind his counter to tell Denim and Leather that he was out of refills. The interaction would usually end with D&L departing, defeated and shaky, to score himself a fresh prescription. He'd usually come back later that month to proudly slap a new one on the counter and give nebbish pharmacist a victorious smile.

So when my new chemist came out from behind her counter to check me out, I knew what time it was. She wanted to make sure I wasn't some grubby, denim and leather clad pill popper with a misinformed accomplice, calling in a fake order for pain meds.

Looking at the "May Cause Drowsiness" label on the amber vial, I realized that my wife's physical discomfort would soon be relieved, but her anguish over my sometimes sketchy appearance would not.

About a Train

A few weeks ago, a friend related a story to me about a devastating breakup. Silly girl, I thought to myself. Allowing yourself to get all caught up in trying to have a meaningful relationship. I crassly told her not to get all involved with her "bitches".

Well, I'm eating my words now, because I'm smitten. That's right, I'm in love with the 8:55 Harlem Line Express to Grand Central. Sure, she's got a long name, but that's just a detail. This one really gets me. I met her in White Plains earlier this month. She's new, just added to this quarter's timetable, and man is she hot.

She usually shows up just a little early, and she's always got time and plenty of free seats for me. Not like that bitchy 9:00 express, so repressed and crowded, like some confused Catholic hooker.

8:55 really understands me. I'm a family guy. She knows that. "But I've gotta drop my daughter off at school at exactly 8:40!", I say. "Don't worry honey, you'll make it,"she coos reassuringly. "Don't forget your coffee."
"I've got a meeting at 10am", I stammer. "Just relax. . .listen to Howard and enjoy the ride." My kinda train.

And she doesn't mind if I take a call from my wife while we're together.

Approachabilility Log - 10.07.05

12:45pm.
During the long wait for my meatball parmesan sub today, a young lady approached me with a strange question.

"This is gonna seem like a really wierd question," she said, "But I have to ask you."
"Okay", I replied, "I'm ready."
"Do you know what a catheter is?" She asked with an embarassed smile.
Suprised by this bold coed, I turned to the friend who was waiting patiently with me who said,"You want to take this one?"

I gave the quick explanation of the gruesome task that I understand as the job of the catheter. She was still a little confused and explained that she had just heard a convict talking about the things he had brought into prison hidden in his most private of areas. Some drugs, a razor blade, and apparently a catheter.

Oh my. I could see why she was so confused. What would one want with a catheter in prison? Do they not allow straws in prison? Are straw lovers sneaking catheters into jail so that they can continue to enjoy sipping beverages while behind bars? What else would you do with a catheter in prison. The possibilities are a little disturbing.

As she walked away from this strange interaction I called "Have a good lunch!" with a sarcastic grin. That got a laugh.

Just another day in the life of Jim W: The Most Approachable Man in the Metropolitan Area

I don't trust my government anymore.

Tonight a terrorist threat to the NYC Subway system was announced. Also, "President" Bush spoke about the continued threat of terrorism in Iraq and invoked 9/11 once again. About and hour after my initial, alarmed reaction to the threat (and yes, hearing the FBI talk about a very serious threat gets my heart jumping)I start thinking about the events of the past month and how the leaders of the Federal Government are having a hard time with the law. Karl Rove's being summoned to court to talk about leaking. Bill Frist is in trouble over insider trading. Tom Delay has his ass to the coals over misuse of corporate funds. And of course, "President" Bush is busy transparently appointing his friends to the highest offices he has available.

I gotta be honest, I'm thinking there's nothing like the threat of a terrorist attack to take the pressure off the real issues. The story took up at least half of the news broadcast I watched tonight on CNN. Not much about the Republicans and thier problems. I don't want to distrust my government, but I'm feeling a strong sense of being manipulated tonight.

Approachability Log - 10.04.05

2:43pm
Three teenage girls sprinting to catch the 2:48 train to points north choose me, after only seeing me from behind, to ask if the train stops at Mt. Kisco. I don't know the answer, but do offer "You don't need to run, you've got 5 minutes." They continue running down the ramp, wiser for our time spent together.

Jim Weiner: The Most Approachable Man in the Metropolitan Area

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.