Morning Commute

What the fuck is going on this morning??? Did every stock-slinging asshole on Wall Street and every fucking secretary decide to come in early today? Was there a run on mints and small chocolates that all these bitches need to replenish their supply before the bossman comes in? Is that what’s going on here? I’m pretty sure when you wear sneakers and jeans to your place of business in the Wall Street area that you don’t need to fucking be on a bus at 7:20, a.m. taking up space and breathing my precious oxygen!
I wake up at 6:45 so I can beat everyone downtown…and because I like being in my office early; I’m masochistic like that! But seriously, couldn’t some of these assholes eat a second piece of toast or play with Agnes and Reed a little while longer? Couldn’t they grab a later bus? I don’t really want to sit next to some fucker who has an aversion to creating space between strangers. Hey, see that next to you? That’s empty space, why don’t you sit in it so you can stop rubbing your fucking knee against my leg…I didn’t realise (sic.) we were filming an episode of “Gays on a Bus,” get the fuck away from me.
What the hell is that smell? It smells like old lady? Did granny over there remember to take the mothballs out of her giant underpants? Has she washed those hospital issue stockings, ones whiter than a Mormon in Vancouver, since the Truman administration? Yeah, didn’t think so.
Oh Jesus, you know there’s a problem when you’re secretly wishing your bus will plow into the East River; or worse wishing you were already in your office…

Coldplay Sucks

Does no one else see that Coldplay fucking sucks? Honestly, am I the only person who sees this? Am I the only person who heard “Clocks” the first time it was played on the radio and said, “oh wow, new U2…sounds pretty good.” How could you not listen to Coldplay and think they sound exactly like a U2 cover band? And Jesus, a bad one at that. Chris Robinson is on my list of people who deserve a serious beating (this is an actual list; or at least it will be, I write pretty fast. I’m also going to start compiling a list of people who deserve to step on a rusty nail; he could probably go on that one too). I just don’t understand it. I don’t see how any self-respecting fan of U2 could also be a fan of Coldplay. It’s like telling people you like Adam Sandler and Jimmy Fallon…oh really? What the fuck’s the difference? One guy came first, the second guy came along and tried to capitalize on pretty much the same exact thing. Why couldn’t Fallon stop laughing at his own jokes and playing the guitar, it was only half-funny when Sandler did it. I can’t even put it into words, I am completely and utterly unable to express how much they suck. In the words of Homer Simpson, Coldplay is the, “suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked!”

Trenton

I arrived in Trenton, New Jersey at approximately 8:15, p.m. EDT. Now, even though I've grown up, and spent my entire adult life in New York, I've never been to Trenton...at least, not that I know of. It's entirely possible that when I was younger I erased the entire awful experience from my memory...but I doubt it.
So I step off the train; my ride, regrettably late; and begin to soak in the entire scene. The first thing I notice is what appears to be a great deal of people who all seem to be out of place. There appears to be family from one of the "I don't know states" Idaho, Indiana, Iowa...or I don't give a damn, wandering around while the son asks plaintive questions about how often and how late the trains run while the daughters look slightly too long at anyone with a skin pigment just a little darker than their Midwestern Sun-Aversion tans.
Once outside, I begin to cast about for what to do. My lady friend is going to be late in picking me up, which in most cases might have upset me a bit but under these unique circumstances, I'd rather soak in the complete and utter weirdness that is Trenton. I'd rather watch the father walk around with his (what looks to be) 14 year old daughter in pants tight enough to make R Kelly think twice, while he talks about, "missing the 7:15," while I think to myself, "dude, your daughter looks like a reject from Laguna Beach and you could possibly be her pimp and you're talking about missing a train that left this station an hour before I got here...what the fuck?"
I'm happy standing outside, smoking a cigarette, sending the rare text message while a possible crackhead/homeless man/junkie/lost Princeton student shuffles down this alley way (like the one outside Yankee Stadium that leads to parking, except much less sketchy and without those feelings of I might get raped by a one eyed man with a monkey and a three legged-dog) and this girl, again completely out of place, not asking, but telling me she's going to stand next to me until he recesses into the folds of the darkness.
I'm happy sitting inside, talking about the shitty day I've had with a friend of mine while a girl with a skirt no bigger than a Skittles wrapper asks a New Jersey Transit Police Officer a seemingly obvious question about the Departure Screen.
I'm especially happy when my call is interrupted and I'm saved from this anachronistic hell, this depressed dungeon of depravity, this just absolutely awful town or city or whatever it wants to be depressing the hell out of me.

Party...?

So I went to this party the other night. I mean, I guess you could call it a party, although it was more like a Bohemian, splatter painting, hash-munching, luke-warm wine swilling, asexual, sketchfest. Seriously I would’ve been more comfortable walking into a room with Roman Polanski, Michael Jackson and Jerry Lee Lewis and a naked 14 year old boy tied face down on the floor …it was that fucked up.
Can’t quite put my finger on it; maybe it was the guy who answered the door wearing a leather vest and a dog collar, maybe it was the bed in the middle of the living room with a huge bedroom covered floor-to-ceiling in paint so thick the whole room was probably several cubic feet smaller or maybe it was that none of the men seemed remotely fazed I was in the company of a lady.
I’ll tell you this much, that’s the last time I take a sip from the bottle marked “Drink Me.”

Men’s Bathroom Etiquette

There are several unwritten rules of the men’s room that unfortunately must now be put in print due to the complete disregard some members have for the following Rules…

When entering an empty bathroom, it is NOT okay to enter the middle stall thus forcing any subsequent occupant to sit next to you sans buffer or worse, leave in search of another bathroom.

When entering a bathroom where the bookend stalls are both occupied, it is NOT okay to take the unoccupied middle stall, unless in moments of extreme duress.*

Only men on equal footing should carry on a conversation, i.e. when both are sitting or both standing.
Note: Conversation while both sitting should still be kept to a minimum.

This should go without saying but…when standing next to someone at a urinal the only acceptable place to look is STRAIGHT AHEAD. Closing one’s eyes is considered weird, lest the other occupant believe you to be thinking things you shouldn’t be…

It is NOT okay to join a conversation already underway unless directly invited as such by one of the participants.

When entering a bathroom, if you notice familiar shoes (which is weird enough as it is), it is NOT okay to start a conversation with the stall occupant.

If you are one of those nasty motherfuckers who doesn’t wash his hands upon exiting a bathroom, at least pretend to due so; lest people tell others that you are one of those nasty motherfuckers who doesn’t wash his hands upon exiting a bathroom.

For the love of God, know when to courtesy flush.

* In this case, “extreme” shall mean the possibility of liquid or a reenactment of the Jeff Bridges bathroom scene from Dumb & Dumber.

Elevator Assholes

Hey, Jerk-off, guess what I don’t want to hear while I’m coming back to the office with my Blueberry smoothie early in the morning? Blink 182 blaring out of your head phones. You’re not on the subway anymore, asshole, turn the fucking volume down. I don’t care how cool you think you are because you’re listening to some previously unreleased Biggie or Phish from Burning Man ’97. Turn that fucking shit down!

Joshua Tree II

So that night my buddy Famous and I went to Joshua Tree was pretty interesting. We started up at some bar in the 90’s, which needless to say is, a little out of my comfort zone. Don’t get me wrong, I know that above 86th isn’t exactly Compton and from what I’ve heard, Compton isn’t even like “Compton” anymore. Nonetheless, we started up there where I watched the Yankees shit the bed and drank really sweet Cape Codders...because I paid $20 bucks for three hours of open bar and dammit I’m going to get my fill of Cape Codders. That and I think I would’ve done anything the shot girl there told me to do.
By the time we got to Joshua Tree it was going to 12, or maybe 1, and the bar was half full…certainly not “full of girls waiting to be romanced” as he’d promised. Although, I know what I’m getting myself into every time I go there. Usually I meet some girl who claims to be 19 and go to FIT, when in reality she’s probably 17 and from Jersey.
So we’re in there buying drinks when I notice these two girls across the bar giving us the once over…and then some. I give Famous a nudge and we decide to walk over, and things are looking like they just picked up a little bit. Once over at their table however, things took a serious turn for the worse.
These girls were British. Not Sienna Miller, British either. These two slags were “shine ya shoes Guvna?” British. Teeth at angles that teeth should never be at, British. Drink you under the table and still try to take you home, British. I swear, I’ve had an easier time understanding a Chinaman on Canal Street trying to peddle me a bag of Oranges than I did understanding those two girls.
It’s not important whether I tried to tough it out and talk to them; which I did. Or whether I went home with either of them; which I didn’t. What is important is that the UK needs to import more girls who look like Sienna Miller and less girls who look suspiciously like they’d be content with a salt lick and the occasional Apple.