A suit on the train gave me a sheepish out of place look. I was late and shared the train with the suit, another suit with middle-aged small time lawyer guy beard, and a wheezing overwight black guy who had trouble keeping the beat with his walkman music, which I hear from the other end of the car.

The black guy kept tapping his spanking new construction boots off beat.

It was distracting.

I sat down and pulled out my book.

As I fumbled to figure where I had last left off, I noticed the suit was reading a pamphlet of some kind.

I took a closer look.

The cover of the pamhlet read by suit said something about Post-Operative Transexuals.

I found my place and started reading.


You probably heard this already 

I had a rabbit named MaryPat when I was a kid.

No. Not in the biblical sense.

I say I had the rabbit, but it spent its evenings with my sisters in their bedroom.

The rabbit name of MaryPat demonstrates a certain Irish lack of creativity (aside from Bono, the Edge, and those wierd-sounding Irish language names that are really just pulled from a book or plucked off a relative).

Everybody from the neighborhood stood on the sidewalk looking in through our fence and oohed and ahhed as MaryPat grazed comfortably in her improvised wire fence circle. After the day's grazing, MaryPat returned to her constantly cleaned constantly nasty cage for round the clock eating and defecation. Behind her she left circles of dried dead pee-upon grass where a proud lawn might have been. MaryPat might have been more aptly and creatively named Agent Orange, but that name was the wrong color.

We always tried to leave somebody on guard so nobody stole MaryPat.

We were concerned about the kids from the Junction who were known to ride six-on-a-bike into the neighborhood and two-bikes-a-piece on the return trip(I always marvelled at how they could've rode six on a bike and had seen three, but never four or more - perhaps it was an exagerration, cause I never seen one riding two).

There was some concern MaryPat could burrow under the fence, but she wasn't going anywhere by herself.

Too fat. Too lazy. Too content.

Then one day, when someone else was undoubtedly on MaryPat guard duty (perhaps this is my own John Knowles, A Separate Peace, denial -- A MaryPat Peace) as I played with my Luke Skywalker guy by the window secretly wishing the Han Solo had been available at the North Pole the prior Christmas season (Luke was gay), I witnessed BJ, the white Husky from down the block, running across the street dragging MaryPat's lifeless bloody carcass in his mouth.

The red blood's easy to see against the backdrop of a white dog and white rabbit. BJ, startled by an approaching car that had just turned screaming off Flatbush, dropped his mouthload and left MaryPat's remains to deal with the left tires of the tan Duster. BJ came back for a few more vicious headtosses with the rabbit corpse in his jaws. I wanted to kill that dog. He ruined my life for at least a day.

To a soul, my family members who had witnessed the incident, lied to me, saying MaryPat had escaped from her wire fence circle of plenty and BJ had tried to save her from the car.

It was years before I found out the real truth. MaryPat was a male rabbit.

I already knew BJ was really a bitch.


Nine hours of testimony and NOBODY asks about the haircut? Posted by Hello

Jihad guys 

Why do the Jihad guys go for the Archbishop of Iraq?

They shoulda grabbed Shanley and took his head.

wholesale buying studio-dweller food-dumpers strike again 

There was a giant double-bagged brown rope-handled shopping bag full of no less than eight huge shrink-wrapped packs of toretellini and some other giant packages that said mozzarella-something in the tiny foyer of my buildings first floor lobby all weekend.

When I say huge tortellini packs I mean at least 64 tortellini in each pack.

I did not want to get caught picking through the bag of jettisonned wholesale groceries, so I didn't catch the full name of the mozzarella thing, but I'm thinking the pancake fanatics decided to jettison their MidWest-processed Italian fare at some point during the Jets game. That, or the truck that usually delivers to the Olive Garden at Times Square made a wayward stop.


 Posted by Hello

 Posted by Hello

Today I had the pleasure of watching two greena and white colored teams lose after holding the lead for much of the game. The first team was the Manhattan College Jaspers. They lost to Jim Roland and Iona (basically, #44 Ed Jenkins), after Big Jim took off his suit jacket when his team was 15 do or so down. Next green and whit loss was the Jets. Now I know how the Sox fans used to feel after a righteous loss. Posted by Hello


While waiting in line at the 34th Street Post Office to post Christmas packages to Ireland (last time I send books abroad), I finally found out the meaning of the initials R.F. on the ceiling. A bored Postal Police Officer first gave me a xerox pamphlet about the history of the building, then refused to let me keep the copy and then after conferring with the pamphlet keeper at he end of the hall allowed me to keep it. I wonder where that is. Posted by Hello

nerd squad 

As I walked up the steps to the 4 platform I deliberately avoided the group of young homeboys walking in a tightly synchronized barbarian pillage chaos formation as they shouted with bravado about the fight that almost was and what they would coulda shoulda done.

They were just kids, but they were loud and I wanted some peace on the subway home.

So I squirmed through them and made my way to the back of the platform where they, surprisingly, were not waiting.

As the train rolled into the station, they drifted back - most people drift forward when the train approaches - and surrounded me. I had to resign myself to a noisy train ride back to Manhattan. I got myself out of the middle of their crowd and stood off in the corner by the conductor booth and the door to the next car. I was pleasantly surprised a few stops later when the mosse hadn't decided to walk through all the train cars as large groups of young males seem to like to do.

I been on many a B-41 morning school special, so I know what a loud public transit ride is like. I would suck it up.

I didn't have to. The entire squad moved off in slow, but stil tight chaos formation at 125th Street. I breathed a sigh of relief and got ready for a few stops of sleepy stand up commuting as I rolld down to Grand Central.

That was when the awkward squawk of nerd-dom reached my ears. I'd heard it once before and it is something I never wish to hear again.

It was the awkward nervous squawk of socially inept Bronx High School of Science nerds screaming about physics and calculating rates of acceleration. They were just as goofy, if less threatening and exponentially more annoying, as the homeboy teens that just exited en masse.

Perhaps they were pumped up because they had escaped a peer encounter without physical injury. Maybe they were just awkward geeks who were too genetically smart and introverted to exert volume control.

In any event, the result differed not from what was proffered by their overly extroverted, thugish and to all appearances stupid goon peers -- an unpleasant subway ride for me.

I watched the nerds in disbelief. It was like the before promos of some new Ultimate Makeover/Swan reality show.

These dorks were so smart they looked half-retarded.

I for one would rather ride a last car full of box-cutter toting Blood initiates than fall witness to the awesome geekitude of just two Bronx Science nerds again on the subway.

another dream 

This morning I woke up after dreaming that I was proofreading the lyrics to a Ramones album liner. The only thing I remember aside from there being a completely alternate set of lyrics to "I wanna be sedated" was the emption reluctant gotta do it feeling as I considered how to tell the powers that be about the problem and avoid being somehow blamed for it.

wrong number/reverse lookup 

Someone at the 116th Street branch of Banco Popular called my cell phone three times while I was in the shower this morning and hung up each time.

I wonder if they know the old lady and her homecare attendant.

frozen pancakes 

A neighbor has apparently given up on six full boxes of frozen pancakes.

The unopened boxes were in the trash can down the hall.

Somebody forgot they lived in a tiny Manhattan studio apartment on their last visit to Costco or BJ's.


 Posted by Hello

 Posted by Hello


The old lady and her caribbean home care attendant at (212) 873-73... have been calling me again. No more voicemail messages, but I know their number.


dream time 

The other night I dreamt I was scheduled to surrender for federal jail time but kept putting it off on technicalities. Jodie Foster was one of the federal agents who tried to coax me into submitting to the agreed to jail term. She even had a cuff on me at some point, but I fenagled my way out of the situation. Anothyer federal agent, a brother of my friend, convinced me through false pretenses to surrender. I sort of knew he was lying but figured it had to end sometime.

Funny that it should be my friend's brother who eventually conned me into surrender. I don't really know this guy, except that there was a rumor he went off the deep-end once after being drugged at a college party. All I really know about the guy is that he recently surprised me by playing heavy metal songs on his car radio while giving me a lift somewhere. The heavy metal did not seem to fit his personality or lack thereof. Then again, perhaps the metal, or his inability to notice this specific genre of music on his radio or the fact that having a taste for this music would make him seem a bit quirky, actually fit his bland personality perfectly.

I just don't know the guy well enough.

I may have gotten to know him well enough had my dream continued and he transported me to my federal prison, but the dream ended abruptly in the filtered early morning sunlight of 9th Avenue by the Port Authority Bus Terminal, when I woke up.



I got my 18 bucks change back from the corporate caffeine war machine this morning. Before collecting it I checked high and low and mentally ran through every financial transaction I went through over the preceding 24 hours.

So I got my eighteen bucks. I am just not sure if it was worth having to trade over my self righteous indignation for it. Certainly wasn't worth the death glare I received from the pre-pigtails Spree-headed Kid of Kid-N-Play doppelganger barista.

It is quite possible I could have fed off energy provided by this apparent unjust wrong done me for days, weeks, or months. Instead I took the cash and feel like I sold out.


Maybe this is what Bosox fans felt like after winning the world series.

I sure hope it is at least this unpleasant.


george wins 

I'm going in to collect my $18 tomorrow morning.

on becoming George Costanza 

I had three twenties when I went into Starbucks this morning.

When I laid down the brand new twenty before the cashier with the sickly pallor of Kid-N-Play's Kid and pre-pig tail braids of Latrell Sprewell, I anticipated a groan of inconvenience when he realized he'd have to make change for a solo cup of coffee. The groan never came.

He took the twenty and the other guy gave me the coffee immediately. I turned away without looking for change. I never do stuff like that, but this time I did.

They never called me back for the change. I stood there for three minutes waiting for one of the people who like to camp out on the milk counter to clear out and they still never called me back. I went back to my apartment, drank the coffee, showered and started to transfer stuff from my play clothes to work clothes when I realized I was shy eighteen dollars. Maybe its payback for all those times I didn't speak up after getting the wrong change. But, I've been good about that for the last decade or so.

I went back to Starbucks. Spree-head Kid guy looked at me and looked away guilty twice before making a big show of unplugging the register and pretending to count it up.

"Sorry. The register is not under or over, sir."

"Look, you know. You expect me to believe you don't remember?"


I wished I could hit him and take his wallet. Pudgy short anaemic Yellowmanny light-skinned punk freak.

Later today I'll call the manager and tell him my George Costanza story.

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