Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

I had to go to New York City on business a while back, so I took the MetroNorth commuter train to and 'fro. Now, as these things go, MetroNorth is not an entirely unpleasant way to travel to NYC - the vast majority of morning commuters are quietly doing work or reading the paper and drinking coffee and, thanks to iPods, you don't even have to be annoyed by the occasional snorer or loud cellphone talker that used to drive me crazy when I commuted daily to NYC. Oh sure, there are still the constant annoyances that never go away, such as the person who finds the hour-long commute on a train to be the perfect time to cut his nails with his nail clippers. I wish I were making that up. I mean, who in their right mind thinks its a good idea to even trim one's nails in public, much less an enclosed train car?? Why don't you whip off your socks and cut your toenails while you're at it Chief? Any bellybutton lint you need to take care of? What other personal grooming can we do in such an enclosed space? Can I shave your back for ya? Or do you take care of that in the cab ride downtown? People never cease to amaze me. The other constant annoyance on MetroNorth is the bathroom. Now, granted I have never been to the slums of Calcutta or the bottom of a sewage treatment plant, but I can't imagine a more filth-ridden location on earth than the bathroom of a MetroNorth train. And, I suppose some degree of latitude is necessary here because, it is a moving, bouncing, rocking train, so no one's aim is going to be spot on, but in the first place, I was probably in utero the last time one of these bathrooms were cleaned, and my Mom was probably in utero the last time they were cleaned with soap and/or detergent. And secondly, some train riders (I'd wager they are guys, but I have no scientific proof) seem to take great pleasure in "going" on anything in the bathroom except the toilet. It is quite the little adventure to try to go to the bathroom on a moving train without touching anything.

And speaking of bathrooms, when I was waiting for my train to leave the city, I actually used the bathroom in Grand Central Station so I wouldn't have to use the one on the train. Now, for you non-New Yorkers, this little Hobson's Choice is like deciding between a colonoscopy or a kick to the groin, because, after all, public + bathroom + New York City = big yuckies. But I had to laugh when I went into the bathroom because there is a big sign that says (and I quote): "No loitering" (thanks goodness that sentence is part of the sign, otherwise I may linger in the Grand Central men's room for hours - the smell of b.o. and stale urine being my most favorite of all aromas); "No panhandling" ("Uh, sorry I can't get to my change right now sir but my hands are kind of otherwise occupado right now"); "No bathing" (which, you know, thank God that was there because after a day in the City I was feeling like I needed to strip down and rinse off before getting on the train). And obviously I know why the sign is there - for the poor homeless souls who might not have somewhere else to go, but is the sign really necessary? Because, if you're not homeless, chances are you aren't going to be doing any of those things, but if you are homeless, I'm pretty sure a sign isn't much of a deterrent. But, what do I know, because not a week later I am in a men's room at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike and there is a man washing his feet in the sink. I really wish I were making that up because I now have to go get hypnotized to try to burn that little image from my brain. So, maybe the NJ Turnpike people need to find out who made Grand Central that sign.

Where has the time gone?

Has it been three weeks since my last post?? Wow, time flies. My time was quite occupied by planning and executing a 40th birthday bash for my wife. So, if you've been checking in and have been disappointed (or relieved) to find no new post - my apologies, won't happen again until the next time it happens. Anyhoo, so I was driving to work this morning (I'm drafting this during lunch - no rest for the weary) I saw a dead raccoon by the side of the road, which is no big deal because this is a fairly common site round these parts. But then, about twenty feet later I saw a second one. So, naturally I'm thinking murder-suicide. One raccoon probably found out about the other raccoon's illicit affair with a squirrel and just lost it. In fact, it was probably quite the intricate plan by one of the raccoons. Because raccoons are very smart - the ones in my neighborhood manage to pull latches off of garbage cans, hoist each other up onto the cans and start a conga line/assembly line of food back to the woods. I mean, think about it - he (or she, I've never been that close to a raccoon to look for the obvious difference, but I'm assuming the murderer was a male. If the female raccoon caught the male raccoon cheating, she'd have probably just scratched his eyes out and taken his favorite garbage-eating spot) would have had to think up this elaborate rouse to get her to cross an extremely busy highway - probably told her there were dumpsters full of rotting food to forage through, and then convince her that they were waiting for this last car to go by before they made a run for it, then....BAM! a vicious shove right under the front wheel of a late model Ford Explorer XLT (you know, with the big off-road tires and extra suspension). And then, despondent about what he had done, he probably crawled out to the middle of the road to await his fate. Or maybe, it was a raccoon tragedy, sort of a raccoon Romeo-Juliet, unrequited love deal. Maybe one raccoon (let's go with the female this time in the interest of fairness) had arranged to meet the male raccoon at that spot, but the male raccoon had been picked off by a tractor trailer two minutes before she got there. Then, despondent, she offs herself. Is that how it played out? Or maybe they were the rat equivalent of Darwin Award winners (you know those people who die in the dumbest, most ridiculous ways possible). Maybe they got drunk on the residue of some whisky bottle in a trash bin and started daring each other do dodge cars. Oh well, they are just rats with better P.R. anyway; plenty more where they cam from. Like the ones who visit us every night and break into my garbage cans and throw trash all over my yard. Freaking parasites! Death is too good for them!!

Hey, speaking of my yard, why can't "ability to grow incredible amounts of weeds" be the envy of gardeners everywhere? Then I would be considered the best gardener alive. And I could give clinics and write books on 10 easy steps to grow tremendous weeds. And weed-growing companies would pay me gobs of money to be their spokesperson. I need to live in a world where weed-growing equates with success. Its my only hope.