I forgot my video iPod this morning. So deflating. Felt like a blackout.

Sure, I could have read Fast Company, or the Stop & Shop circular I found beneath my seat. But instead I chose to sulk, staring out the window, longing for the next episode of Weeds and last night's NBA highlights.

Then I realized something. I'm such a spoiled bitch.

Fortunately for all parties involved, that's not where we're going with today's Commuting Suicide adventure. Before I was compelled to dirty my fingers with magazine ink, the bus gods offered a seatmate. And that's where today's story begins.

(The previous four paragraphs were written with no respect for your time.)

My new bus-buddy fired up his laptop and blew me away. While stealing minutes worth of quick glances, I learned of a technology called BroadbandAccess from Verizon Wireless. This gave my fellow traveler a wireless, high-speed Internet connection for the duration of our trip.

My mind raced with the possibilities. The commute affords me roughly 8 hours per week to piss away. There's no bigger bucket to catch said piss than the Internet at large.

How did our early adopter put his technology to use? Tracking our progress with GPS. Once I realized what was going on, I stopped pretending I wasn't looking. He forfeited that courtesy with his ridiculous misuse of power.

A crude form of tracking -- big ass windows -- had already been installed on this particular vessel. To be fair, he was in an aisle seat.

And when we finally made it to Port Authority, a trip that seemed infinitely longer as a rightward-moving pocket of pixels on a twelve-inch screen, I had to push past him to start the non-commuting portion of the Wednesday. Almost like he didn't realize our journey had been completed. Rather odd, as he was the only passenger using military technology to gain confirmation of our arrival.

Here's a ticket for the Commuting Suicide archives. And if you're the obscure t-shirt type, you don't get more obscure than the crap in our store.