I'm fortunate to have an amazing commute. A large portion of my walk to work has me passing through the wooded knolls of Central Park, thus affording me some great views. I watch as the canines play in the dog run while their owners sip coffees and converse with the other owners. There are several park workers who walk along the paths and clean up trash and detritus, getting the area ready for the day's visitors. Homeless men come out of their magical wooded enclaves, replete with (I'm guessing) unicorns that fart rainbows and elves who sit on stumps and play Jethro Tull songs on their flutes. Finally, the fitness enthusiasts take to the streets to get their hearts pumping for several miles.

But it's what a small section of the runners do that baffles me.

I'm faking you out. By placing this rant in the "Commuting Suicide" section, it allows me to be seen in a light other than "total inhuman asshole"; a description both accurate and humbling. And upon reading this, you'll probably agree.

People in motorized wheelchairs need to go.

Still with me? Still want to read what this is all about? Gathering pitch forks, torches, and a map to my front door? Keep reading.

I'd like to thank the nice gal or guy or group of gals and guys who decided to augment the smell of my subway ride home tonight.

Normally at the place I switch trains every night, there's a constant stench of "guy sleeping on the bench who hasn't showered in a year or two." Most days it's P U (capital, bold, and large type)

But tonight the subway platform smelled like marijuana.

I don't know if the nice culprits had had enough of smelly guy smell, or they were just in the mood for a mighty potent joint, but my commute home was very pleasant. Standing there, breathing deeply, I couldn't have been happier the train was delayed.

I did have trouble reading the paper but Portishead on the iPod got me home alright. Now, as I settle in for a night of 24 and Daily Show I have only one thought - dude, what to order????

I had a nice place picked out to ring in 2009. 30 blocks north of Times Square, surrounded by food I enjoyed, my cat, and with a pile of new DVDs I couldn't wait to dive into - New Year's Eve was going to be simple and easy. However, the my girlfriend was visiting her parents in Washington, DC and I was strongly encouraged to come down and spend time with the in-laws.

I should never have gotten on that bus.

This topic falls just inside of the "Commuting Suicide" umbrella. It involves travel in public transportation, and it made me want to kill myself. Therefore, we're going to let it run.

Also, it involves bodily fluids. Lots of bodily fluids.

Things have gotten out of hand. Chaos rules. Order? What order? There's no such thing underground. This all started when a man held his hand on my genitalia for three stops in a crowded subway car. I couldn't move. I wasn't sure if he was doing it on purpose. And I didn't want to make a scene. So I arched my body into a position reserved for Cirque du Soleil performers, hoping to avoid the unwanted touch. It was then that I realized the New York Subway needs some new rules.

I'm not sure if he was homeless. But he had all the symptoms of being homeless. A plastic bag full of other plastic bags. A steady head twitch. Shoes with well-worn soles. This is not a rare sighting on the New York subway. What he did next, however, is.

I take back all those things I said about New York commuters. After watching this video, I have a new found respect for that guy with the armpits that smell like onions and whose hand just happens to graze my genital region one too many times.

(Via Evan Almighty)

I'm not sure where she got the chain. Her pockets didn't appear large enough to hold such a long and heavy weapon. You'd think I'd be thinking other things while watching her whip the chain into the man's chest, but for some reason I was much more interested in spacial abnormalities.

Wednesdays are matinée days in the city. That means that the population of the city increases as little old women from the suburbs make their way into the city for an afternoon of Jersey Boys. They are fearful of the city, they don’t understand its nuances and shortcuts. It’s as if they travel into the city hoping to cheat death a little. These women assume a day spent in Manhattan is like living life on the edge. And of course, they don’t drive in, as they assume driving in the city is equal to wrestling cougars. No, they take the train. They take MY train.

I promised to ramp up my tales of Commuting Suicide. I've failed. Maybe I've become too good a commuter – too good at blocking out my inane fellow travelers, too good at keeping myself entertained. When I'm ready to relaunch this semi-regular feature, my notebook is full of moderately amusing observations (and, in case I find myself pen-less, I started a Twitter account to text myself reminders.)

But I'm proud of a few past installments, including "The Conversationalist," which I actually read during a job interview to a slightly puzzled crowd.

I should remember that no matter how slow the traffic, or how annoying the seatmate, things could always be worse. My driver could decide to stab me.

New Jersey - WABC, January 8, 2007 - A bus driver is in police custody in New Jersey, accused of stabbing a passenger. Police say the driver got into a fight with the passenger around 8:45 Monday night at a stop along Bloomfield Avenue.

The passenger allegedly spat in the driver's face during a dispute over the fare. Police say that's when the driver pulled out a knife and stabbed the passenger in the shoulder. That passenger was taken to Newark Hospital.

I did almost get spit on once, but that was in the bus terminal. Besides, I lacked the proper retaliatory stabbing implement to escalate matters to the ABC News-worthy level.

According to the billboard, I'm in New Jersey's most dynamic College Town. Go Newark! The capitalization of College Town bothers me, but not as much as the questionable accuracy of this claim. And nowhere near as much as the non-start traffic. My bus hasn't moved in eighteen minutes. I'm grammar checking the outdoor advertising and going slightly insane.

This does not bode well for the 2007 commuting season.

Looking around, I realize it could be so much worse. I could be so much taller. If our bus were to challenge a rival commuter bus to a basketball scrimmage, the man across the aisle would dominate. He's roughly 6'9" and appears to be in physical pain. I'm 5'10" (and three-quarters) and rather squished myself.

Let me break down our starting five...

Ooh, now we're moving. I'll get off the basketball nonsense. The guy's tall. You get it.

The Palma Mexican Grocery Store delivery truck was just towed away. I do not know whether this driver/vehicle/proprietorship is responsible for my delay. To be safe, I'll get my Mexican groceries elsewhere.

Speaking of so much worse, we're inching past one, two, three, four cars I'm ready to call totaled. No, five. The guy in the fifth car is frantically dialing his cell phone, acting exactly as you'd expect someone whose new Maxima is in two pieces and facing the wrong way.

With the accident and every on-duty NJ State Trooper behind us, the rest of the ride is shockingly short. I will post this at lunch.

Depending on FedEx, tomorrow should be my first commute with my new BlackBerry. I'm not sure if this technology upgrade will allow me to provide live commentary from the bus. We can only hope. Or I could look it up or ask someone. But for now I'll rely on hope.

“At least we don’t have to listen to holiday music out here.”

It was raining and dreary and we were outside. At a bus stop. The absence of holiday music wasn’t doing it for me.

“And hey, the bus won’t be decorated.” With his second comment, the stranger earned himself December’s silver medal for annoying commuter behavior.

I find complaints about Christmas music and overbearing decorations more annoying than Christmas music and overbearing decorations. I’m staunchly pro-holiday cheer. Especially at the individual commuter level. When people are more polite and patient, life is generally better.

There are, of course, exceptions. Which brings me to an even more annoying encounter. Some passengers can’t handle their cheer. Like last Thursday’s seatmate, whose holiday spirit manifested itself in a steady stream of conversational awkwardness. He gets the gold medal. It was a long ride.

I’ve never been one to advocate theft. But out of my eye’s corner, I can see an item I desperately want. Easily within reach is my seatmate’s cell phone. It’s on her lap. She’s making angry snoring noises. Now’s my chance.

Greetings from Amtrak. We’re coming to you live (on tape delay) from the New York to D.C. leg of Amtrak’s Northeast Regional Service. I have no business in our nation’s capital, but my wife did, and I rarely pass up complimentary lodging.

This represents a significant upgrade from my standard commuting vessel. My legs have room. I was given an in-ride magazine featuring pieces on Jerome Bettis and the best undiscovered restaurants in Montpelier, Vermont. An entire car is dedicated to the sale of snacks, an entity prohibited on my daily bus.

My fellow passengers are more attractive and less angry; they’re from everywhere and could be going anywhere. I helped an elderly Australian couple with their bags, flexing both my diplomatic muscles and my delts. The husband told me they were en route to Newport News, Virginia. The way he said it, Newport News was followed by four question marks. Naming a town must be such a rush.