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.

I'll admit it. It is nice.

(An actual edition of Commuting Suicide will be pulling in later today.)

This is part two of a two-part recap of a recent ride home. You can read Part I here, but that is not required.

When we taxied from our gate to the Lincoln Tunnel, it was considered great progress. “What great progress,” I remember thinking. Still, it was a long way home. We’d already logged an hour and still had an hour to go.

Our bodies are conditioned by the commute. The average journey takes 42 minutes; I can do 42 minutes in my sleep (and sometimes do). But the second the trip can be measured in hours, my body begins to break down. Subtle things, like a sore lower left sacroiliac joint (”back” for the layman) and the need to reposition my legs. Though I’m working without a protractor, I’d say my legs were locked at an acute eighty-seven degrees for the entire first hour. My legs needed a change.

So I stretched out, hitting 150 degrees and feeling fantastic. I should explain the seating arrangements, lest anyone liken my commute to a British Airways commercial. Mine was the only seat allowing such plentiful legroom. The back row goes five across, with me the keystone. The roominess aside, this is the least desirable seat on the bus, and most unsafe. Any accident would create a Jason-shaped hole in the windshield twenty-one rows ahead. And they really pack you in.* When my cellphone vibrated in my pocket, the Cheetos-gobbling man raced his nasty hand toward his tight-fitting pants. The confusion was inexplicable, as he was talking on his own cell phone at the time.** If elbow room was a widely accepted measurement, I’d tell you mine was negative.

Thursday's commute was the second worst of my career. (Quick aside: The worst was March 8, 2005. During a three-and-a-half hour ride home, I sent Scaramouch an email from my cell phone to gauge his progress. It was titled 'Commuting suicide.') This post was getting as long as the ride itself, so I'll break it up.

According to the official (posted) rules, there is no eating or drinking on the bus. But everybody does it. I myself have been known to smuggle aboard a bag of M&Ms or box of Swedish Fish. I once ate a Subway Meatball Marinara without incident. So when the bearded man seated beside me produced a bag of Cheetos, I didn't consider turning him in. In fact, I smiled.

I smiled because his blaze orange salty snack jogged a specific memory. My friend Alison, then a student at Parsons in New York, once asked Janeane Garofalo if she'd rather eat Doritos and not brush her teeth or Cheetos and not wash her hands. Janeane opted for Cheetos, and later told this story on The Tonight Show.

I have no good celebrity stories of my own.

This recollection was again deposited in my memory bank, and my bearded seatmate kept chomping away. His eating had a pattern to it. A distinct order. After each Cheeto, he licked his fingers, coating them with saliva. We all could agree this wasn't ideal. So he'd wipe his hands on the back of the seat before him, then in his dirty nest of a beard. This turned me off both Frito Lay products and excessive facial hair.

When he finished, a distinct orange film covered the seat. (Apparently the sucking wasn't completely effective.) I'm sure it was also dying his beard, but I absolutely refused to look. Oh, and we'd been on the bus for 45 minutes and had yet to leave the station.

* * *
We knew what we were getting into when we climbed aboard. A bad Lincoln Tunnel accident prevented any forward progress, a traffic report the Port Authority PA repetitively made loud and clear. I was the 49th passenger; the bus had 49 seats. About an hour into our stationary adventure, when the bus first lurched backwards, passenger fifty was caught off-balance. He fell and was laughed at. People were tired and fussy and laughing at inappropriate times. It had been a long commute and we hadn't even moved. We were on edge and just getting started.

Friday morning I missed my alarm and caught a later bus. With the rush hour(s) behind us, I didn't recognize my fellow passengers. Gone were the subdued commuters, scowling-and-bearing-it, worn down by life. In their stead were a bunch of scabs who marveled at the excitement of bus travel. And these day-trippers marveled out loud.

The competing wailing babies added a nice touch. As did the chatty elderly couple I was ready to fit for hearing aids. But the boisterous stars of Friday's performance were two college girls. They stole the show.

Girl One [The one who had me praying for deafness]: "Everyone always says someone should write a book about our lives. The next Sex and the City!"

Girl Two [The one who had me praying for a fiery Turnpike crash]: "Obvi! Obvi!"

By "Obvi," I assume Girl Two was saving her breath by shortening "obviously," suggesting a certain respect for an economy of language. It was a shallow gesture. Like ordering a Diet Coke at the Pizza Hut Lunch Buffet, then finding room for the cherry pie dessert pizza. And with "Everyone always says someone should write a book about our lives," Girl One set back my Respect For Jersey movement ten years.

I'm posting this live from the bus, wirelessly connected to the "Super 8" network a few miles from the Lincoln Tunnel. Not a bad place to be stuck in traffic.

My right knee, stiff and sore from what must have been a forgetful incident, is propped on the seat beside me. To divert attention from my strange, yoga-like position, I whipped out my laptop. That's when I noticed my little wireless indicator coming to life, like a child silently waking from a peaceful nap.

My Inbox just dinged to signal the delivery of new mail. It's spam, but that's irrelevent. I'm so happy, I could go to super8.com and reserve a room. A thank you for making this moment possible.

Ah, and there's the Super 8 sign. Skeevy discount motel chain, I salute you.

As far as writing an interesting post, I've got nothing. And I fear we're inching out of Super 8's range. But how great will it be when this novelty wears off and everywhere is wireless?

[P.S. By the time I hit 'Save' to post, the bus was beyond the magical internet capabilities of the Super, Super 8. No other hotel filled the wireless void between Weehawken and New York. I'm posting this from work, where the novelty of an internet connection wore off eight years ago.]