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.]

The place from which I start my commute doubles as a mediocre zoo. Perhaps that's not a fair assessment; I haven't been inside since a much-hyped 1987 field trip. The Turtleback Zoo proved a far superior destination than Kings Supermarket, site of our other third-grade outing. But the luster has rusted. After a friend's six-year-old nephew hit up the zoo recently, he said his favorite animal on display was "geese."

I'm sticking with my opening-sentence appraisal.

On Friday, a crusty retiree joined us rank-and-file bus peons. I'm not sure what business he had in New York City. That's surprising, considering I know what he did the night before (check out cherry blossoms), his wife's worst driving fear (negotiating bridges at night), and his "number one pet peeve" (our government's 1979 bailout of the Chrysler Corporation).

Like the geese at the zoo behind us, we were on exhibit. The retiree bought a ticket. Now he felt free to stick his fingers in the cages of commuters in captivity.

Unlike the geese, I was loving it. This guy was the new character introduced to ripple stagnant waters, in the tradition of The Great Gazoo, Cousin Oliver and John Bolton.

After an iPod malfunction*, yesterday morning's only entertainment was the woman behind me. On and on she went about her son's upcoming bar mitzvah. Nothing to hear here, I thought. But the comment that kept me eavesdropping was this:

"My husband and I have been rehearsing every night for our duet. This really means a lot to our son."

First, I need some clarification. In the Jewish faith, do parents serenade newly-minted men at these extravaganzas? If the answer is yes, the bigger question is why video clips chronicling this tradition aren't playing around the clock on a dedicated cable channel.

Are we talking about Hebrew anthems, or theme-appropriate pop ballads, like "It's Rainin' Men"?

Your insight is appreciated.

*I -- Ask -- A -- Nin -- Ja: Why does your podcast keep freezing my iPod? Is this technological warfare, Ninja-style? I look forward to killing my subscription to you soon.

Commuting Suicide, Volume XV: A Question for Passover

Sunday afternoon. Driving down Route 10 West. A car driving east up that very road nearly slams me. Head on. He was fleeing the police, who followed a not-very-safe distance behind.

I didn't know what almost hit me. But in the seconds after the near miss, I realized how lucky I was.

Calling this a near-death experience would be overdramatic. An exaggeration. A desperate grab for sympathy. OK, a flat out lie. The Camry's safety record is widely documented. And the fugitive wasn't driving with reckless abandon. More like scared shitless abandon, which equates to approximately a 20mph difference. In that difference, even a subpar hand-eye coordinator like myself could swerve into the shoulder and live to tell about it.

So, more accurately, it was a near-airbag deployment. What I avoided was a big pain-in-the-ass.

Regardless of how close to death I really wandered, it was one of those live-life-to-the-fullest moments. Things were going to be different.

Friday night I set sail for home later than usual, missing the express buses I regularly take for granted (and complain about mightily). There should be a "Warning! This bus makes frequent stops" sticker on the back.

Actually, maybe there is. I never looked.

So, in honor of my far-too-extended journey, today we'll open with a far-too-extended intro. In honor of the superfluous stops -- really, does every corner in Newark need to double as a bus stop? -- we'll touch on several issues worth mentioning, but not worthy of their own post.

Since our little logo contest, I've gotten a surprising amount of e-mail from readers. OK, five e-mails. But still, surprising. One of the e-mails included an especially intriguing passage:

"i'm quitting my job. can you help me write a good good-bye message to my coworkers?"

Since I myself just completed the highly underrated Two-Weeks-Notice period, I felt compelled to help. After trading emails, we crafted a few paragraphs his colleagues won't soon forget.

A lot has changed since I came on board in December of '03. Back then, a monthly Metrocard cost $70. The war in Iraq was spinning dangerously out of control. And this company was an unprofitable black hole, where morale was low and career development nonexistent.

Today, a monthly Metrocard costs $76.

Let me thank a few people. First, Maureen, the Director of Human Resources at my new company, for handing me that offer letter.

Actually, I'm good on thanking people.

Someone asked me why I would leave now. "We're turning this ship around," I was told. I have to respectfully disagree. This ship is not only not turning around, we've been swimming around its sunken carcass for the last eight months.

Let your severance packages be fruitful.

I'm posting this here to encourage more questions. Just email me. I've got time.

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.

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.

In the spirit of the Games of the 20th Winter Olympiad, I just accomplished my greatest feat in recent memory.

While preparing the driveway for tomorrow's commute, I realized why, hours earlier, DirecTV had called it quits. No longer did our dish enjoy a clear view of the southern sky. Instead, it was covered by twenty inches of entertainment-suppressing snow.

Despite spending hundreds on a ladder last year, I had little confidence in myself, in the snow, to fix this problem without breaking my hip. With a yard of accumulation at my disposal, I channeled Peyton Manning and started chucking iceballs at our covered dish.

I'm proud to announce the winner of our "Design-me-a-logo-and-win-you-a-crappy-novelty-shirt" contest. A big hand for Miami art director Peter Ekstein.

An exciting day for all of us.

Thanks to all the people who stunned me by submitting logos. I truly expected deafening silence. Peter, I'll let you know when the t-shirt is sent. Wear it proudly.

With a snazzy new logo, I'm going to up the frequency of these posts. If you're just getting on board, take a tour through the Commuting Suicide archives.

One last note -- this contest was slated to run through Valentine's Day. Sorry. Patience was never my thing.

Ideally, I ride out the ride home without anyone beside me. Less-than-ideally, I'm joined by a silent seatmate. Then there's the third option.

That third option was exercised last night. I shared my commute with a devout conversationalist.

Before we'd even left Port Authority, he'd already shaken my hand. A strange, two-handed shake our seating arrangement should have deemed both socially inappropriate and physically impossible. I learned his wife's name. Her employer. Their internet service provider. It was all happening so fast and furiously.

Commuting Suicide Volume X is coming Tuesday. This reminder is more for me. A compromise between the part of my brain that loves to write and the part of my brain that loves to sleep.

But while I'm here, before I shut it down for the night, let me also remind you of our "come up with a logo for Commuting Suicide" contest. Email your pretty little design to yesbutnobutyes@gmail.com

Some great entries have (shockingly) already been submitted. Winner gets the highest of high praise from me, plus a YesButNoButYes t-shirt.