Ride. Walk. Work. Repeat.

The commuting life is not for the faint of wills. There exists a stubbornness, a mass that wedges itself deep down inside your work ethic, somewhere within hearing distance of a perpetual inner dialogue. The voice rattles the rib cage saying "hurryupbuytheticketismystopnextwhattimeisitgetOUTOFMYWAY!" A soft Recorder rendition of the Pixie's "Monkey Gone to Heaven" sometimes cuts in during brief moments of stationary waiting.

One particularly epic bout of travel happened two weeks ago. I arrived at the bus stop. Passengers snaked down the border of the cement lot. There were too many of us. I knew it even before the Driver pulled in and assessed the crowd. We peered at him with bleary eyes, some clutching suitcases, others gnawing on bagels procured from briefcases. In a halting tone, the Driver explained that the earlier run had gone missing, sucked into a highway black hole mistaken for an exit. There weren't enough seats for everyone. His speech was of little use. Any excuse amounted to the same simple fact - we were going to be late. Normally, tardiness was classified as an unfortunate complication. But on this day, The First Day of a new job, the delay took on a deeper meaning. I approached the Driver, intending to be a calm negotiator. He took a few steps back, wary of rebuke. I placed what felt like a smile on my face and asked when the next bus was due. He glanced at his clipboard.

"Thirty minutes."

My facade faltered.

"No, sorry. I need an alternative."

I stared at him.

He began to fidget.

"Uh...I don't know what to say. I mean, I guess you could stand."

And that is how I ended up in the 8:10's isle, sandwiched between a terse Asian Accountant and a balding man wearing a starch-stained shirt. My fingers ached from clutching the baggage compartment above me, my teeth were clenched from sudden stops. On my resume I had claimed that I was innovative, a forward thinker. If my Boss could have seen me right then, there is little doubt he wouldn't agree...

Thankfully, I didn't have to hang on for too long. The intercom spit static. Another route had been notified. All misplaced passengers would be switched. The Driver pulled over. We stumbled out to a second idling bus, a pathetic achy trio.

The incident has caused me to reflect on my evolving impressions of commuting. For awhile, the process was all about leaving - a preoccupation with my return home. Recently the urge has been replaced with a desire to stay. Tunnels and roads take me away from where I want to be as opposed to sending me back to where I belong. For now each evening ends with a goodbye. However, I am trying to be patient. Traffic doesn't bother me as much. At the very least it keeps me there a bit longer.

Mane n' Tail

My dad loves a deal.

I needed a shower.

The two are related.

I swear.

I go for a jog.

I sweat.

I come home, enter the bathroom, turn on the spigot above the tub, pull back the sticky plastic curtain.

I get in.

I shampoo my hair.

I shave my pits.

I reach for the conditioner on the ledge.

The bottle is economically thick.

Heavier than the slender packaging of Pantene Pro V, Herbal Essence, Suave.

I squeeze a bit into my palm, rake it through my scalp.

Hands now free, I turn the bottle over, scan the label.

The silhouette of two galloping steeds is followed by a description.

Mane n' Tail

(The Original)

Directions for Human Use: Apply Mane n' Tail. The amount used will depend on the length and volume of hair. Let conditioner remain for 1-2 minutes. Rinse out, dry and style as usual.

Directions for Animal Use: Apply liberally at base of mane and tail, working formula out to entire length of hair. A wet, glossy look will appear until absorbed into hair and skin. Can be used to condition the entire body. Keep away from eyes and mucus membranes.

I walk with a gait in my step for the remainder of the day.

Toss my bangs from side to side.

Later Dad catches me tearing up the lawn with my teeth.

"Shit, Addie! I just seeded that patch!"

I skitter away from his grip, nostrils flared, gums stained green.

Defeated, Dad begins to trudge back towards the house, suitcase flopping against his kneecaps.

I come to a halt.

I spit out a mangled dandelion stem.

"Hey! It's not my fault! I'm not the one who does the grocery shopping!"

Mr. Grey is Pink

On Saturday my Netflix queue left "Secretary" in my mailbox. The plot of "Secretary" is as follows: Maggie Gyllenhaal plays Lee, a introverted woman who struggles with cutting. After being released from a mental institution and returning home to her dysfunctional family, Lee begins to regress. Lee is granted momentary reprieve when presented with a Secretary opening at a Law Office. Her new boss is Mr. Grey, (James Spader) a man with equally off-beat proclivities. He is an Egomaniac. Lee is inclined towards self-loathing. The combination of these two natures eventually morphs normal office dynamics into that of routine Sadomasochism. The subject matter sounds dark and indeed there are a few raw moments. However, for the most part humor and quirkiness rein over what could be a rather depressing story.

A lot of viewers would probably remember "Secretary" because of the kinky bits. However, what stuck in my brain long after the spanking subsided is James Spader's persona. Spader has played Mr. Grey before. In "Pretty in Pink" he was Steff, a calculating, cruel rich boy with feathered hair and chest cleavage. Steff's target is Andy, (Molly Ringwald) a timid 80's Cinderella who dares to defy social protocol by dating Steff's weathly friend. Throughout "Pretty in Pink," Steff terrorizes Andy for reasons I could never quite understand. Yeah, she is kinda poor (see unemployed father, home-made dress, bland split level house) but Steff's harassment is not on par with Andy's level of threat. Is it mildly irritating that a buddy is dating someone who's fashion sense mirrors that of a Grandma? Sure, but not enough to warrant making her existence a living hell.

AND THERE is the "Secretary" connection. Spader is not just a pigeon-holed bad guy, he is a type. Spader plays a Sadomasochist, no matter what the cinematic context. Still, the reason "Secretary" is him at his most believable is the fact that he has someone to beat down who doesn't shy away from the blows. Because of Lee's lack of victimization, Mr. Grey is seen as complex - both a Savior and an Aggressor. In contrast, in "Pink" he just comes off as an irate Bully with too much free time on his hands. Spader as Sadomasochist is effective only when he is allowed to transcend his assumed one-dimensional association with others on screen. If not, we as the audience are left to channel what was originally intended for the abuse recipient. Some of us are left feeling unconvinced. Other viewers enjoy it, hit play and hold out their wrists, waiting to be trussed up and debased with comforting regularity by the cold antics of James Spader...
I will part ways with a crappy found youtube slideshow, aptly entitled "Why James Spader is Hot." Relish in it. Or don't. Depends on what you like.