Train Tract Exchange

Woman, mid-twenties, five feet six inches, a hundred sixty pounds, shoulder length, curly blonde hair, red-orange lipstick, sad eyes, lots of black mascara. She sits alone, in the double seats on the right side of the train, facing the rest of us. I sense that she is about to call my attention, so I look up.

WOMAN: Do you have a cell phone I can use?

ME (blissfully unaware of any double entendre): Not one I could let you use for free.

WOMAN: Oh. Okay.

ME (continuing to employ absolutely no double entendre): I get screwed on my cell phone service.

WOMAN: Oh. Okay.

She turns away and stares out the window. Another woman sits down, across the aisle, in one of the three facing seats on the left side of the train, her back to the driver. She raises a cell phone to her ear, says something in Spanish. I wonder, once the Spanish call has been completed, will the blonde woman ask to use her cell phone? She never does.

Nuclear Compromise

In deference to our brothers in charge who hail from points south, as well as Kiefer Sutherland, I've decided to back a controversial proposal that would amend Webster's Dictionary with the word:

Nucuclear (pronounced "NOO Kyoo Klee er")

Let's all join hands and say it together as one.

Steeple Chase

(Photo courtesy of Dallas News)

From the raised platform of the train, I watch a large bird land on top of a high church steeple two blocks away. The bird defends its perch as a small winged creature (Satan?) spirals about for some minutes. I board the train.

At the next stop, the driver's voice warns passengers that we'll be delayed for a minute until he gets the all-clear. Two police officers race onto our car.

"He's still on here," says the confident policeman. "There's no way he got off."

I am wearing an oversized, black rain coat, and I assume that they are looking for the likes of me. Only the day before, a deranged (as usual) local man on a bridge had shut down traffic by telling an official that he had a bomb. The officer passes me, exits our car, then reappears several times. Four more officers appear. One is my neighbor, Rick Walton (not his real name). I consider catching his eye and waving (as if to say with a side glance at my audience, "Everyone, look! I know him! I have connections!") Someone cuts power and the officers jump down onto the center track to search under the platform. I marvel at the power of the police force, to petition the gods of electricity and, with seemingly little more than a nod and a neck-slicing gesture, cause its life-sustaining current to dry up. At last, one of the officers walks by, towing the alleged criminal (white male, mid-twenties, short-cropped blonde hair, or am I confusing him my Trenton panhandler?) by the handcuffs. Officer Rick passes, both hands occupied as he carries a box of stolen goods.

"Hey Wayne!" he says with the bemused expression of a man who has a dangerous job, and recognizes the absurdity of bad guys who invariably fail to realize that they will be punished eventually.

I return his greeting, "Hey, Rick!" and wish I'd addressed him as Officer Walton, for the edification of the passengers.

With a chuckle, he says to me, "Sorry about your delay."

"No problem," I insist. "Carry on." And I think, be careful out there.

Turtle Man at Work

This making television. This is a dangerous business. I sit here, fretting and planning, scheduling and defeating deadlines, contacting and writing and fretting and…not thinking as I accidentally SWIPE THE PANT LEG OF MY BRAND NEW KHAKIS WITH A BLACK PERMANENT MARKER! And to make matters worse, I seem to have fretted away five pounds during the winter. Yes, I hear the rattling-bones sound of your collective eye-roll, you normal- and over-sized Americans as you utter something like: ooohhhh, how dreadful for you, losing five pounds by sitting still. But you have no idea how dangerous it is for me, this making television in the warm weather, unable to hide beneath my coats. There I may be, slight and inconsequential, aware that I exist only by the action of the birds who launch into the air at my approach (though that could be a coincidence). I may be walking down the street with a camera crew, an easy mark for any old woman or young tough who desires my shoes or my cameraman’s camera. Oh sure, I could try tucking my head between my shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to create the thicker neck illusion, however I’m sure that means risking some sort of carotid arterial tear. And so here I sit, dangerously making television.

-- Wayne Moon is a producer at a PBS affiliate on the east coast of the United States.

Phenomenologicalosity

Now as you can see, I'm all business today. I'm wearing The Tie. The sock has been tucked under the elastic wasitband (for some reason, a necessary tactic with this pair of trousers...without the sock, the abdomen seems concave and indented at an alarming angle). I've applied both hair-illusion scalp-treatment products. I'm ready to go. Here I go. Now...GO! Action! Begin! And...I'm going! I'm on my way! There I go.

Whew. That was some essence of experience.

Check back later to find out if I've learned anything.

And Zhang Zi Yi as Dirk Gently

Blinking tears of nostalgia as the first notes of the original series theme music swept across the theater, I leaned over and gave my wife a thank you kiss. She was doing this as a birthday present to me, braving the weekend kid crowd in a multiplex instead of enjoying a film in our local art theater, with its cappuccino café and cushioned seats. After the opening title sequence, I settled in, ready to enjoy the big screen version of one of my favorite series of books, radio and television. Sadly, the ride was downhill from there. The Arthur Dent actor was almost okay. I had accepted the versatile Mos Def as Ford, but, while his first mumbled lines might have been motivated by the premise that the planet on which he was standing was about to be obliterated and he would need to drink a lot quickly, the remainder of his words might as well have been uttered from beneath his towel. Zooey D. was . . . what’s she from again? Anyway, she was . . . I guess I remember her from something. Sam Rockwell . . . the logic of the second head was a bit twisted from the intent of the original. And how did a third arm sneak in there? So Sam Rockwell . . . why not just get the original Zaphod? I had been prepared to change my idea of the robot months ago, after viewing the website preview. Of course, Alan Rickman’s voice is perfect. Another highlight: Henson’s amazing Vogons. Brilliant stuff! I even liked a beardless Slartibartfast, thanks to the also often mumbling Bill Nighy. Why did this music video director tell everybody to mumble? This is supposed to be, as clueless critics have said, Python-esque satire. So, direct the actors to open their mouths and act big! Or at least provide subtitles.

Maybe next time.