Happiness is a choice.

Postponing judgement is the only acceptable form of procrastination.

Littering is a straight up character flaw.

Please be a good person.

Behold my new creation!

The Perspective Pill

One dose provides empathy for those less fortunate, relief from chronic complaining, and removal of head from ass.

Side effects may include momentary pauses for reflection, ability to laugh at one's self & sensitivity to the plights of others.  

In extreme cases overwhelming emotional epiphanies may occur.  Do not take Perspective Pill if you have an aversion to truth, including  the knowledge that the world does not, in fact, revolve around you.

Crackhead on the train

It was one of those really long subway rides.  The kind I really don't like.  I usually ride a bicycle to get around the city, mostly because I don't care for the subway.  Strange, really, because I love trains.  Just not the subway.  There's something about that "sub" part that bothers me.  I am a terrestrial being and being subterranean doesn't suit me.  I only mention all of this because, on the day in question, I was acutely aware of how long I was about to be underground on the subway.

It was the 2 train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.  I had about 20 stops before my destination.  I had no headphones and nothing to read.  I know.  Just as the reality of my situation began to dawn on me the doors opened, a few people got off,  some others boarded and the doors closed again. I was sitting in the left seat of a 3 seat row, facing an identical set of seats across the car.  One of the new passengers took the seat immediately to my right between me and another traveller.  As I looked up to acknowledge the new rider's presence I notice that he was clearly homeless, a junkie or both.  Upon making eye contact with the man he took the gesture as an opportunity to make my acquaintance.  I had only meant to offer a simple head nod, enough to say, "I see you're not the most savory character but I don't mind if you sit next to me.  We're cool."  This was all it took for his bony face to fill up with life, his sunken eyes brightening and his smile beaming at me, a foot from my face.  I smiled back and at this he extended his hand to shake mine.  I casually and quietly offered him a "fist bump" instead to which he took slight exception.  I explained, "Hey man, nothing personal.  You just look a little dirty, that's all.  How 'bout one of these?" I smiled, offering the fist bump a second time.  He accepted my offering and began to compliment me profusely.  He was clearly not used to being treated like a person and the slightest human connection meant the world to him, I thought.  "You got a cool style, man!"  he nodded approvingly, looking me up and down.  "Nice coat!"  He went on in that way for a few minutes as I blushed and thanked him to please not continue.  "You're a cool dude.  They're aren't many people like you around, man."  he continued.  "Most people just be hatin'.  But not you.  You got some love in you."  Again I smiled and thanked him for saying so, realizing how much my (minimal) kindness meant to him.  "You know what happened to me?"  Before I could manage a response he proceeded to tell me the story of how he came to be a crackhead on the train.  

He and his wife had been very much in love and, at some point, they started smoking crack together.  "But crack'll fuck you up!  Next thing you know, your fighting with each other.  She started fucking people for crack, I started beating her.  Crack'll fuck you up."  By now he was becoming visibly upset.  Without missing a beat in his story, tears started to fall from his eyes, hanging from and finally dropping off the cliffs of his emaciated cheek bones.  I was locked in a stare with him now.  I couldn't take my eyes off of him for fear that to abandon him - figuratively or otherwise - at that moment of vulnerability would destroy him.  Even more.  "She killed herself, man!" he blurted, sobbing now.  "And do you know what the last thing she said to me was?  She told me she hated me!  She said she hated me and she was going to kill herself because of me."  I was crying now too, still completely locked into his stare and every word he spoke.  At this he put his face in his hands and wept loudly.  Placing my hand on his back I whispered, "That's messed up.  She had no right to tell you that.  People do what they do for their own reasons, not because of other people.  That wasn't fair brother.  You have to let that go.  You have to let that go."  He kept crying, looking up now as he started to gather his composure.  He was done talking.  "I don't want to be rude but the next stop is mine bro.  I have to go.  You stay up now!"  I said, fist against my chest, wiping tears from my eyes.  "You stay up."  

As I stood to leave the train, I offered him my hand and he shook it finding a way to smile through his tears.  "You're one of the good ones,"  he said,  "thank you."  I couldn't speak anymore as I turned toward the opposite door to go.  I had been completely unaware of everyone else on the train and had no idea how full it had become.  Walking to the door to go I noticed three women sitting directly across from where I had been sitting.  Their eyes all followed me as they smiled sweetly and wiped tears from their faces.

The path you're on is less important than who you are walking with.

One way to be less annoying

If I ask you about your day, I really just want to know if it was a good day or a bad day.

I am not interested in every mundane event that occurred.  If something remarkable happened, 

by all means, tell the story.  If, however, you just had another day in the coal mine, tell me it

was just another day in the coal mine and be done with it.  I had a day of my own, full of
unremarkable events that constitute everyday existence.  I'll spare you mine if you spare me yours.  

I don't pretend to know what the meaning of life is but I suspect it has something to do with being happy. Try that.

3 Ways to Know if You are a Racist

1 - You have an opinion about a race or ethnic group that you would be uncomfortable verbalizing in the presence of a member of that group.

2 - When telling a story, you mention a person's race when it is, in no way, germane to the story.  

3 - When telling a story and mention a person's race (whether relevant to the story or not) you look over each shoulder, whisper the person's ethnicity, then continue speaking in a normal conversational tone.

These aren't the only ways to know, but they are a good start.

Tip for the day: Be less Racist.

It is entirely possible to be simultaneously poor and happy. I've seen it. I've done it. Think about it.

Sensitivity Tip Tuesday

If you are feeling a little fat today, don't mention it to your obese friend.  If you feel like you
spent too much money on vacation, don't mention it to your poor friend.  If you noticed a little hair
came out in your comb this morning, don't mention it to your bald friend.  If you had a bad day
at work, don't mention it to your unemployed friend.  Do you see where I'm going with this?

pretty yellow sundress

It was a gorgeous spring day as I walked west down Union Street through the historic district of Park Slope.  I was having one of those moments when you're perfectly aware of how nice a day it is and how lucky you are to be alive when I spied the cutest little girl on the side walk in front of me.  She was walking  toward me, with her parents, maybe a block away.  What caught my attention at that distance were her pretty yellow sundress and her exaggerated movements.  It seemed that she was also having one of those 'lucky to be alive' moments; spinning around, dancing with her hands over her head.  I mean, really feeling good!  From the cover of my sunglasses, I was careful not to let on that I was watching every second of her performance.  Her parents, holding hands and engaged in pleasant conversation, were no doubt used to her theatrics and appeared neither bothered nor entertained as she pranced in front, behind and all around them.  As we drew closer, I'd say within 10 paces, the little ball of life leapt forward in front of her parents, looking me squarely in the face with a HUGE smile.  Landing squarely on two feet with knees bent, she leaned forward slightly, hands on knees, holding my gaze all the while.  I was compelled to slow my pace as she had obviously captured my attention.  As I did, her two little hands grabbed the bottom of her pretty yellow sundress and, thrusting her hips forward, in one punctuated movement, whipped it strait up over over her head!  I had just been flashed by a 9 year old.  Her mother snatched her by the arm, whipping her around in a barrage of "what are you doing?"s & "what is wrong with you?"s.  By that time I had passed them, concealing one of the biggest smiles of my life.  As I walked farther along and the sounds of her mother's chides faded in the distance, I laughed aloud for at least a block at the moment that little girl and I just shared.  I guess she saw the same thing in me that I saw in her, but she felt like she should acknowledge it.  

What's the opposite of living vicariously? Do that.