Friday Rambling

1) Sometimes you forget, really, the things that make New York amazing. Happening upon this guy in Union Square subway station, ripping out a note-perfect "Sweet Child O'Mine" on the violin took me all the way back to my youth, to my white-trash, Kansas-loving days. Hard to see on his website, but he was actually kind of hot, for a guy named Michael Shulman. I love that somewhere his mamma is probably wringing her hands and moaning, "Where did I go wrong?" I give the kid credit, he's found a way to be a dorky violin player AND probably get laid a whole lot.

2) And sometimes, every now and then, something good happens to someone you love. Namely, ME. Dream job came through, I start on 8/1. It's a little bittersweet, because I have actually begun to love the place where I had this freelance contract up in the burbs. Best thing about the dream job? Oh, hell, who knows? I'll keep you posted, but one things for sure, I'm about to become a whole lot better-dressed because of it. (That's a hint).

3) Small-world story, at the current gig -- there's this woman there, totally gorgeous, completely sweet, and we liked each other immediately. 3 weeks in, she and I are having a casual conversation, she admires my lotus ring and I tell her where I got it. She knows the store well, since she worked in the area. Where? I ask her. D____ C____ she tells me. I AM ON THE FLOOR. She worked for the same assholes that I did. Oh MY GOD, I say, you're THE Cynthia? The one who got fired on her birthday? We traded war stories, and it turns out that she had been subjected to the same sexual harassment that I had, as had two other women she knew who had left the company. I had a moment of happy schadenfreude thinking, "We are out here in the world, telling everyone what kind of people they are." And I realized that there are more of us than there are of them, which would explain why at a couple of jobs I interviewed for I got this response, "Ohhhh, you worked for D___ C___? I've heard not-so-good things about them." Karma's a bitch, ain't it? (Here Jane laughs her most evil laugh and says "NO, Mr. P, I expect you to DIE!" You know, sometimes I'll throw out these little pop-culture references and I truly wonder if anyone actually notices.)

4) Another reason to love being an adult: I ate a big cupcake for dinner TWO NIGHTS in a row this week.

5) Wednesday was nothing if not an adventure in commuting. Going to work: Train pulls out of Grand Central. Train sits in tunnel for a long time. Train pulls back IN to Grand Central. Metro North kicks us off of train and makes us get on another train, combining THREE trains worth of passengers into one. Our 40 minute train ride takes well over one hour. Total Going to work time, door to door: 2.5 hours.

Then, coming home, train pulls into Grand Central at 6:30 pm, right on time, emerge into the main waiting room to find it eerily empty save the dozens of cops and National Guardsmen directing us firmly, but urgently, to LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. Weird, sinking, anxious post-9/11 feeling as I emerge onto 42nd Street at Vanderbilt to see more cops, firetrucks, a man being rushed by on a gurney by EMT's, three other people being tended to by other EMT's on the curb. And still no idea what's going on. I call my friend Alisa. "Hey, can you turn on Channel 1," I ask her, "and tell me what the fuck is going on up here?" I am walking rapidly away from Grand Central while, surprisingly, some nudnicks are walking TOWARD it to gawk. Hello? Tourists? When you see a whole lot of firetrucks and cop cars, you'd best beat-feet it in the opposite direction. Do you remember what happened six years ago? Net-net, big steam pipe explosion, big crater in Lexington Avenue, blah-blah-blah, and Jane had to walk to 14th Street on a sticky, humid evening. Break for the bathroom in blissfully-cool Barnes & Noble. Total Coming Home Time: 3 hours.

Kids, that's FIVE and a HALF hours commuting on Wednesday. The Dream Job couldn't have happened soon enough!

6) The old Married Guy I Used to Sleep With called me to congratulate me on the Dream Job. Call me a cynical old bitch, but looking back, he's only nice when he thinks there is something in it for him. He's never nice for niceness' sake. I hung up the phone and said out loud, "Not ONE DOLLAR of my business will you EVER get again, you prick." And, to be honest, it felt good.

7) My current hero is Keith Olbermann, for hammering, hammering, hammering the impeachment issue every night of the week. Plus, he's the hottest dorky guy on television.

8) Here's my idea for Michael Vick: Every time he throws an interception, or loses a football game, NFL fans get to shoot at him, douse him with water and electrocute him, or repeatedly pound his head against the ground until he's dead.

No seriously, please BOMBARD his sponsors (which include Nike, Rawlings, AirTran Airways and Hasbro), threatening a boycott if they do not cancel his contracts. I mean, his contracts must be null and void because dogfighting is illegal, right? There must be some clause in them about doing illegal shit, right?

Then, write to the NFL and the Atlanta Falcons and demand that he be fired immediately. Before someone throws the whole Barry Bonds shebang in my face, just remember that whatever Barry Bonds is doing, he's doing it to HIMSELF. Michael Vick participates in a lowlife form of animal abuse, against creatures who have no voice to speak for themselves.

And that, my friends, is just one Jane's opinion.