Seated next to me on the train was a 20-something Mexican girl. The conductor informed her that since it was rush hour, she needed to step-up her off-peak ticket an additional $1.50. She didn’t speak English but eventually understood his request.

She reached into her wallet and handed the conductor a $100 bill which, of course, he could not break. It was all the money she had so the conductor pantomimed that she would have to get off at the next stop. She didn’t speak English but by the look on her face I could tell that she clearly understood THAT.

I, hero that I am, handed the conductor the $1.50. She said gracias several times. Then do you know what that ungrateful child did? She popped a Bluetooth in her ear and started loudly yammering away into her cell phone. The volume knob on her voice was set at 8. If there’s a language spoken faster than Spanish, I’m not aware of it (especially if it’s being spoken by a 20-something Mexican girl with a high-pitch, grating voice).

Fortunately for my fellow passengers and I, my cell phone jammer was running on a fresh charge. Of course, I tormented her for several minutes by allowing her to reconnect her call and then knocking out her service. It was delicious fun and she deserved it. I don’t speak Spanish, but I’m pretty sure she was referring to Sprint in derogatory terms.

I can be agreeable but if you cross me I’ll turn on you.

Latest News story link on CNN homepage that I cannot possibly click on this early in the morning:

I committed my first act of blatant, outright cruelty with my cell phone jammer this morning. I’m afraid I’m becoming drunk with all this power I have over the cell phone frequencies on my train. Perhaps the 60+ hour work weeks are getting to me. I’ve been a bit thin-skinned recently.

Apparently, the chatty young gentleman in front of me parked his car in the train lot but was unable to pay the parking fee because the meter didn’t take dollar bills and he had no coins. He was desperately trying to give his friend directions to where his car was parked so the money could be deposited. The meter police patrol the lot quite frequently, so it was only a matter of time until a summons was issued. It’s hard to convey which spot number your car is in (it was 62, by the way) when your phone keeps cutting out.

I don’t know why I didn’t just let him give out the pertinent information and then cut off his call if he started chatting about who was booted off American Idol. I’ve been working so much over the past few weeks that I’m not getting the proper amount of sleep and I’m a bit bitchy. I miss my family and I resent the amount of hours I’m required to work. I took it out on some poor sap who couldn’t pay the parking meter fee. That wasn’t very nice of me.

What is this strange sensation I’m feeling? It’s like a gnat buzzing around my ear. Is this guilt? A conscience rearing its ugly head? God, I hope not. What an inconvenience that would be!

I continue to work horribly long hours at my new consultant gig at Gigantic Institutional Investor. There’s a lot I don’t like about working so late. It’s going to be a while until I am able to sit down and have dinner with the family or make an 8:00 curtain. The New York economy is still a wreck so this is how it must be for now. But there are small pleasures to be had from working late for a Big Corporation.

The days of corporate excess are not completely over. They feed us pretty much whatever we want for dinner. For instance, last night I had a BBQ duck burrito with black beans and rice. Dee. Lish. Us. If I work past 9:00 p.m., which is pretty much every night, I don’t have to deal with Penn Station and New Jersey transit to get home. They provide a company car and driver. It’s a nice black sedan. The only people at Penn Station at that hour of the night are the residents. Once, I walked into the men’s room at 10:30 p.m. and saw a man rinsing a sandwich off in the sink. I feel awful for our downtrodden citizens, but it’s not what I need to see after a 13-hour shift.

Last night was a beautiful, warm, night in Manhattan. I sat in the back seat and rolled down the window as we drove south on Park Avenue and then west across Seventh Avenue, through the fashion district, towards the Lincoln Tunnel. People were out walking in droves. Girls in short black dresses. Hot town. Summer in the city.

Once we’re on the Garden State Parkway, my drivers have an annoying habit of chatting on their cell phones while I’m in the back seat trying to read the paper or meditate or bang out a blog entry. You know the remedy for that, don’t you?

Say hello to my little friend. [And that quote is from…? anyone…? anyone…? Bueller?]

They’re professional drivers and if I asked them nicely, they would certainly stop their calls. But where’s the sport in that?! If you thought people on trains were easy marks, you should get a load of these poor guys. Knocking out a cell phone call is easiest when your intended victim is a mere few feet away.

Today is the 1st Anniversary of this idiot blog. I envy people who are so emotionally evolved that they never look back and have no regrets. Well, that ain’t me, pallies. I can think of, quite literally, DOZENS of things over the past 12 months that I wish I had done differently. But I am glad I began this blog. So there’s that.

A tip o’ the hat to Bobzyeruncle, me blogfather.

Someone from San Diego landed on my blog using the following search phrase:

Oh, is that so? Is it a war you’re looking for? You want a piece of my jammer? Who are you? Some smarty-pants pencil-pushing desk jockey from Verizon?

I’ll lay odds that if your tech guys invent a way to override my cell phone jammer, my tech guys (whom I’ve never met. They’re someplace in Hong Kong.) will invent a device to override your cell phone jammer override device. Pretty soon my bag will be weighed down with electronic espionage and counter-espionage gadgets.

I don’t mean to get all George W. Bush on you but bring it on, junior. I found out firsthand that when I respectfully ask someone to lower their voice, all I get is a dirty look and a suggestion that I go fuck myself. I didn’t want to get all illegal-Chinese-electronics on your ass but my hand was forced. I will fight for my right to nap on a quiet train.

Over the weekend I was listening to Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. I hadn’t heard it in quite a while and I forgot how great it is. It’s a shame she’s such a train wreck because, ladies and gentlemen, that album is the real deal. It’s compelling and listenable from beginning to end. Nowadays, I only ever hear of her when she’s being picked on by the British tabloids. I hope like hell she can pull her shit together one of these days because I’d love to hear more from her. Poor girl.

I have a vicious bout of the old ennui this afternoon. Maybe it’s the relentless gray skies. Perhaps it’s too much Amy Winehouse. Hope it passes real soon.