I have never—and would never—park in a handicapped spot. I thank jeebus I don’t need one and curse anyone who would do something like that.

But while at A Company Called Malice, Inc., I always use the handicapped stall in the men‘s room. It’s more spacious and usually cleaner.

While in disposed yesterday, I tapped out a few text messages. I like to multi-task. Took my time doing it, too.

I finished up, opened the door and the new compliance officer—the one in the wheel chair—was giving me the evil fish eye. I didn’t hear him wheel in and have no idea how long he’d been waiting. I heard other people walk in and out so he had to sit through that.

Poor Ed McMahon. Even in death, he’s a second banana.

This post is for A Free Man who is in Australia. It’ll probably only be of interest to him, those who cannot stand the New York Yankees and those readers who never tire of my biting sarcasm.

I don’t know if the news made it down under, but I wanted to make sure you knew that Tommy Hanson, rookie pitcher for your Braves, pitched a shutout against the Yankees the other night. The mighty Yankees, with a payroll bigger than the GDP of some small nations, tucked their tails between their vaginas and lost to a young kid from Atlanta.

Alex Rodriguez ($275 million) is hitting an anemic .143 in June. He usually waits until October to put up numbers like that. Pitcher C.C. Sabathia ($161 million) only threw 35 pitches in he last outing because his bicep was sore. I thought he might have hurt it trying to fasten his seat belt around his ever-expanding gut, but my friend thinks he might have twisted it while trying to lift his wallet. Pitching ace phenom Chien-Ming Wang (one year @ $5 million) is 0-6. The list is endless. Isn’t that just too funny?!

My Indians are horrific this year but if the Yankees maintain this blistering pace, the season won’t be complete wipeout.

I was in downtown Brooklyn recently and came across this daring claim that was posted on some scaffolding:

Yo, Brooklyn. Downtown Brooklyn—Fulton Street, to be exact—is the epicenter for sneaker culture, so if you’re going to hang a sign that says you’re the best sneaker store in Brooklyn (which is to say, the best in the world), you’d better have the juice to back it up.

I was reading an abridged version of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett to 7-Year Old Daughter the other night and at the end of the story I started to cry. It hit me like a freight train out of a dark night. It’s a beautiful story with a beautiful ending and for some reason the whole rejected/accepted theme got under my skin. I was embarrassed.

I wasn’t exactly blubbering, but tears were streaming down my face and I had to stop several times to compose myself before moving on to the next paragraph. 7-Year Old Daughter had never seen me cry before and I don’t think it freaked her out, but she did have an odd look on her face.

When I finished reading, I kissed her forehead and turned out her nightstand light. She wouldn’t let me put the book back on her bookshelf. She insisted on holding it. She was hugging it close to her body. Mrs. Wife kissed her good night and she still wouldn’t let go of the book.

Now that I think about it, maybe it DID freak her out a bit. From now on, I’m only going to read stories about combat and carnage. After all, I have a reputation to protect.

A few minutes ago I was walking through a corridor in Grand Central Station. It’s only 7:15 in the morning so the mobs haven’t mobilized yet. As I got midway through the passageway, I started to hear the faint notes of a cello being played. Not a recording; live. The acoustics of the passageway gave the notes a richness, particularly in the lower registers. The playing was so superb and the moment so beautiful that I slowed my pace (for once).

Then I saw her. She was an achingly beautiful girl sitting alone along the passageway wall. I don’t know what motivated her to set up at such an early hour since so few people are around to throw money into her open cello case. I tried not to stare but I was so swept up in the sound and vision that I fear I may have watched for a few beats too long.

My commute is a horrifying nightmare but I am occasionally tossed a moment of wonder.