Well, in Chicago we don’t call it the subway. It’s the “el” which is short for “elevated train” because it does, in fact, go above ground. The trains also go below ground, too. I’m sticking with “subway,”  although this incident technically happened at an elevated structure.

It wasn’t supposed to be snowing or cold yesterday  morning. 18 ° was projected but 3 ° with strong flurries was what happened. I prepared for the weather with a heavy jacket and gloves. Since I take the dog to work, I covered her in three layers of clothes and then stuffed her into a backpack. Out we went.

In single degree temperatures at 8am standing on the train platform I could sense an overall depression among the commuters. There’s no sun and the cold hurts your skin, eyes, and ears. I boarded the train after a few minutes of waiting.

Immediately after I enter a subway car I lean against the wall partition perpendicular to the door. I take off my backpack and carefully place it between my legs which are shoulder length apart. This protects the dog should anyone accidentally kick her while walking in or out.

I have a policy where I only stand while on the subway. This is for one reason – I don’t want to be the douche who sits when women, old people, and children are standing. Also, I’d have to put the backpack on my lap and that would draw more attention to the fact that I have a dog on a train that explicitly doesn’t allow dogs.

I make sure that because I stand by the door, if it’s crowded when people are getting off or on I exit momentarily to allow for more space. Usually I don’t have to as I’m not blocking the entryway. I make sure people don’t have to strain to get around me.

At the first stop I was in my usual spot and the train was empty. There were plenty of open seats and I was one of three people standing. The entryway was clear when the door opened. A few people lumbered on.

At the tail of the group was a tall man bundled up. Instead of entering the train he stopped short of the door. He looked me in the eye and started yelling. I had my headphones on so I didn’t catch his first few sentences. Not wanting to miss anything further I took off my headphones as fast as I could.

He was angry and shouting something about me blocking the door. I wasn’t blocking the door as evidenced by the group that just entered the train. His face was beet red. A huge laugh welled up in me and I exploded. I laughed right in his face. We were approximately three feet apart.

Stunned, his face went blank for a moment while he processed my reaction. I’m sure he was expecting me to move or get angry or stay silent while he unloaded on me. But I couldn’t take it seriously. While laughing I said to him, “Wow! You’re really fired up!” He kept yelling and was so into it that he let the door close without entering the train. I watched the door shut while he was still bellowing at me. He pounded on the window to keep my attention. Then he flipped me the middle finger.

There’s nothing funnier than receiving the middle finger. I can’t remember the last time it happened. Probably ten years.

I lost it at this point. I started laughing harder and pointed at his middle finger as if to say, “That was a great one! Good joke!” Plus, I knew that the more I laughed the more incensed he’d feel.

Laughing at someone when they’re angry is dehumanizing. You’re invalidating their existence and reducing their passion to novelty. It’s also the reaction least expected and cuts deep into one’s insecurity. I recommend it highly in situations like this.

As the train pulled away I realized that I had single-handedly ruined this person’s morning. My guess is that he’s a bully-type and it’s probably not the first time he mixed it up with someone on the train. I’m sure he goes around all the time yelling at people who stand near the entrance.

I’ve learned to not let crazy people bother me. They can’t help it. It’s just how they are.

But I refuse to give up my power to bullies. You shouldn’t either.

Laugh at them.

photo credit: smaedli via photopin cc

With no hyperbole, this seminar is fifty-five hours. In four days. Here’s the breakdown.

• Thursday: 1:00 p.m. – midnight
• Friday: 8:30 a.m. – midnight
• Saturday: 8:30 a.m. – 1 a.m.+
• Sunday: 9:00 a.m. – 7:00 p.m.

You really have to commit to this bad boy. My boss was generous enough to pay for my admission and I’m pretty excited. I know a lot of people goof on Tony, but I’ve been a big fan since I was nineteen. I’ve read his books, listened to virtually every audio program, and now, finally attending a presentation.

If I had more wits about me I would have stayed at the hotel instead of driving forty-five minutes home each night. I have a dog and she needs to go out but I could have boarded her. So each night, geeked out on adrenaline and dopamine, I’ll be driving home. I’m not complaining. Friends who have been to this event have just told me it’s exhausting. I’ll try to live tweet as much as possible. I’m sure there will be plenty of humor to be found.

Why am I going? I’m looking for more balance in my life. I’ve noticed there’s a few areas where I need to step it up. First is my physical health. You’d think since I’m dating regularly I’d be in pristine shape, but I’m really not. Too much eating at restaurants and staying out late with dates. Also, I’m not writing as much as I have in the past. Last year was crazy as I wrote every day, but I’ve really been slacking. Lastly, and most importantly, for the man footing the bill, it’s time to take our business to the next level. We have a lot of irons in the fire currently and I need to keep driving revenue.

I know a lot of people would rather make fun of a “motivational” seminar than attend and I’ve never really understood that. I figure if I get just a few key ideas that can help balance and propel me forward then it’s worth it. And what if I meet a hot chick who’s really into self-improvement? That’s my stupid fantasy, just like when I get on an airplane – that somehow I’m going to be seated next to some goddess who loves a guy with a little Chihuahua and a narcissistic blog.

Oh, I’d like to add something. A Jehovah’s witness found my wallet yesterday. I was completely freaked out because it had fallen out of my dog backpack in the street of a busy intersection. A bus driver found it and phoned my insurance agent. When I called the guy (John) I praised him as my new savior and told him Jesus was now second fiddle to me. I didn’t know he was a religious man until I picked up the wallet from his bus stop. He had placed a copy of The Watchtower in a sack with my wallet. I gave him $50 as a reward.

Now, I’m not going to read it because I’m lazy and religions that don’t celebrate birthdays are out for me. But, if returning lost stuff is part of their deal, I gotta support that. So, from now on Jehovah’s Witness if the official religion of ThoughtsFromParis. Sorry Christianity. Wait – is it Christianity? I’m too lazy to Google.

Okay, off to the seminar. I’ll be live-tweeting everything awesome.

I ride the subway to and from work during the winter months. Lately I’ve noticed that I’m one of the older people. It’s mostly kids in their twenties. At thirty-six I don’t feel too old to take the train. In NYC you have people in walkers dropping dead on the D line. But here in Chicago the “L” (short for “elevated train”) is a young man’s game. Even the pretty women look too young. They’re twenty-five but look like children. I’m getting older.

Most of my friends who are married with children have moved to the suburbs for some yard and quiet. I don’t blame them. The suburbs are a place where you can focus on family. Who wants to navigate a stroller through Wrigleyville streets during the hour after a Cubs victory? Dudes with painted chests are heaving into sewer grates. It’s funny, for sure. But maybe not ideal for a lactating mother.

Oh, by the way in eighth grade our school hired this performance artist to work with us to do a show. I was chosen along with about ten others and we created a live piece to go along with some dopey Shel Silverstein poems. The artist was this woman that wore this spandex uni and at the end of each practice her front was soaked at the nips. I didn’t understand what was going on at the time. I just assumed she had a sweat thing going on. Anyway, artists are weird.

I’ve written about not being one of those dicks who takes a seat on the train. Stand up if you’re a guy. I ride forty-five minutes each way and have sat down maybe ten times in twelve years. But, as manly and rugged as I am for standing, I am carrying two bags. One is the backpack that I stuff my dog. Technically she’s not allowed on the train but technically she’s not allowed in the grocery store either and I violate that rule weekly. But because I only want to seem like half a weirdo, I don’t wear the backpack when on the train.

There’s a few reasons for this. First, it takes up space. We’re usually crammed in pretty tight and I don’t want to be banging my dog’s skull against some dude’s iPad. Yes we’re all impressed he have the WSJ app loaded up for all to see. The second reason is I wear a suit to work. Nothing looks dorkier than a guy in a suit with a backpack. Lastly, I don’t want to be the guy who’s like, “Hey look at my cute tiny dog in the backpack!” I’ll let iPad guy with the Beats Audio headphones get all the attention.

Also I carry, and I’m not exaggerating or joking, a blue tote bag. This houses my lunch, my keys, a to-do notebook, and some random papers.

There’s no pockets, zippers, or anything resembling masculinity. I had a steak knife in there up until yesterday when I saw the blade poking out of the side. I stuffed it in there a few weeks ago to cut a sandwich at work and forgot to take it out. I’d say the odds are good I nicked a few passengers without noticing.

So, between the blue tote bag and the dog backpack I have some cargo. Still I stand. I put these both between my legs. They’re just a little too wide for a normal stance, so I end up wider than I’d like. It’s like I’m starting to go into a groin stretch. I’m sure it looks real normal.

Once again this post totally got away from me. My intention was to write about the cute girl with the nose piercing that I see almost every day. She gets on my train and has been doing so for a good year now. We’ve never spoken and I’m not interested in talking with her, but I’d love it if we gave each other a tip of the cap each morning. In my fantasy world I pull her aside and say, “Hey, nose-stud, every time you get on the train, wink at me and nod your head knowingly. In return I’ll make room over by me for you to stand so you never again have to feel a stranger’s erection against your back. I take care of my own.”

Note – “my own” meant “my friends and family” not “my privates.”

But these things never go well. The moment I say, “Hey, I’m going to talk to you now which nobody else does to each other on the train! Don’t be weirded out that seventeen other people are hearing our conversation,” she’d  think I was hitting on her and then it would be awkward every morning. Or maybe she’s start going to a different car – the ultimate rejection.

So, I’m just going to keep standing with a dog between my legs, a tote next the that, and a spread eagle stance on a crowded train. I’ll keep my mouth shut and my “Hey, I know you!” smiles to myself. Or maybe I’ll talk to her if for no other reason that to report back to you guys. If my next post is, “Pepper Spray Doesn’t Do Dick”  than you know I tried.