Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200

If you live in this fine city and rely on underground mass transit to get to work, then you surely had a rough time of it this morning. I know I did.

This was the only morning in the history of this job that I had to be here at a certain time. I had a 9:30 interview scheduled. The plan was to be out of the house by 8:15, get in around 8:45 and then prep and mainline caffeine until 9:30. No such luck.

First, it's pouring, which makes both fully waking up and looking pretty nearly impossible. Then I, along with two hundred of my closest fellow commuters, wait for an F-Train. Announcements are made. No one can understand them. The train finally arrives and we are told it is running on the A line, which is fine for me actually. We go up one stop to Broadway-Lafayette. We sit there. I walk across the platform to the D, which doesn't leave for 25 minutes. The second the train starts moving, a baby starts screaming. 10 seconds later, the train stops. So does the baby. For the next 45 minutes it's stop. Start. Scream. Stop. Silence. Start. Scream. I am in hell. Everyone in the car looks as though they could snap at the slightest provocation and beat someone to death with their umbrella.

I arrive at 9:25, with just enough time to hook my tape recorder up to the phone and call my interview subject. No prep. Luckily, she talked and talked and talked and answered all of my questions before I even asked them.

If Vincent Gallo had taped my entire commute in real time, and put a blow job at the end, he could have made another "art film."