I went to the dentist's last week and had a new hygienist who was very businesslike, though very professional. She clearly took her job very seriously, and I like that in a hygienist. There's nothing worse than someone who takes your gums lightly.

And yet I was surprised that every single time she was about to put that tiny mirror-on-a-stick in my mouth, she would pause, look me in the eye, and tell me, "Now, I'm about to put this mirror in your mouth, and you're going to feel it against your tongue." She said this every time, as if she was bracing me for an imminent prostate exam. Don't they always put the metal mirror in your mouth? Who is shocked by that and swats her arm away, yelling, "What the hell are you doing? I've been okay with you dragging a sharp metal hook against my teeth, but this time, madam, you have gone too far!" And the way she mentioned my tongue every time indicated that that was the part that she felt most people might find shocking. Yes, the tongue can be an intimate part of the body, but I think when you're in the dentist's chair, you're never going to mistake the mirror move for a pass. Though I guess maybe it's the masochist version of a french kiss.

I'm a few days late on this, but such is the world of daily kid-and-work-related exhaustion. On Sept. 11, my Facebook friends' status updates were peppered with some variation on "Never forget," often with them recounting where they were that day. (I was at the gym listening to Howard Stern—if I may insert my own "I was there…kinda" story—and then, stunned, returned to my Manhattan apartment, where I later looked out my window to see a parade of ash-covered people trudging up 8th Avenue.) Anyway, all day long I was constantly pelted with reminders of that awful day. Later that afternoon, Christine and I were driving to Long Island for a memorial service. Listening to the one decent rock radio station in all of New York, I heard a DJ break after a song and play a familiar "Today in history" jingle.

Uh-oh, I thought, this won't be good. As the ominous intro blasted, the DJ – with no irony whatsoever – announced that he was looking back on the calendar, and it turned out that on this very day…Peter Gabriel took home a bunch of trophies at MTV's VMAs for his "Sledgehammer" video.

Really? You couldn't skip "this day in history" on September 11th? I can imagine the intern delegated by someone on autopilot to check the rock encyclopedias, and nothing else about Sept. 11th really struck him. Yes, we must never forget this momentous day, it will be etched in our memories, because our blind innocence was shattered when we realized that claymation could triumph over live action in the music video field! I was waiting for Dick Cheney to come on Fox News, warning that another claymation revolution was imminent if our socialist president didn't do something proactive.

On a wildly different tangent, I just finished mixing a new jug of orange juice from concentrate. Now, I make two tins worth at a time, because I am that fucking into Vitamin C. I drink that shit like it's orange juice. Which it is, so my intake is glug-appropriate. Anyway, every time I make a batch, I pour in the two tins of concentrate, then the 6 total tins of water, and then I stir it up with a wooden spoon. And I just realized that every time after I do this, I take a small spoonful out and sip it, as if I am tasting a fine homemade soup that I have been slaving over all day. Is this my unconscious need to fool myself into thinking that this counts as cooking? Because really, this taste test can only result in one of three results: just right, too much water, or too little water. Although who knows, maybe next time I'll add a dash of cumin and revolutionize the OJ world. Shove that up your ass, Julie and Julia.

I was on the subway Tuesday night and just as the doors were closing, someone stuck his foot in the door and asked loudly what the next few stops were. After he was told, he got in and slouched on a bench. He looked like an aging hippie; he had a ponytail and a denim jacket that was emblazoned with patches touting good liberal causes like “Housing Rights for All” and “Peace.” It was like Woodstock just blew into the A train. What a delight! Peace, dude!

I turned away and buried my nose in a book for a few minutes, and then nearly leapt out of my seat when I heard, “FUUUUCK!” I looked up and around, and saw everyone else on the car doing the same thing, while the hippie just sat with a leg up, smiling peacefully. I calmed down and went back to the book. A couple of minutes later: “SHIIIIT! FUCK!” It was clear that it was the hippie. A hippie who proclaimed peace and love in his own special way, through profanity.

The swearing continued, about every 60 seconds, at first one word at a time, but then gathering speed to feature a few strung together, and occasionally devolving into mushmouthed muttering. I tried not to look up, as when I did, he was staring in my direction. One thing you learn about New York City subways is that you should forget everything you ever learned from movies about standing your ground. No good can ever come from confronting someone who is clearly crazy. You will never get the response, “You’re right sir, I am being obnoxious. Thank you for pointing out the error of my ways.” You will get lunatic rants and possible hurled feces or worse. So everyone in the car just stared straight ahead, or reading the same sentence over and over in their book or magazine, bracing themselves for the next howl.

This guy likely had Tourette’s, but I’ve never seen such an aggressive case of Tourette’s. These weren’t yips or ordinary barked-out swears: these were full-throated yells, the kind you need to take a deep breath to produce. It was like he was determined to be the best damn Tourette’s patient ever. And considering that everyone had been stunned into dead silence, it was all the more jarring when he would break the silence with his bellowing. The tension caused by waiting for his erratic outburst became unbearable. It reminded me of that scene in Boogie Nights when the houseboy to Alfred Molina’s coked-up dealer randomly throws lit firecrackers around the house as “Sister Christian” plays. And yet if you weren’t looking at him when he yelled, you would never guess it was him. Every time I stole a glance, he was just sitting back, leg up on the seat, smiling like he was thinking about Richie Havens. And then, apparently, he thought of just how much he hated Richie Havens, and bellowed, “SHIT COCK!”

He stayed on for about five stops, and it was weird seeing new people get on. You felt helpless, like you wanted to say, “By the way, just so you don’t shit yourself, be warned that that guy is about to scream at the top of his lungs with no warning. Enjoy your ride!” I wonder what they thought about those of us who were already there when they first heard it: “Wait, so you guys have just been riding along with this guy and haven’t thought to move?” It’s kind of the way I feel when I walk into a subway car that is choked with body odor because of one guy sleeping in a corner in clothes that have been carefully marinated in his own filth; peppered around the car are sad little commuters who look like they’re sheepishly thinking, “Sure, it smells like rotting flesh, but at least I have a seat.” I’ll usually dash out to another car at the next stop, but I’d be lying if I didn’t sometimes tell myself, “Well, I can get used to that, because: seats!” (I should note that such insanity and horrific smells are no longer the norm in New York subways; but they’re still enough of a recurring factor that you sigh in recognition when faced with them, rather than squeal in shock.)

Another subway tale: A few weeks ago I was on a really crowded train when I caught a glimpse of color through the crowd in a back corner. When people shifted around, I realized that, wedged in a corner seat sat a clown in full makeup with a balloon hat. She was probably on her way to a party or something, and decided to get in character before her commute rather than at the house. But it was such a lesson in the power of the oppression of rush hour that it could suck the joy out of a clown. One would hope that she would leap up and make a balloon animal or honk her nose or something and it would startle everyone out of their grim, crushed moods. The clouds would part, songs would be implanted in everyone’s heart, and we would all skip into our apartments upon debarking and kiss our wives or husbands extra hard. “You wouldn’t believe what happened on the subway! We were all crabby, but then out of nowhere, a clown popped up! Oh, how merry! Let’s go learn how to juggle!”

But instead, the clown got smushed into a corner and nobody made eye contact with her. People pressed up against her bag of tricks, and she kept bending down to pull it closer to her to make sure it didn’t get trampled. Up until this moment, I’d never seen a clown with a furrowed brow before. Advantage, rush hour.