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.

It's time for my monthly apology for being so slow in posting. I blame lots of work combined with a young daughter who is going through a screaming tantrum phase mixed with a wake-up-at-6am habit that leaves me spent at the end of each day. But in the meantime, I started doing a new EW.com show with Dalton Ross called Must List Live! (the exclamation point means it's exciting), where we talk about all things entertainment and occasionally act like asses. (See below.) Will this suffice in lieu of a real post? No? You are firm but fair.

Lila's sense of humor is slowly developing, and she has just entered the world of the knock-knock joke. She proudly came home from day camp the other day and told me this old chestnut, which she'd heard from a counselor:

Knock knock
Who's there?
Interrupting cow
Interrupting c--....
MOO!

The only problem is, she kept waiting until after I'd said, "Interrupting cow who?" to say "MOO!" thereby rendering the punchline ineffective. I felt compelled to micromanage, and went over it many times until I got her to jump in at the right time. This got her excited about the whole "interrupting" gambit, which led to her improvising these jokes, even though she still doesn't entirely get what a knock-knock joke is:

Knock knock
Who's there?
Interrupting cup
Interrupting cup who?
(she then makes noises like she's sipping from a cup)

We also had "interrupting sandwich," which begat chewing noises. Comedy gold! And then she began getting her jokes from just looking around the room (Knock knock. Who's there? Cherry pit), which led to my favorite:

Knock knock
Who's there?
Medicine
Medicine who?
(long pause, then, tentatively) Sickness?

Ba-dum-bum! You know how some jokes work on two levels? The really good ones work on no levels.

That's not the only thing Lila is learning at camp. Apparently they learned about mummies the other day. At dinner, she said to me, "Daddy, do you know how to make a mummy?" No, I replied. She looked at me seriously: "First, you get a dead person. Then, you turn them into a mummy." I had no idea it could be done in two easy steps! Those Egyptians had it down to a science. It reminds me of the old Steve Martin joke about how you can be a millionaire and not pay taxes: "Okay, first get a million dollars..."

I am at the pharmacy desk of the local Rite Aid. I ask the nice pharmacist if they do cash back. She sure, and asks how much. I say $40. She says, "That's all? I've got a $100 bill in this register!" as if this is a great prize that I can show off to all my friends and pretend I am Mr. Monopoly. (When in reality, it will only get me a dirty look at my local bodega.)

I say, "Well, I don't need that, but okay, how about $80." I don't want to disappoint her; she really seems to like the idea of me going out with a pocket full of cash. She beams, I swipe my card, she opens the register...and there are only two 20s and stack of ones.

She is embarrassed.

I say, "Oh, you got cocky, and now look at you." But there is nothing to do, as she has already put it through the system, and it has been approved by my debit card.

She calls up to the front, but tells me, "They never listen to us back here." Finally, she yells over to the older, head pharmacist, "Henry, I need $80, but I only have $40 in 20s. I've got $40 in ones here, but he doesn't want that." And then Henry, deliberately not looking at me, says, with mild disgust at my snobbish ways, "So give it to him in ones. If someone gave me $40 in ones, I sure wouldn't turn it down." As if I was some snooty billionaire who feeds loose cash to cows if I don't like the denominations. This was a populist spin on the situation worthy of Sean Hannity. I'd take $40 in ones too, if someone offered it to me as a gift. But as this was MY MONEY, I thought I'd opt for not walking around with an eight-inch thick wallet that strained the fabric of my pants. Methinks that Henry spends a lot of time in strip bars.

And that's what made me angry today. The end.