Since the car seems to be permanently fucked, I’ve been taking the train to work just about every day. I really like taking it in the morning. I get to chill out, listen to some jams and just collect my thoughts for a little while without worrying about all the traffic, getting pulled over, crashing, and all the other shit that comes with flying to work at 95 MPH on I-95.
The day officially begins once I hit Suburban Station. As soon as I step off that train my day transforms into a hilarious metaphorical UFC fight in my mind. I walk confidently through the tunnel under the arena (up the escalator in Suburban Station) with my entrance music pumping through the PA (my iPhone). I’m finally revealed to the eager crowd (average folks on the street) as I make my trek through the aisle toward the ring (from 18th & JFK to 20th & Chestnut). The crowd explodes as I finally step into the octagon (kids nod or say “sup Mr. Rose” as I walk into school). Win or lose, the day is going to be tough for sure. They all are. Man, I just wish I could have Bruce Buffer announce my arrival. Ha… that would rule.
“AND IN THE RED CORNER… FIGHTING OUT OF THE BULLSHIT SUBURBS, AND WEIGHING IN AT WAY TOO MANY POUNDS, FATHER OF THE CUTEST BABY EVAAAARRR… JOSEPH “MR.” ROOOOOOOOOOSSE!”