Metalkabout super douche

You love running around the house in your Superman cape. 

Your mom loves it, too. 

So does your uncle Felix. 

And your auntie Fay. 

Even your stepbrother's new girlfriend loves how you pretend to fly around the living room fighting crime and saving damsels in distress. She even let you carry her around the den like she was soaring through the air. 

You're badass in that cape. 

The way you pretend to fight Lex Luthor, feigning weakness from the Kryptonite you find hidden in your mom's coat closet while making a quick change into your Superman cape, is genius!  You fall to the floor as the Kryptonite takes its effect. You gag and choke. You kick and jerk. You ... try ... to ... break ... from ... its ... grip.  But it's useless. 

Then, just when you think you can't take anymore and you, Superman, are about to be done for, a voice from above saves you. 

"Donny! Donny! You're a forty-three-year-old child.  Get up off the floor and go change the baby — she just left a load of Kryptonite in her diaper!"

Never grow up, Donny.  Never grow up.

Metalkabout beating you with your own arm

He warned you!  

He shouted to you at least three times, saying, "Don't touch me, motherfucker! DO NOT TOUCH ME!"  

But you wouldn't listen, couldn't listen.  Because you're a pecker head.  And pecker heads are bad listeners.  Everyone knows that.  Well, usually everyone but the pecker head himself.  

So while people were telling you to quit and stop fucking with the guy, there you were, poking and shoving and knocking him in the ribs with your right arm. 

And for what? 

Because he's a Jethro Tull fan and you're not.  

What the fuck is wrong with you? 

That last push you gave made him knock his beer all over his Wrangler jeans.  The new ones he bought special for tonight's Tull concert.  He turned to you and said: ""Touch me with that arm one more time and I'm gonna rip it off your fucking body and beat the living shit out of you with it!" 

Everyone quieted down, while you stood there laughing, not sure if he was full of shit or could really beat your ass with your own arm. 

But, because you're dumber than a box of rock and don't know how to read people, you opted to ignore what your gut was saying to you and fuck with the guy one more time.  You reached out to push him and, just like that, he went into a massive karate flurry and ripped your right arm clean off your body.  

You stood there, gasping for air between the pain, the blood squirting from the hole that now represented the place where your right arm used to go.  You were whimpering, crying softly, begging him not to do anything else to you. 

"I told you to stop fucking with me, fella!"  he said, as he pounded you in the face with your own arm.  He beat you in the head.  He smacked you in the jaw.  He punch you square in the mouth.  All of it with your own hand, which was attached to your arm, which he was swinging around like some kind of stuffed animal part. 

He beat you so bad that night that you did indeed shit yourself.  Right there, in the bar, in front of all the other hillbillies in the county, you got your ass beat ... by a man swinging your own arm. 

Shitting yourself was just the thing that threw it all over the top.

Next time, shut your mouth.  And maybe just maybe keep your hands in your pockets. 

Fool. 

Metalkabout those hangers-on

A coworker, who is sitting across from you in her cubicle, has a booger in her nose that moves in and out everytime she breathes. 

You'd tell her, but it's more fun to watch the little hanger-on go in and out as she breathes. 

It's kind of green, bloody, and big, not like something a woman of her beauty should have hanging from her nose. You want to tell her — you really do — but, again, it's too funny not to watch. So that's what you're going to do — watch and watch and watch ... as that booger goes up and down in her nose.

Maybe she should invest in a compact mirror, eh?  

Metalkabout "I love cars."

You're Mitt Romney, and what you said yesterday in Michigan is the talk of the town today in Washington. 

You're feeling the a little pressure from Santorum. And rightfully so. He's everyman that every man and woman in the social conservative circle is starting to feel a little more comfortable with, while you're the clown they're starting to wonder about. He's stealing your thunder by being less of the politician that you think America needs you to be and, quite frankly, you can't help yourself form being. 

So yesterday, when you stood in front of those people in Michigan and said ... "I love the trees here because they're just the perfect height and I love the lakes here because they're everywhere and ... and ... I love cars."

I love cars? 

Bahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaa! You stooge. 

You stood there with that dumbfounded look on your face, the same face you're hoping America will burn into its collective memory and recall again come vote day, as if what you'd just said bound you and the people even tighter, made you even closer, attached you to our hip.  

Guess what, bozo ... we all love cars.  

We're just not dumb enough to think it's a commonality that will help us build relationships with others. 

Maybe you should try loving something we can all get behind, like not being a jackass. 

Metalkabout my Oscar speech

In lieu of the Academy Awards, I'd like to share the speech I'd give if I were to win best actor in a feature film:

I'm sitting in the crowd. Clooney is two rows back from me. Pitt is directly in front of me. I'm sure they'll win. They're much better actors than I am. But my fingers are crossed anyway.

Billy Crystal is up on stage. He makes a couple jokes, one of which is aimed at how movie stars are making great commercials these days, saying, "It's halftime, America," pointing to Clint Eastwood,
"and the only thing that's going to save us right now is getting behind the wheel of a Detroit-made car and motoring on down the field to save good ol' U.S.A." The crowd laughs and claps. Everyone knows it was the best Super Bowl spot this year, and they're laughing at the inherent truth in it: that it is time to start looking out for our own and taking our country back. It's time to be number one again.

Then Billy reveals the envelope, saying, "Okay ... the moment we've all been waiting for has arrived."

The room grows still, serious. All eyes on are him. The silence is disturbingly obvious.

"And the Oscar for best actor in a feature film goes to ..."

He pauses. Looks out on to the crowd. I think he looks in my direction, but quickly realize his wife is sitting directly behind me. He slowly opens the envelope, looks inside, laughs, saying, "Sorry, Leo, it's not you this year."

The laughter in the crowd is a bit distracted. Enough of the jokes, Billy. Everyone wants to know who it is. Get on with it! What is the name in that envelope. It's gotta be Pitt. No, it's Clooney. No it's—

"And the oscar goes to ... Jerry Dugan for Another Day Lived."

The crowd erupts. My head goes numb. My mind races. I want to vomit. No, I want to jump for joy. I might pee my pants. Or shit them. Now I'm walking towards the stage. How is this possible? I don't feel my feet. It's like some autonomic response has taken over. I'm walking. Morgan Freeman cuts me off in the aisle and hugs me, saying, "Welcome to the club, my friend." I walk on stage. Billy shakes my hand. Hillary Swank kisses and hugs me. I really want to enjoy this moment with her, but I can't feel my body. Damn you, body, for abandoning me right now!

And then all goes silent again. The room awaits my words with bated breath.

I'm standing there, behind the podium, that beautiful golden statue in my hand. I fumble for the speech in the breast pocket of my tuxedo, making some excuse that I didn't think I'd win so I whipped something up in the limo on the ride over. That's a lie. I slaved over this speech. Labored over it. Because it's loaded with triggers that I know will make me cry. But this is the world's stage. And right now, there are a few people who deserve to be up here with me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I begin speaking.

Thank you.

And thank you, Academy.

Here’s what I know.

I know that I stand before you today on the shoulders of giants.

To each of my fellow nominees: You inspire me to be a better actor — a better human being. I am sincerely honored and humbled to stand alongside youall.

I know that I could not be standing here todaywithout the support of an army of people.

Most import of which is my intelligent, beautiful wife, Jill: Your strength and wisdom and unconditional love … is my nourishment.

You are and will always be my safe place, my home.

And the blessing you’ve bestowed upon uswith our magical little gnomes, Morgan and Luke, is more deserving of this award than any role I could ever play. (holding up the Oscar)

With every ounce of my being, I honor you.

I also know with every ounce of my beingthat I would not be standing here if it were not for one very important person: My little brother Sean.

Only he knows the true path I’ve taken on myjourney to get to this very place, this very moment today.

Sean, in many ways, you have always been my cheerleader.

You knew way before I ever could that my star in life was to be a star in Hollywood — and I would one day be standing inthis very spot, holding this very statue, speaking to you all.

You used to say that you were my biggest fan.

For the record, little brother, I was always yours.

Now … here’s what I don’t know.

I don’t know why you can’t be here with me today celebrating this moment. Our moment.

I don’t know how something like H1N1 can stopa healthy, vibrant, bigger-than-life thirty-eight-year-old in his tracks.

You were a bull, a tank. You beamed with life, Sean.

Your wide, ocean-blue eyes cast happiness and hope and resolve upon all those who were fortunate enough to be consideredfor your gaze.

How those two beautiful windows of life were allowed to unexpectedly close has left me silent with confusion.

And I certainly don’t know — can’t evenbegin to fathom — how it’s OK that you were taken away from Cathy and Patrick. Husband, gone. Daddy, gone. Future of a family, gone.

But then, I’ve yet to meet a person on this planet who holds the answer to these questions.

So while I continue to search my days for answers, little brother, I take today to say thank you.

Thank you for always believing in me.

Thank you for calling bullshit on me whenever it was needed. And weboth know it was needed a lot.

Thank you for always having my back.

For pushing it when I needed you to.

And for patting it when I needed you to.

Thank you for your incredible bear hugs. Hugs that you gave as freely as most people give handshakes.

Thank you for always demanding a kiss on the lips. No matter where we were, or who we were around. A kiss between brothers had to be on the lips. You settled for nothing less.

Thank you for that … for settling for nothing less.

Thank you for idolizing me, even though it was always me who idolized you.

Thank you for being the BIGGEST little brother anyone could ever ask for.

Thank you for loving me.

(holding up the Oscar) This is for you, Sean, wherever you are.

Which, knowing you, is center stage inheaven’s greatest living room, sitting in your ratty old Notre Dame sweatshirt,watching the biggest flat screen ever created, hogging the popcorn and Crunch and Munch and pretzels and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and cake, while surrounded by the many, many new friends you’ve already made in the short time you’ve bee there ... your beautiful, ocean-blue eyes wide and fixed on me — on this moment.

Beaming with joy.

And proud as shit.

We did it!

Metalkabout still a king's kid

"You're a king's kid."

My mother used to say this to my brothers and me all the time, especially during tough times. Which seemed like most of the time, what with my father constantly out of work and my mother cleaning houses to make ends meet.

"No matter what," she would say at the dinner table or while tucking us into bed, "the lord will provide for us ... because you are all king's kids."

I was young, and while her words were comforting, they were also abstract. I really had no idea what she meant.

As I got older, I heard these words less frequently, until they finally stopped being said altogether.

And it wasn't until Sean's funeral that I remembered them again.

I was sitting in a pew, holding my sister-in-law and trying to grasp the reality of what was happening at that very moment, when I looked up at the church ceiling, the same church where Sean and Cathy were married four years earlier. An intricately beautiful design of crowns covered the ceiling. These were kings' crowns. The king's crowns. And that's when it all became clear to me: I'm a king's kid. I'm royalty. I'm a child a god.

But instead of being happy with this epiphany, I stood there, the mass still in progress, more confused than ever. If we — my brothers and me — were kings kids, why had we suffered so much growing up? And why were suffering again? Why did the king take one of his sons - my brother - away from us?

I'm sitting in church writing this entry right now, and I'm still wondering the same things.

Hey, King: I miss my brother Sean.

Metalkabout the perfect day

This is an account of what’s possible when magic, the ability to bend time, and all things considered impossible are anything but.

In other words: a perfect day.

This particular day actually starts at night, a Sunday. I stay up watching my favorite movies: Momentum, State of Grace, Star Wars, The Big Lebowski, every season of The Sopranos and Sponge Bob and Modern Family and Hogan’s Heroes. It takes twenty-three minutes to watch them all.

I hit the sack and sleep until noon on Monday, something I haven’t done since my twins were born. Fortunately, on this magically perfect day, noon is any time I want it to be. So I make it 6AM. And just like that I have a full day still ahead of me.

After reading the NY Times and breezing through the crossword puzzle (a personal first), I call Stuart Elliot, the NY Times advertising columnist, and give him a head’s up about an integrated campaign I’m about to launch. He praises the work and will later use the words ‘never, ever, ever been done before’ and ‘original idea’ and 'Cannes-bound' to describe it in his article, which is tweeted and retweeted more times than anything Ashton “Mr. Twitter” Kutcher has ever tweeted.  

I then take every client call scheduled for the day, write two scripts, sell two scripts, learn I've won a Clio, a Titanium Lion, and a Gold Pencil for a bit of work I'd done months earlier.

My workday is done, and it's only 7:03AM.

I go for a run in Central Park, with the lady whose voice is on the Nike ID app actually sitting on my right shoulder. (Yes, just like the Great Kazoo on the Flintstones.) She encourages me to run faster and farther than ever before, kicking me in the neck and smacking my earlobe whenever I appear to slow down. Sadly, I slow down a lot.

On my fiftieth mile, I stop to save a woman from being mugged on the bridal path. I apprehend her assailant with one hand, while checking email on my iPhone with the other.  The Nike ID lady gets in a couple whacks, too.  The mugger runs off, but not before I snap his picture and text it to the police. He doesn’t get very far.

The woman, amazed at how I was able to juggle a mugger and an in-box full of spam, thanks me (and the little Nike ID lady on my right shoulder) by wiring one million dollars to the bank account of my choice. I choose my Christmas club account because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Plus the Nike ID lady told me a week ago that she wanted a new pair of sneakers for Chanukah. I’m thinking New Balance, just to mess with her teeny-tiny Nike-brainwashed head.  It’s 8:17AM.

Now rich, I continue on with my jog, while wiring bursts of money to the bank accounts of family members and friends. All their debts are paid off. And I still have enough cash left over to buy a hefty amount of Facebook stock, which in a month or so will make me a multi-millionaire.  Mark Zuckerberg, you are a true friend.

I finish my jog and hit the shower, which is a cascading waterfall shooting out of a hole in a cloud in the middle of Central Park’s Great Lawn. I stand on my tippy toes to see where the water is coming from.  And that’s when an alien hand reaches out and snatches me up into the cloud hole.

I’m gently placed on a pillow of marshmallow fluff, which I can’t help but scoop up and shove into my mouth. Thousands of alien women surround me. They offer me fruits I've never tasted before but enjoy so much that I jump out of the cloud to bring them back to earth to turn into a new food source for every starving person in the world. From the moment I plant the first seed of this unknown yet magical fruit, world hunger ends. Done-zo!

I jump back into the cloud hole to thank the kind alien ladies. They, in turn, introduce me to their leader: Kurt Vonnegut. Star struck, I ask him if he would sign a copy of Cat’s Cradle, which magically appears in my hand the minute I say it.  He signs the book with his infamous * mark (a hiney h*le), and says, “Now go, you boob. Oh, and tell that other boob Stuart Elliot that I was not a hackneyed copywriter before I became a real writer. I just preferred writing science fiction instead of ads for ladies underpants. Got it?”  I nod an agreeable nod, as an alien hand picks me up and drops me through the cloud hole. I land in the lobby of my apartment building on the Upper West Side. 

Actually, I land on top of my superintendant, immediately remembering the leaky faucet my wife keeps asking me to have him look at. As we stand up, he snaps his fingers and it's done. Faucet fixed.  Magically perfect day, I love you.

It's now 10:30AM. Just over three hours have passed since I went for a jog, saved a life, became a millionaire, and met the alien ladies from the cloud hole who helped me end world hunger. A month felt like a minute.

I walk into my apartment and go straight to the bedroom, where I left my wife sleeping at 6AM. I wake her by summoning the rapper Ice Cube from our closet. As he sings his hit single Today Was A Good Day, I hand her a dozen roses that just so happen to be in my hand.  She gets out of bed in a beautiful gown and high heels. The music changes to a corny-but-moment-appropriate waltz.  We dance, moving from the bedroom to the living room, which turns into a beach on Easter Island.

After spending a week in paradise (which is the equivalent of a little over an hour on this magically perfect day), we return to our living room and prepare to wake up our twins, Morgan and Luke, for lunch. It’s now 11:30AM. Diapers must be changed and mouths filled. A pleasant footnote about this magical day: people, babies in particular, do not poop. So there are no diapers to change. It's for this reason alone that I never want this perfect day to end.  

As a family we walk into the dining room (singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star), where mommy and daddy sit down and our eighteen-month-old babies make us pancakes, eggs Florentine, and Bloody Marys. What? They’re advanced for their age.  And they watch the Food Network constantly. And … well, we’re hungry after our trip to Easter Island.  It's 12:15PM.  

I make a quick call to Dionne Warwick's psychic hotline to ask if there's anything unexpected I should be looking for today.  Dionne speaks in songs and riddles, both of which I do not understand. She leaves me with one tip about this magically perfect day: I can visit those who have passed on to the other side.

First I think: Wow! That’s the best $1.99 a minute I’ve ever spent.

Then I think: Sean.

If there’s one thing that could make this perfect day anymore perfect, it’s talking to my little brother one more time.

I tell my wife.  She thinks I should go see him.  I say I don’t know how.  She suggests calling Dionne Warwick again to find out what the secret to getting in touch with Sean really is.

I do exactly that, spending another $1.99 a minute on the call. Dionne hits me with more songs and riddles, one of which gets me thinking: “Rhymes with prickly thumb,” she says. 

“Prickly thumb?” I ask.  “Hmm.”

I start mulling over what it could be: “Icky bum?” I think.  No.  “Slippery tongue?” I wonder. No.  Then it hits me:  “Sticky bun!”

Sean’s at Charlotte airport eating a sticky bun at the CINNABON stand!!!  It was his favorite thing to do when I came into town to visit the family.  He’d be the first one to offer to pick me up, just so he could get one CINNABON. Or three. Or five.

I tell my wife.  We quickly pack, get the twins ready, and take off for the airport.  We leave New York and arrive at Charlotte airport in just under five minutes. Teleportation is also possible on this magically perfect day.  It’s 2:39PM.

I get to the CINNABON stand, nervous and excited and, honestly, a little hungry for the cinnamon goodness of a sticky bun myself. Sean’s nowhere to be found.  But then, he was notoriously late. Makes sense he’d be tardy coming back from the great unknown, too. 

Jill and I grab a table, thinking we’ll get a couple CINNABONS for the twins so they’re full, happy, and on their best behavior when they meet their uncle for the first time.

Preoccupied with what I’m going to say to my little brother when I see him, I walk up to the counter, not bothering to look at who’s about to take my order. 

“Hey, J, what can I get you?” I hear.  (Sean was the only one who called me ‘J’.)

I quickly look up to see my little brother wearing a CINNABON uniform — paper hat, nametag, and so on.  “What the fu—!?!”  I question.

“Welcome to heaven … on earth,” he says.

“Dude, you look ridiculous,” I say.

“Don’t hate,” he says. “Get the #5. You get a free CINNABON if you order before 3. Oh, and dibs on that free one!”

“Don’t you get free food for working here?” I ask.

“Ha! We get 10% off.”

“Blows. OK … guess I’ll take the #5.” I say.

“Would you like to super size that?”  He asks.

My mind is blown. Not only is my little brother standing in front of me, he’s also working at CINNABON on his off-hours as an angel. Whoa!  It’s 2:51PM.

What happened beyond this is a story for another day.  But I will say this: Not a second of this perfect day was wasted. Minutes were transformed into years, hours into whole centuries. Sean’s life was full and rich and everything he dreamed it would be.

His four-year-old son, Patrick, enjoyed a lifetime of perfect days with his daddy in the span of minutes. His wife, Cathy, was held in Sean’s bear-hug embrace so tightly that its affect will last forevermore. My parents spent enough time with their son that day to last a lifetime. My brothers had their middle brother to taunt and tease and love again, even if for just a few moments. My twins got to finally meet and truly know their big, bright, beaming, gregarious uncle Sean. And I … I got to tell the only person on the face of this planet, the person who knew me at my best and brightest and worst and darkest, the person who trusted me as much as much as I trusted him, the person I called and still call my best friend the two things I didn’t get to tell him on the not-so-perfect day he died: Goodbye. And I love you.

It was a perfect day indeed.

It’s midnight. 

Metalkabout thumbs up

You’re the scholarly-looking fellow sitting in the Starbucks on Broadway and 88^th street while feverishly typing away on your iPad 2.  Most people who come within a few feet of you can feel the intensity radiating from your body. “He must be writing something important,” many of them think.  “Maybe it’s tomorrow’s New York Times Op-Ed on the war in America or this political debacle referred to as Campaign 2012 or maybe it’s the real unemployment numbers, because 8.3% seems like hype,” some speculate.  All the while, you continue to type, pounding away at the keypad like you’re in the middle of a piano solo at the Met.  Yet anyone thinking any of this about you couldn’t be more wrong.  You are not scholarly. Nor are you writing about anything as pointed as an Op-Ed.  No. You are writing an ad from Craig’s List.  And you are asking for the same thing you ask for every time you write this ad:  Someone to put his or her thumb up your butt while you’re leaning into your refrigerator cleaning it out.  And tonight you hope to do it while wearing your New York Giants jersey. You’re even hoping to get a Giants and Patriots fan to participate in the sinful display of your absurd sexuality.  Scholarly?  Hardly.  Perverted and kinky and a freak of a man that’s got a serious fetish?  You betcha, Jack. Go Giants! With a thumb or two up your ass.  

Metalkabout you’re a butthead

Congratulations!  

You’re the first fool to actually get a ticket for smoking in the park. 

Yes, you just got ticketed for lighting up a cigarette. Not a joint. Or a meth pipe. Not even a spoon to heat a hit of heroine.  A cigarette. 

A fucking cigarette. 

As the cop wrote you the summons, others in the park lit up in defiance of “The Man” and to signify that his ticket was absolute horse shit.  You couldn’t agree more.  But it was happening to you, not them, so you ratted them out, saying, “See! Everyone’s smoking in the park, officer!” 

To which he replied: “I’m not looking at everyone. I’m looking at you, ma’am.”  

“Ma’am! Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, you pig? I’m a twenty-eight-year-old sexy-ass woman.  Not your granny.  Not your mommy. Not a ma’am.  You fucking flat-foot dope!”

“Yes, ma’am, I can see that,” he said, eyeing you up and down. He then flipped his ticket book over and started writing you another ticket. 

“What are you doing now!?!” you demanded. 

“I’m writing your mouth a ticket for foul language, ma’am.  Perhaps you and that potty mouth of yours should relax and be quiet, before I arrest you both for disorderly conduct in public,” he said.  “If you'd like, feel free to smoke.”

“What?” you questioned. 

“Yeah, go ahead and light up if you like. You just paid for the privilege, after all.” 

Have a nice day, only person in New York to ever be issued a ticket for smoking in a park.      

Metalkabout the man on the roof

You're standing on the roof of your building smoking a cigar. You're in your own little dream world, looking out at all the surrounding buildings on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, thankful for the life you now live, the family you've created, the million-dollar deal you just closed.  Life could not get any better for a guy like you.

Meanwhile, as you appreciate and savor the majesty of the city around you, a lady stares out her window from the building across the street.  She's been watching you for five minutes, and she hasn't taken her eyes off of you since.

In her mind, you're having a rough time with life these days, what with the market going kaput and you being a soulless hedge-fund douche who lost everything in the crash of 2008. You've lied, cheated, stolen, and overextended yourself to the point of a total meltdown, which is happening at exactly this moment. And as you stand on the roof, she interprets it as the precipice of your most important decision ever, each drag of your cigar taking you one step closer to the building's edge and a decision that's tragically irreversible.

She's wrapped in a towel, just having stepped out of the shower and into her bedroom when she first saw you. She shivers, partly because she can feel the winter's cold in the air and partly because she fears what she's about to witness.

Yet she does nothing.

She doesn't pick up the phone to call the police. She doesn't open her window and shout to you, trying to convince you that your life is worth more than you may think at this moment. She doesn't even answer the cries of her screaming baby in the next room. She does nothing. Except watch, continuing to tell herself her made-up version of your life's story.

She does nothing, says nothing, because she, like each of us, loves a train wreck.  We love to hear about them. And we love to witness them. None of us would ever admit this, of course, but we do. And while we disingenuously feign horror when these terribly, often life-altering moments go down, we also secretly relish them when the news comes or, if we're lucky, when we see it firsthand.

Sadly, in just a few minutes, the only thing that will go over that roof will be the your still-lit cigar.  In a moment of total and utter satisfaction at this rosy and magical world of yours, you will flick the cigar from your hand, sending it over the edge and, quite unintentionally, into the window of a passing car driving north up Amsterdam Avenue.

The driver, a Mr. Jeremy Hirst, behind the wheel of a 2011 BMW 7 Series, will be struck in the face by the cigar before it lands in his lap.  Within seconds, the pain center of his brain will register what's happening and send him into total panic.  He will swerve to the left, then the right, then ... lose control of the car. It will flip once, twice, three times before landing upside and sliding another 300 feet into the storefront of a bodega on 93rd Street.

Mr Hirst will not make.

But you, having heard the noise just as you turned to go back inside, will run to the roof's edge to see what was happening below. And when you're reporting what you saw to the police and your family and the reporters, you will say what we all say in these moments, "I could hardly watch as I saw what was happening. It was horrible. Just horrible."

But you did watch. And you had very little trouble doing it.

Problem is, the woman looking out her bedroom window, well, she saw everything, too. And what she saw is the one thing you didn't see: She saw what caused the train wreck in the first place.

Didn't anyone ever tell you not to throw shit off the roof, Mr. Happy To Be Alive?

Good luck in Sing-Sing.