THE SUBWAY DIARY IS 100 DAYS OLD TODAY!

If it were a baby, its grasp would be weak, its perception blurry, and it would live a life of nipple-sucking, crying, giggling, shitting, and pissing.

Yeah, so I went out with my friend Alex to celebrate. We snorted baking soda (since coke gives me a nosebleed) and hung out for a while in our favorite dingy bar in the Village. It looked good I would hook up with this girl; she was dressed up as Tip O'Neill. She works in Washington as a dominatrix, and she told me the outfit is a big pull .

Call me a waggling hooligan, but it's been my fantasy since I was eleven to eat a jelly roll from the ass crack of Tip O' Neill.

Imagine my frustration when she refused. I flashed my wallet, but since it only held my college ID, she turned and walked.

So that cut that part of the night short, so we got all these alley cats--you know the ones I mean? in that parking lot in Soho?--and shaved the squirming little bastards with my Alley Cat Shaver brand alley cat shaver (pat. pend.). But they won't let us bring the cats into the Angelica, so we let 'em free.

I get some odd compulsions...[dictaphone cuts off]

effin = "F"-in' = Fuckin'.

The obvious joke at the end of this sentence would be to say, "come to think of it, this describes my life pretty well." Admirable effin restraint, don't you think? Especially considering how sophomoric this thing is.

This bar is so cool it cannot be named. It's in a basement, and it's kind of grimy. The only people who get to come to this bar are aspiring Midwestern poets dying to discuss Baudrillard. It's so exclusive you need to show your thesis to get in. There are thousands of bars like this in New York, but you're required to take a written exam to gain entrance. Everyone else has to go to "Jekyll and Hyde."

Tip O'Neill was Speaker of the House, a Democrat, and a donut-eating, lobster-skinned Irishman of the last true political generation. From 1992 to 1997, he has been dead. His natural eroticism is rarely examined in the popular media, although Camille Paglia might get to it, if you ask her.

Other popular dominatrix costumes are Nancy, Barbara, and Socks.

For those who don't get the joke, "The Ass Crack of Tip O'Neill" is a song by Bruce Springsteen.

Portions of this sentence originally appeared in "Visions of Peace," by Albert Schweitzer. It originally read, "Call me a waggling hooligan, and I'll kick your ass."

The original reference for note number five has been edited out, so I will simply point out that I heard a radio commercial for geriatric diapers today, in which an old-sounding woman said, "I never have to worry about my bladder anymore. It's the best thing since hot buttered toast."

That's one hell of a comparison.

"Soho" was named after the cry of "soupers," men who travelled the streets and both sold soup and negotiated for the purveyance of prostitutes. Their cry, "Soup! Whores!" was abbreviated in practice to "Soho! Soho!" Because of the number of hungry, single, male imported laborers in Manhattan's Lower East Side, a ready market was found for the souper's wares.

(New York The Way It Was Meant To Be, by Francis 1/cos Atra, 1965.)

Bet you didn't know I'm an inventor, as well as a brilliant humorist and the main reason for women to stay indoors. If anyone tries to patent an Alley Cat Shaver before me, I'll break their arms and legs and they can patent the goddamned wheelchair, instead. I've worked thirteen years perfecting the Alley Cat Shaver. It contains three thousand moving parts and does not require the cat to be literate. I read the case story of the guy who invented the methane-powered waffle iron, who got beat to the kay oh by the Japanese in 1986. It's not happening to me, so you can keep your goddamn exclusive contracts and your effin political Frankenstein death machine. I won't sell out even if my shaver means the end of national security, which it goddamn well might. This'll be the biggest thing since the Garden Weasel, and I'm going to make a million or more and I doubt any sonofabitch from the Pacific Isles is gonna take the cash from my arms to put back into his sonofabitch country. Finally, without a complicated generator, without an FCC license, everyone will be able to shave their own alley cat. Every effin alley cat in God's own you ess of aye will be shaved smooth as a waxed Camaro. That's gonna be my legacy, not some sonofabitch foreigner criminal spy bastard satellite asshole's.

The Angelica is a culturally significant movie house which sells an eight dollar cup of coffee.

Okay, as for compulsions, for a few weeks there, I listened to music from the 1940's on my record player, and trained myself to sing in the Tin-Pan Alley decrescendo-crescendo-falsetto style. I get interests like a compulsive idiot, pursue 'em, then move onto another topic. What a geek.

The week before that, it was rendering harmonic waves on my homegrown oscilloscope and searching for chord structures. What a geek.

The week before that, it was a bottle of lotion and, well, yeah. What a geek.

The week before that, it was Barrel of Monkeys and Tetris. What a geek.

The week before that, it was Henry James. What a geek.

The week before that, it was Orson Welles. What a geek.

The week before that, it was electronics theory. What a geek.

The last 100 days, it's been the Subway Diary. What a geek.

this ending happened ex machina.

I propose a tense of "paglia" as a verb: