“A strong, vertical, black rectangle with a bald head is a lovely shape.”

11.30 p.m. on a Thursday night, reclining in a big old chair with an all too serious expression on my face. All that's missing is the fez, cravat, smoking jacket and secret handshake. I could easily pass for a member of some long forgotten masonic lodge, or at worst one of Richie Cunningham's father's tired lodge brothers who spent their days downing beers, fantasizing about Marianne, and in a Lolita-istic twist, her developing and squeaky clean daughter Joanie. Looking through the window at the street outside, no freaks on parade and not an exhibitionist in sight.

It's a time to reflect on who and what has been seen today, arrange notes and consider writing. Thinking about getting on the train this morning with an insanely large smile on my face and getting nothing but severely distasteful looks from my fellow commuters. Mothers with babies, men in suits, tradesmen in faded stained overalls and prim and proper secretaries, staring through lipstick five shades too bright and dark Raybans so as not to appear rude. Try it some time. Get on a train (or any public transport) first thing in the morning with a big smile on your face and count the amount of people who openly hate you, to the point where they'd consider committing an act of barbarous torture pretty much akin to shoving a ferret down the eye of your penis (if they only possessed a ferret, and not being gender biased in my oh so politically correct way, you dear reader, were in possession of a penis). These grey and dark blue power dressed specimens on their way to jobs where beans are counted, numbers crunched and totals tabulated. An endless expanse of double-breasted suits, old school ties, overly made up faces to conceal skin conditions, expensive jewelry and open hostility. I'm lucky every once in a while to have someone standout and grab my attention while I'm sitting there on that train, or cruising the dairy isles in the supermarket in search of milk products or even just out shopping for more toys that I'll use once and discard. These collected stories are about these people I see every day. If you're one, don't be offended. It means that you had a certain quality that held my attention and gave me some sort of perverse amusement.

But who am I? I'm that brute in the suit on your morning train with perfectly pressed shirt frantically scratching in his business diary his appointments for the day. Or the young gent dressed in shorts three sizes too big, Air Jordans and hooded sweat seated at a cafe downing short blacks at a pace greater than a wolverine on speed, all the while penning a letter to a long lost cousin about life, death, family and the role of pineapple as a pizza condiment. Or maybe I'm that grunting, sweaty, bald headed , aggressive looking anti socialite slamming stacks of weights around in the gym while making mental notes on weights lifted, technique, repetitions and sets. It's all a ruse. I've been making notes about you the entire time. Chances are I'm all three at some time today. Chances are I may have been watching you today, eating lunch while picking your nose, arguing with your spouse while swearing this is the last time you'll 'stand for this kind of shit', looking downtrodden at the end of the day hidden behind the financial section of your newspaper while taking calls on your mobile phone or biting your nails and wondering at what point you lost control of everything that was your life. Me? I'm just like you. Just another man about town.