This was obviously not one of the drop top Maclaren models with Dora the Explorer music videos blaring from a 60" flat screen with Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound. It didn't have the latest on board Stem Cell Pseudo Breast Milk Lactator 6000 or the subway staircase turbo boost features characteristic of the upper east side and upper west side models.

No sir, this was a stroller.  Notice the patented clear plastic crinkled windshield with Gerber apple sauce stained upholstery and matching carrot laden bib. Behold the sole functional brake and cock eyed wheel reminiscent of a shopping cart after 2 months of arduous servitude at, "I know you only want 3 but why not buy the 9,000 pack" Walmart. I often take pride in helping women with strollers. I find myself smiling quietly once its all over with a glow of chivalrous accomplishment knowing that I, John Stuart Mill II, contributed to the greater common good.

However, on this particular morning I realized that my seemingly altruistic actions were inherently more self-serving than I care to admit. The "thank you so much" I receive is often greeted with the no look over the shoulder "your welcome" or if I'm feeling exceptionally smug, I snap a wink and a smile that bellows "hey, just make sure you pay it forward," as I riddle her full of sarcasm bullets from my finger gun while clicking my teeth in unison. Yup (sigh) just another day in the city fur thee ole urban cowboy. On some occasions my kindness is the sacrificial lamb that negates any tomfollery or janefuckery I may have committed the prior evening while nose humping blow off the chest of a burlesque dancer. I assure you, this is only a metaphor. I don't even know any burlesque dancers.

I often fear that I will accidentally drop the stroller and send its passenger and mother hurtling down the stair case in a terrific interpretive dance of flaring arms and broken plastic. Then what? Do I call a police officer? Hey! Hey Jim, yeah listen, I just threw this woman and her child down the steps, not so much of a throw, more like a waist high finger roll. Well I was assisting them and somehow managed to drop the stroller because my metro sexed palms were slickened with Duane Reade's Gold Bond Shea Butter. Well my girlfriend said that when we met my hands resembled tattered sand paper so she prescribed it for daily use in her infinite medical glory. Quite, mm-hmm, down aisle three on the right side...No I'm not sure if you get a discount with your Duane Reade Club Card but I assure you sir, the mother of said strollered infant is floating in a pool of bodily fluid, bum juice and rat excrement at the bottom of the staircase soooo.... you may wanna radio a medic.  Stellar job Jim, stellar.

Better still is my mad dash once I get to the turnstile after toting her child up the stairs of Kilimanjaro (59th street on the green line, not the 6 my friend I'm talking 4 or 5 train, and yes, the escalator was broken, again, I know its just down right Olympic). Once you get them up the initial flight, theres always that other staircase which leads to...another staircase that eventually... You get the picture. And I already have a nice dust cuff from your stroller wheel bucking my lapel. So I'll leave you two here. A baton extended to the next knight in shining armor, galloping in his Johnston & Murphy's to work in this feverish relay rat race. Here's an idea...How about a tip after all that hard work? Can a brother getta Capri Sun, crushed bananas or something? Some animal crackers? Mott's Apple Juice with the cool sippy straw? Surely you have all kinds of goodies in that baby bag. Perhaps a baby wipe to get the subway schmegma from your stroller off of my hands? Is that cool? Out of all the life lessons my mother seared into my brain, this is one I can't seem to shake, so with all that said...Do you need help with your stroller?

Till next time,


Corporate Rel