Chapter | seven
Managing the Set, or
Mastering the Age-Old
Art of Babysitting
Sometimes the F train between Long Island City and Lexington Avenue likes to fuck me over. Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter about it. After 35 years at Troma, I've come to accept that life is a series of disappointments. Sad, sad disappointments. Waiting 40 minutes at the 21st Street subway station doesn't come close to my definition of true suffering.1 Speaking of suffering, remind me to talk about The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. But not now.
When the F train does finally arrive to carry me away from Tromaville and back to Manhattan, I fully expect to emerge from underground with the frustrations of the day behind me. Who cares if The New York Times refuses to ...
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