"I'll never forget the time Dad and I were late for the train to New York. Dad was an actor, too, and we both had auditions to get to. He dropped me at the coffee shop and peeled off to park the car. I grabbed two Styrofoam cups of coffee and the New York Times and ran to the platform just as the train was pulling in. I could see Dad dashing towards it from the parking lot. We beelined to the same car, entering from opposite directions. Commuters rushed in, grabbing seats all around us. Dad nabbed two seats and swiped his coffee and a section of the paper from me as the train left the station. A silence descends in a commuter car after the rush. You nuzzle your coffee, with glazed eyes, focus on the paper pretending you love living in suburbia. Suddenly there was this loud 'crunch'. Everybody jolted up from his paper to see where the noise came from - everyone except Dad, who remained behind his paper. However, in his freehand was a Styrofoam cup with a huge bite taken out of it's rim. What an uproarious comment in the frenzy of daily commuting! That was my Dad."