Peeking Through Weary Eyes

A Pause, at Least Temporarily

2009-11-04T16:56:00.000-08:00

This is a self-disintigrating post, just saying.

I will be a bit consumed until the end of November being an offical participant in National Novel Writing Month, aka NaNoWriMo that goes from Nov 1st to Nov 30th, where the goal is to write no less than 50,000 words over that timefrane. So far I'm doing well, I have logged about 7,600 words in 3 1/2 days. Sufficed it to say this will limit my ability to conjure these bus posts, or visit and comment at those other's places at least until I finish if at all.

If you would like to follow my progress, see a slightly better picture of me or an idea of what my project's about, just click the link below:

http://www.nanowrimo.org///eng/user/531259

If I seem to totally disappear then, no worries I can assure you I have no intention as of yet halting my work here, for it's too much a part of me to part with at present.

But for now I'll say farewell, at least until the end of the month...

29-October-2009 4:45PM

2009-10-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

One thing these “anticommuters” all have in common is that they all believe that they have a monopoly on being held underfoot by the rest of us that actually work for a living.

Two such enter into the bus, again taking up space and driving out would-be passengers from their two-meters of shouting radius. You see, we must all be subject to their so-called oratorical duet-monologue of how horribly they’re treated, and how they should be on the receiving end of many upon many apologies from just about every person they come across. In fact, they’ll demand recompense for the simple act of putting your cell phone away, even if that very execution has nothing at all to do with their ornery presence.

It will, and always shall be considered a part of their “subterranean” level of existence, or in other words everything is about themselves, and anything you do, be it as insignificant as a unconscious eye roll, a glance in the wrong direction, a shift to incorrect posture, a sigh a smidgen excessive, a stretch seemingly long, a whisper appearing coy and mocking, a rummage through personal paraphernalia , etc, will all be looked upon with insatiable suspicion and egregious prejudice.

-And that is all there’s to say about that.

28-October-2009 7:02AM

2009-10-28T11:10:00.001-07:00

I really didn’t know that so many people lived up there on the hill, I really didn’t. Actually, what I mean to say is: I wasn’t aware that there were so many that would take up every single row before my own stop, which is extremely close to the beginning as it is. Peering about after taking my position in the rear bench seat I spot an old regular that I used to see on the afternoon ride that would always happen to be congruent with “The Armpit Sniffer.” They’d usually chatter on about the sports page of the newspaper, Wall Street’s most recent tribulations in the form of stocks, bonds, derivatives, market funds, futures, etcetera, and then would go on about their respective white bread sons’ standings on certain sports teams, or family trips to Disney and such; real suburb type talk if you take my meaning. They’d put off the stench of ex-frat boys that never quite grew out of the underbelly of antics that we all know remain as a constant on the hidden end of shutters and basement dugouts and other such methods that lead through portals of debauchery.

So, this über friend of “The Armpit Sniffer” now seems to be concerned about something at work, very concerned. He is this way so much so that he presently is attired in his best pair of brown leather slip-on loafers, olive silk slacks, stark white oxford shirt with checkered-red designer tie, and then of course the one items that legitimizes the whole array, a dark navy suit jacket that falls exactly the way it is supposed to by societal standards instead of the usual jeans, faux flannel and ball cap (the staples of his wardrobe). In fact, he could be wearing the grungiest of clothes and the greasiest of stains upon them, but if he at least dons that navy suit jacket then all is forgiven, and dare I say that even his very actions while putting on display; yes, even those.

-For he is know to all of us for the reasons and evidence hence maintained as, “The Armpit Sniffer’s Toadie.”

27-October-2009 6:32AM

2009-10-28T09:27:00.000-07:00

An oscillating furtive set of “looksies” is set upon the entire bus by a yellow slicker exhibitor guy that seems to require this said behavior so much that I am inclined to believe it to be akin to some drug. Whatever it is that forces his eyeball to the severe right corner of his skull’s sockets to that of a quivering strain is both curious and worrisome, since firstly I cannot seem to detect the subject of his interest through standard vector analysis or secondly, to study his face expeditiously enough without he raking his lizard-gaze in my own direction.
Through some additional experimentation (on my part) I am able to discern that there is this unconscious self of his that is able to ascertain even the slightest reconnoiter.

Again, he spins his pupil to the severe corner of his head as I write here, this time for a more-extended period of elapsed seconds to allow a reduction in suspects: “Mr. Clean” seems to have made the short list, as wells as the ex-environmental engineer, of whom respectively sit square and staring forward like an android on standby and the other snoozing precariously over a hardback laying slack-open on her lap. The yellowed slicker exhibitor guy would-be spook picks up his mobile phone quite suddenly and speaks a word or two into the microphone then hangs up. More ethereal examinations ensue, to which his phone is placed quickly against his ear again and some information is conveyed.

This is the last time I witness him with his phone, which had not lasted more than ten seconds and no less than three seconds. He disembarks downtown at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Stewart Street disappearing into the failing night and essentially loosing his two principal objects of significance to his own impending need, whatever that may be.

26-October-2009 7:14AM

2009-10-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

-And here they come, rain shields up, hustling in like cowboy driven cattle, and hesitating their butts into suspension in midair in light of possible wetness down below. Many do not carry umbrellas which is an effect of the customary tradition about this region of the globe.

One such of these is a middle aged man with a near reddened mullet seated in the aft section side-facing row to my forward view. I say, “near mullet” since it seems his mop simply grows into this fashion as naturally as possible, without provocation or potential pressures from those glory days of two to three decades past. Presently within this Twenty-First Century, he prostrates himself with legs opened wide (a possible reason that there is one who chooses to stand rather than plop himself next to this “near mullet man’s” adjacency), and his hands are clasped into a Catholic school fold held loosely at the crotch’s altitude. He mainly focuses on a newspaper reader directly across from him, gazing as a monitor might, with expressionless enthusiasm: up and down, all around until some kind of inner verdict or attainment has been made. At this point of the “click” his whole attentiveness attenuates into disenchantment which is signaled by a wave through the mullet growth curls au naturale and falls into a measured slumber.

-But no, his meager attempt at obtaining additional rest is thwarted by one of those said fanny suspenders that now feels the need to violently run her fingers through her own hair by reaching back with much accentuated effort with both engorged arms thusly causing a high-pitched set of scrapes elicited by her rain jacket’s tight nylon weave and vibrating the seat disputatiously in the process. Just following one of these episodes she whips her head back out the fogged-over window behind her and decides to wipe away some of the condensation there. She accomplishes this with vigorous movements, excessively dramatic in their practice, to, in the end reveal nothing given the inky opacity of the predawn hour.

-Which just goes to show, doing something for its own sake is by evidence extremely “fruitful.”

23-October-2009 6:10AM

2009-10-23T07:52:00.000-07:00

Floating bulbous blue balloons pilfer the panorama on this moving tunnel of transitory expression. They are brought in by a lady of her fifth decade possessing a mock 1920’s bob cut where she now rests all the way up in the dark port-forward corner facing sideways with a whimsical and dreamy countenance. A little down from her is the “Perfumed One,” who sleeps totally erect without resting either her head or her torso on anything resembling anything. A little odd, and a bit disconcerting it is, but not as interesting as a few forward-facing rows down where one with a classic “Mini-truck Mullet” [citation: The South Carolina Mullet Handbook] is obtaining some unique service through his iPod.

One wouldn’t think or believe that another could emulate all the luxuries and advantages of a coach-class airline travel scheme on board a King County Metro Transit vehicle, but this “Mini-Truck Mullet” guy that is currently enshrouded within a brown puffy turned-up collar coat has by some curious contraption, been able to affix his iPod atop a chair handle on the seat back in front of him a sort of makeshift monitor one might find on a Boeing Triple-Seven transcontinental flight. This whole time he watches the news of all things, and surprisingly not any kind of monster truck rally, NASCAR event, cockfighting bootlegs, neo-saccharine country concert, etc.

Right at the corner of 3rd and Pike he unclips this simulation of air travel to faraway places and packs it in for use at such a futuristic advantageous time, and then proceeds to swivel his “Mini-Truck” ‘mulleted’ head this way and that until the realm of Seneca looms, then it is no more of any of this…

21-October-2009 6:33AM

2009-10-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

“Spread Eagle Sally”
oh, how I disrelish you
gained duplicity

with stares you accuse
of a blatant disregard
for spatial urgency

“Spread Eagle Sally”
another one of your names
is hypocrisy

20-October-2009 6:22AM

2009-10-20T22:00:00.001-07:00

Yarn: blue, orange, yellow, all bright; each of the strands are currently being woven together on the bus by a petite lady of all black apparel, hair the heterogeneous mixture of black and white split evenly along proportion lines, her hands at spasmodic occasions move swiftly, and then they slow to a crawl for the majority: up and over and through the pointed and polished bamboo sticks, each of the two about four millimeters in diameter.

She is interrupted through, most rudely because of the entrance tone into the row by a tallish woman with eyes aged with adamantine years, then at this very present even appraises the book pages splayed open upon her lap with a heavy critical grain like some butt-swatting primary school teacher with an avid and much used switch of yesteryear.

She causes the yarn weaver beside her a momentary lapse of focus on her accouterments, forcing the yarn weaver into a creative stasis, a conundrum into whether or not she is able to continue these threads of reasonable interlock.

She does though, as soon as the “Critical Book Appraiser” quits at her continual shifting from one fanny half to the other, for the hands stop their static snowy movement and evolve into those of a prime mover.

Indubitably.

19-October-2009 6:22AM

2009-10-19T08:34:00.001-07:00

The clip-clop gravelly steps ring out into the dense morning air. Their only accompaniment is two dark figures painted into virtual silhouettes that appear under a pale orange lamp that diminishes rapidly under the thick unwavering darkness. A deep breath through the nose is drawn inward to which hints of ozone and earth are discerned by the maker of such a relative racket that approaches with cool nonchalant demeanor.

“Good morning,” the still figure greets the pacing one that just now comes to a stop.

“Good morning,” the other replies, taking note of the extended examination that the initial greeter takes of him, to which he displays an absolute impassiveness at this curious contemplation as if much more needs to be said but not.

However, the morning greeter turns away eventually back to his loitering pose to the subject at hand. The other in turn, breathes deeply once again, ascertaining the scent of evergreen and the tinge of leaf mold scattered about the dampness leftover from the hard rain of yesterdays now existing in the past.

Sooner than expected, these two characters board the bus, and with measured rhythmic ambles make their laborious Monday morning ways to their chosen rows. The greeter selects a row all the way to the rear, while the other sets his heavy satchel down, scoots under it, and then sets himself adjacent to the window behind the rear doors.
Nothing much occurs now, except the constant and consistent task of the bus halting tediously multiple times along the way, where various passengers embark, then to rest themselves, scan the open flaps of newspapers, start embroidery projects, administer the stiff application of lipstick, gaze silently out of cold weathered windows into the slack predawn gloom, or listen haphazardly to the driver croaking a murmuring announcement as to the location-current.

Still, more occurs than what is presumed, for the surfaces that one initially sees are merely a manufactured façade, an attempt to show a good face (for the most part), a semblance of masks that would portray something entirely different, completely adverse to those trepidations within.

For instance, take the lipstick applier, clearly stressed about some upcoming event, she sighs repeatedly, swallows, checks her email on her portable device in a wired sort of way, stretches her neck this way and that, and turns the corner of her thin lips downward into a spitting replica of dreary despondency. –Or perhaps the ravenous newspaper reader that religiously scours those pages, but that intermittently gazes out from under her curved-billed red cap with fully attentive regalia, always giving away these distracting flashes of consideration to no one in particular. –Or an older brunette sitting up in the front forward-facing row, past her prime but avariciously like hell endeavoring to keep a definite hold onto her waning youth, with an extra special smile directed to every younger male that happens by, her shiny castaña hue of her hair that drank from a bottle, an interest only in speaking publicly to much older females thusly developing a speculated sharp visible contrast. –Or even returning to that one who sits behind the rear doors that presently scribbles savagely some sort of unknown content with utter intensity within the confines of a little black book that could fit almost anywhere…

15-October-2009 7:34AM

2009-10-15T07:44:00.000-07:00

Stuck somewhere in the middle with hardly any sight-line to anything of interest... If one would deem an old "prunish" lady with artificially bleached blond hair attired in a bright pink cardigan with extra caked-on face powder or perhaps a bicyclist in an all black tracksuit seated within the accordion even mildly interesting, then that one would have to disagree with me so utterly and so completely that I believe we would have to call whatever our relationship happens to be at the time quits.

Meanwhile, my ears perk up to an accentuated level due to the lack of radiation-illuminated subjects of entertainment. A baby oscillates between shrieks of rage to peals of laughter from the severe front of the bus. The fledgling human cries of pain and joy are soon subdued by the buzzing hum of the bus's entrance onto the highway where, in the central portion of the trip one dull electronic DING rings out, thus eliciting the conclusion that someone rather prematurely pulled the stop cable. I wonder if they'll remember to actually step off once the bus finally enters the steel and concrete capitalist arena and comes to a rest at the appointed and prearranged place.

This "wonder" of mine will continue infinitely if allowed to, for a reason I already previously stated -so if you cannot figure it out may I suggest certain aspects of Epicurean philosophy.

13-October-2009 4:42PM

2009-10-13T19:22:00.000-07:00

So, the WSDOT closed down the 4th and Jackson Island a week ago or so, which means I get to be all nostalgic and endure the riffraff and "anticommuter" hotbed of 3rd and James...

Today, a petit woman attired in a dark P-coat and blue jeans that smokes a cigarette engages in an intense and extended conversation with her reflection in "The Morrison's" plate glass window. She must have been at it now for about thirty minutes before she says her goodbyes and moves on, going to an undisclosed location to the north on 3rd Avenue. If memory serves, she was verily the one that yesterday was lifting up city trash cans, rolling them on end and letting them plummet and spiral to a stop as if there was some secret stash of a dead drop left for her. She would make her way up and down, both sides of 3rd Avenue like misplacing her wayward soul somewhere, and until she finds it, she'll be destined to repeat these haphazard actions for all eternity.

***

The Grand Beleaguering Excellency herself, Spread Eagle Sally gives me a hard and long look as she enters at the last stop downtown. You see, we return to the fact that I place a barrier (briefcase) onto the aisle seat adjacent, which as always possesses the controversial aura of barbarous verses preservation of sanity. I give my best rendition of antisocial countenance of contempt, since in all of these bus internals, there still exist many open seats for the taking besides the one here next to me. She can take her invasive knees and insufferable snuggling presumption somewhere else, thank you very much.

Well, she did just that as a matter of fact, with great reluctance though since I thought I detected a blistering wave of sanctimonious righteousness at her passing, the established set of personal morals ready and waiting to be considered to be imposed upon myself.

-But for naught as it turns out, as I stated; for she now speaks to the Ponytail Man who sits in the row in front of hers sideways out into the aisle discussing various books read, to be read, and presently reading:

"Did you read this?"

"I find this basically an easy read."

"He's actually an author and ran for the President of Quebec..."

"I always look to see what you guys are reading."

"Book clubs are fast-paced, because we don't keeps books around long."

Etcetera, etcetera...

At the last stop after the highway exit, space opens up in the rear from the recently departed, and they in turn (our exasperating duo) miraculously remove themselves to said locale to continue the plaintive discussion.

~Sigh~

Regurgitation of another's ideas is always a pleasure to listen to ad infinitum; wouldn't you agree?

13-October-2009 7:02AM

2009-10-13T19:05:00.000-07:00

With avid delirium, the autopilot kicks on and the mind checks out; so much so that if I didn't know any better I may have teleported to this very spot. I rustle about with my briefcase's zippered pouches, which for whatever reason were left open, the jailed contents just itching for the chance to escape due to entropy's constant debilitating pressure.

The bald guy sitting behind the glass rings in a stop at the virtual beginning of the route, but the driver disallows his exit from the rear door. The bald guy is almost too late, realizing that this delay isn't, more likely a permanent condition. The last of the passengers enter in, the door hisses closed, the bus starts to roll and the bald guy just reaches the cockpit.

"But I wanted to get off here," he murmurs to the driver.

The bus jerks to a halt, and the bald guy is last seen moving away into the pre-dawn darkness under the orange sodium-lit illumination.

Not much else occurs, just the usual movements of purse straps removal from shoulders, chapstick applied, cursory glances cast, various literary works scanned, yawns administered by bodies to surprised consciousness, my own entourage elbowed by a woman who squeezes into a side-facing row between me and and an annoyed huffing female when a whole set of seats are just a step away thusly forcing the annoyed female to succumb to her own interpretation and very deliberately and indiscreetly remove herself to some second-to-last forward-facing row.

You know, a minimum amount like that.

9-October-2009 3:36PM

2009-10-11T20:56:00.000-07:00

Woman, man?

Who can tell?

Purple-blue hair cut into a bob, fat beyond all reason, lip ring, chain hanging from a black pant pocket, trite smirk embossed on Its mug, like It let one go in silence thusly gassing Its tailgating passenger stream. It sits upon an elevated side-facing row and takes up one and three-quarters seats and pulls an Apple laptop from a lime green bicycle messenger bag and opens it up. The duly noted said smirk exits stage left, and then It closes the computer and slides it back into Its satchel.

Next item on the business agenda is to return the said smirk back to the face, the ultra-loud friction-squeak elicited from the right angle turn at the articulation the catalyst for such an action.
Where does the chin and the neck meet, where does it all end and begin?
Questions are begged, enquiries are made…perhaps licenses should be revoked, or strict diets instituted.

Later, the lady who sat next to me when the blitzkrieg junkie performed a strip tease (on the afternoon ride of July 1st of this year) and was finally physically removed from the bus now sits within the articulation, while the large dude next to me chats about having a guitar crushed during a turn on the accordion section of the bus having improperly placed the instrument in the pinch point.
Now him and his significant other chow down on sunflower seeds and cashews, dropping them here and there, there and everywhere.

I like the lady that sat next to me during the psycho pole dance by the way, so cool, so collected; tough customer.

Awesome.

These latter two though, man!
Hopefully they exit soon. If I were a wagering grifter, I’d say they’re coming off some premium bud, but then, who am I to speculate?

8-October-2009 6:34AM

2009-10-10T21:30:00.000-07:00

It is a misty and damp morning, evident from the headlights’ diffusion of photons amongst the oncoming cars. I had walked down the mile and a half necessary to access the main bus corridor thusly allowing me to take a pick from a number of routes rather than just one. This also is another way to capture what it is like on other routes.

A ball capped accountant that just walked in for instance that possesses one of those voices that slices through the air like a streaking meteor through a thin atmosphere launches into a virtual monologue upon seeing some long lost bus rider friend.

“It’s been a couple of tough years…ah, ah…I’ve been working like a DOG! When my boss…he’s just a slave driver; he’s good, but he’s got no other life except for the company. Well anyway, we were talking and we’re finally going to hire this lady from Santa Fe. She’s good and works hard, but when we do the audit, it’s really fast…

Then he goes on along those lines. Then he speaks of someone named Lisa that left her job back in September 2008 and has been unemployed since because of a boss that thought he was the “cat’s meow.” I’m beginning to see a recurring theme here.

Haiku Hittite

2009-10-06T16:58:00.000-07:00

Mobile Wife Fighter
makes a jolly appointment
away from his spouse

The one called Andy
sits with his head bowed asleep
just like everyday

“Spread Eagle Sally”
forces one to the blunt edge
fanny half suspended

rotting vegetables
elicit cyclic odors
of vapors, renowned

4-October-2009 12:10PM

2009-10-04T22:46:00.000-07:00

You know those assholes didn’t recently exit an aircraft from some faraway city, or just have been released from duties as employees, or happened to be traveling through the SEATAC airport as if it is a hot bed of transit transfer points…

So what the fuck are they doing here anyway? Tell me, why are they here, these fucking “gangstas,” these bullshitting dicksuckers of society taking up space on Route 194, packing it up full with their oversized coats against a paltry sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit to conceal God-knows what sort of figment in order to compensate for the inadequacies of digiorno?

Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, for I find myself on board the newly installed Sound Transit Light Rail, having been able to hop on a free bus to the Tukwila International Blvd. station, and from there ascending three sets of steep and angling escalators where a train sits waiting to take us into downtown Seattle. I had briefly asked one conductor about my current bus pass, to which he responded, “that’ll be good,” in jolly tones.

“Awesome,” I replied reacting at being saved the hassle of having to purchase a separate ticket…

When the car arrives at the Rainer Beach stop, it ends up pausing for a period of time bordering on exorbitant, which translates to slight annoyance. We drift forward a few feet then come to an unexplained and unfathomable halt. It’s all very curious, and perhaps one would think it so new still that it is subject to bugs like any other system au courant.

Further observations yield (as expected) that up to Othello Station the train has been subject to a few traffic lights, as autos are (although if I was on the route 194 right now, I would’ve said, “the autos is”). This creates for a slow-going creep through South Seattle up Martin Luther King Jr. Way.

Another intriguing item on board is that the conductor with wagging untucked shirttail has yet to even hint at a glance to verify payment for services rendered, where he only perpetually and literally hangs off a handrail by the front-starboard door. When and how an exchange for this transit sacrament is enforced appears as a mystery (or afterthought). Hence, as soon as we make a stop at Mt. Baker Station, a wheezing and coughing inebriated once-upon-item-matron sits one seat down on my own side-facing row, who at first runs into two steps leading up to the higher platform and almost keels over from her inhibited motor skills (assuming there was any to begin with), which halted her progress to a dead-head and elicited the response, “SHEEE-IT!”

Most excellent.

28-September-2009 6:26PM

2009-09-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

The bus arrives via one headlight illuminated out of two possible, like a great groaning and crawling Cyclops inching forward past the stop sign. Luckily, it pulls up to the front of the line where my neighbor and I stand, myself followed by G, the not-so-newbie, The Mobile Wife Fighter, as well as the Eccentric Ponytail Dude. The Brit is the only character besides G’s Estranged Brunette Burning Love with both with hands bent downward in concentration hovering like police helicopters over their perspective laps.

The next time I look up from my own concentrated subject, my eyes immediately land on a socially inept, pretentious, and poodle hairdo woman (these conclusions are drawn from an unfortunate row sharing experience at some precarious previous date) that sits forward like she’s ready to pounce on an unsuspecting prey, or that nothing at all must impede her gluttonous will.

Predictably, and with much proffered presumption I notice her snooping unscrupulously over her row companion’s reading materials for an indiscreet quantity of time. She’s probably exhaling that lurid and heaving breath of hers out through the mouth, rank as it rakes over a tongue recently soured by oxidation and enzyme fermentations of breakfast residue as is yet another of the subconscious ways to make her “imperious” presence known. I am fairly confident in the outcome regarding her that she will not move a muscle from her seat to make additional breathing room possible despite the fact that every other row has been emptied, effectively trapping her lorded-over victime dujour, who happens to be G's Estranged Brunette Burning Love of all people of the present.

This is one of the very reasons I blockade myself in any one row to impede entrance, for the corrosion from said acerbic pseudo savoir faire has limited the effective temperament of my psyche in such a way that rubber bands and paperclips are the metaphors of choice to describe its current binding.

25-September-2009 4:00PM

2009-09-26T21:51:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Backpack Guy!"

"Who?" (for I am not at all wearing a backpack).

"Ya got something for me?" while the fuming stench of alcohol streams from every exhaled word.

I give her a puzzled look of disgusted incredulity, to which she slightly gasps, taken aback.

"Unless I'm mistaken?" she asks with pertinent annoyance.

"Yes, you are mistaken," I relate her forcefully, not wanting to confuse her delirious sensibility or actually have to continue this conversation much longer, as she was seated next to me with a little more familiarity than I would have liked.

"Well fuck!" she says, "guess I'm up shit," she scoots over finally, giving me a bit more breathing room. I must have made an involuntary noncommittal "humph," because she started to stare forward with a manipulative wounded animal expression. A route 312 pulls up to the curb and to rest a shadow over both of us.

"Where does this bus go?"

"To Lake City," informing her succinctly as possible.

"Hmmm, I need to get to the hospital."

"Which one?"

"University hospital. Should I get on?"

"Yeah, you need to get off at University-"

She gets up abruptly, but cocks her ear in my direction indicating that she's still listening.

"...then take the 10 or the 12."

Hopefully she didn't hear that last part because I don't believe either of those routes go there since, if memory serves those routes will take her to Capital Hill.

Oops!

24-September-2009 4:38PM

2009-09-24T20:52:00.000-07:00

So I walk up Jackson Street to just cross the overpass to King Street Station on my way to the bus when I am caught behind a pair of waddling women attired in a most peculiar fashion, such as the demons of my dreams that always appear in pairs where one is short and one is tall and both of gargantuan girth. Both wear shabby homemade dresses buttoned up the front with fraying threads juxtaposed along all the edges like spontaneously arranged fringe. I try not to get too close for I am leery of any kind of potential deathly stink that is most likely trailing off of them in some reeking roil. Just thinking about it makes my stomach somersault and twist in nauseating fashion.

The tall one, as I notice while attempting to get around her ambles on the very edge of the sidewalk's curb, almost disallowing any sort of person that may be in need of a brisker pace to reach that destination of transfer (namely me if you must know).

I say, "fuck it" under my breath and invoke a tiny morsel of the stored rage that I've collected over the many years since birth and sequestered dexterity and plow past her on her right dancing on the tightrope between the street of oncoming autos and her slovenly stroll. As I slip past I discern a rather large pair of goggles strapped via a black elastic band about the rear of her head which are usually so quintessential for use in chemistry labs that may involve small exothermic combustions or explosions.

I immediately call up a friend of mine (for those in the know her name is Cannoli), for she always has something clever to say in these type situations, especially since she herself worked in such a lab once upon a time. Our conversation went something like this:

I say, "Hey, I just passed a couple of fruitcakes on my way to the bus."

"What about them?" she asks.

"Well, one of them is wearing a pink cloak and a pair of chemical goggles."

She considers for a second's worth of time, then says, "Sound's like Doctor Horrible."

"Doctor Horrible?"

"Yeah, Doctor Horrible."

"Ha ha ha! You're right of course..."

24-September-2009 6:22AM

2009-09-24T20:22:00.000-07:00

As I traverse the orange-hued blackness paved with asphalt to the bus marker I recognize that somehow without realizing it that we are in this in-between region scaling two distinct but nebulous states. Actually it wasn't until my waiting next door neighbor signed to me that it was unduly cold for a morning in early fall, especially since the days this week have been uncharacteristically hot and bright. When I ascend the bus platform and take some moments to scrutinize the ridership, they display this interpolated predicament, for half are like myself, hanging onto the dying gasps of summer as obsessive and jealous lovers might, and the other wrap themselves in fleece and Gore-Tex, flannel and leather shells in order to repel the encroaching gelidity. Hot-Glued-Hay-for-Hair-Lady even has compressed her coarse and wily mane into that sky-blue eraser head hat of hers, which I guess may in fact herald officially the end of lightness of being to give way to the caliginous of heart.

Not only are there polarizing factions in reaction to these days of ambiguous environs, but there seems to exist a pervading silence encroached upon the entire throng of passengers. Not one conversation or inane discussion has made itself known; for even Lady #2 has managed to keep her stock yowling oral cavity shut and still, which may be a miracle in itself if one ponders over that condition a bit excessively. It's almost as if there is a solemnity, a reverent mourning for the death of a beloved only to rise from the proverbial ashes in the form of lifeless browning leaves on the muddy earth, a perpetual slate-gray sky that diffuses all incoming photons into an endless dusk.

-But then, I'm sure I'm over analyzing, actually I know it. Forgive me as I plow through this ironic plight of "writer's block" which has descended upon me like a woeful plague that resists the progress of this pen across this page as if I were a tack in the ass of a rhino.

23-September-2009 6:25AM

2009-09-23T20:18:00.000-07:00

That first day of high school invades the nostrils and perforates the mind with senseless spitting memories of navigating through a surging sea of adolescents that sway and list against and with the will of the mob. Perhaps it is that same time of year presently as it was back then, twenty-three years ago that the very air possesses the texture and characteristic of that other instilled moment skewed and warped by those hated hormone excretions. Everything after that one particular day in 1986 has relatively been absent of shock, or in other words acted and reacted upon in due course and no matter how outlandish or ridiculous or excitable some scenario presents itself, it is better not to place so much emotive stake over those languid coals.

-Much like this bus ride, with its many upon many mundane and dreary claims upon time as well as those piqued and preposterous antics of almost indescribable audacity: the blowouts, the unsolicited strip tease, a junkie's exercise into mayhem, ex-cons howling at passing women like a couple of coyotes, the über corpulent smashing those unfortunates against the windows, a bucket jamming itself into the coach's undercarriage on the highway...I could continue, but I will at another time whenever it suit the derisory moment.

22-September-2009 6:21AM

2009-09-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

And here it is again, this inevitable infernal ride toward humanity's rat race, that ever-persistent persnicketiness pretension that infiltrates the heart and beleaguers the mind. Yet, we fall into line, effectively buying into that round-robin philosophy, to be prisoners of cages of our own making. Like an immense anthill, we toil endlessly for what exactly? remains a mystery. It all appears so meaningless, despite the underpinning sense of the replete opposite.

Darkness pervades my return to such an environment, the shadowy trees loom ominously as merciless sentries on guard against the scourge of this planet, namely us. The first coats and warmer implements of outerwear intercede on the coming onset of Samhain itself, the essential death knell of illumination of the to-and-from workplace. As is precluded from such gloomy conditions the gaits become lethargic, yawns more frequent, sputtering synapses prevalent, public precarious napping insolent, etcetera, etcetera.

An end and a simultaneous beginning it seems, to what exactly? I cannot say, for mere existence is attainable if not downright inescapable.

10-September-2009 6:21AM

2009-09-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

Who are these people? –These sudden newbies that seem to proliferate the bus rows like some invading force of an extra’s minions. Like interlopers they displace the regulars from their locales of the typical, forcing them out into some new direction. One of these new-fangled riders on this even and cool before-dawn is one I would call “Nellie” (named after an assembly worker I know from Mulberry, FL that talked in such an accent that I was verily hard-pressed to adequately distinguish what she was attempting to convey), if I knew she was going to become on of us. She has a round pair of glasses perched on an old nose, which diffuse the low amount of available white light over a pair of naturally frowning eyes that darts around as if in new alien world that must be studied with suspicion and general wariness. Her brown-black longish hair is pulled back into a ponytail showing signs of streaking and scraggly grays which rapidly oscillates back and forth as evident from her ever-persistent watchfulness. “Nellie” is the one that has usurped G’s Estranged Brunette Burning Love’s row, who now unhappily is on the opposing and diagonal side.

Then just to the row in front of “Nellie’” would be a rather plaintive specimen, blending into the bucket seats, but definitely not her haunches, which are even now disallowing Hot Glued Hay for Hair Lady from adequate restfulness. Her rump is definitely large enough not only to take up her entire window seat, but a substantial portion of the one adjacent. However, a regular does sit there as it turns out, albeit and necessarily a petit one that must teeter on the delirious edge between the presently prostrate and the splayed within the gangway. She will definitely need to secure her little body to the best of her ability for the ride down since the suspension in these old buses are much to be desired or welcomed, and have been known to jar those inattentive passengers loose from the roosts.

Yes, the entire innards have been placed into a disarray at this sudden flux, this unwelcomed circumstance for some, and a smug comeuppance for these nefarious intruders.

8-September-2009 4:40PM

2009-09-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

I yawn from the more than adequate quiescence that has integrated itself into today’s tasks, and not to mention the long line of questioners of the driver at the corner of where else, but 3rd and James.

“This here bus goes all the way down to Pike?” one scraggly iron-haired cro-magnon drawls, standing slightly hunched with eyes that cast a blank and dull varnished hue. I guess the answer didn’t meet to his satisfaction since he ambled off in the direction of another bus with dispirited ardor. I don’t see why he did since we do in fact even stop at Pike Street much less traverse up its questionable clienteles’ way.

A second lady comes up holding back an ever-accumulating line of passengers to request information as to the bus’s intended whereabouts, but instead of just one question she manages to rattle off three or four before she finally figures out that this bus isn’t going anywhere near where she’s going.
Unfortunately, not long after this baloney of waiting around for these multiple interrogators to complete their rudimentary business I inherit this one brusque woman into my row that feels the need to place her oversized backpack down on the floor between her calves this maximizing the spread distance between her knees which causes a Velcro sticking effect of our adjoining thighs.

Ugh.

Why can’t this type of situation ever happen with some hot young lithe femme fatale that carries the scent of the wind through rolling fields of sunflowers and triggers the heart to a stop at their mere presence?

I am beginning to think that they don’t exist out here on public transit, and that certain memories are deemed highly suspect to the otherwise having fallen victim to my precarious imagination and certain mere propensity for slight exaggeration.
I mean, am I the only one that feels that this unsolicited and purposeful mashing of body parts with undesirables extraneously exasperating? I can understand it if I was packed into a standing room only scenario but this and ninety-eight percent of the other time is definitely not the case.

4-September-2009 1:58PM

2009-09-07T21:42:00.001-07:00

Waiting at the corner of 4th and Jackson yields a couple teens in baggy black clothes. The pair is both swaddled in thick hoodies looking all snug and cozy on this sunniest and balmiest of days.

The male half of the recently acquired pubescence chain smokes under the sidewalk’s canopy while spitting great globules of phlegm-mixed saliva at an alarming cadence which plummet to the concrete below emitting a clap each time an impact occurs.
He does this so often I am left wondering if he had accidently burned a hole through his bottom lip from the rotting and burning ember extended precariously out from the end of the soon to be disintegrated paper encapsulated tobacco stick. It wouldn’t be that far-fetched, since one never knows how numb these societal experiments of conformity are, comfortably or otherwise. His female half gazes up at his oral gas and liquid excreting form longingly and with profound adoration, hanging on this “tortured” soul’s every “articulate” word. They both finally meander off to the other canopy and commence to them fill up that entire interior with much fuming smoke as could be mustered.

As always is the case with these things, I board the bus and am lucky enough to possess my own row. Well, only for a short time since a veteran in an electric scooter wheels in, displacing a thin Asian lady and an enormous Caucasian woman from the fold-up side-facing row. Since before I probably shouldn’t have written the word luck, thus jinxing the entire recording-bus-ride ensemble I end up with the fattie of course who not only takes up one-quarter of my seat but proceeds to compact me against the inner fuselage in five minute intervals. As a general rule I don’t mind if a female presses her body up against mine, but there are exceptions, and this is one of them in the most swollen way possible.