Late Arrival

Arriving in New York late last night, I noticed how long the tunnel from the Port Authority to the seven train is. Completely devoid of people, the lines of the floor tiles stretch out towards infinity, scaling the people at the far end into specks. The next morning, throngs of commuters will crowd around on all sides, making the tunnel just more walking on the way to work. Late at night, though, it can breathe.

The cackle of an annoyingly loud woman is more grating when you've been stuck in a Greyhound bus for four hours. Especially when you had to tell the guy next you, hey dude, I'm sure you've got a nice ass, but I still don't want half of it in my seat. The cavities that form in your head from lack of sleep fill up with her banal, stupid laughter. People shouldn't be this happy right before Monday.

Everything seems amplified, but in a bad way. An old woman singing for meal money on a mostly empty train is the most depressing thing in the world at two in the morning.

The one exception seems to be borderline women, who become more - not less - fuckable.

I need some sleep.

After A Wet Weekend, Reflection

Dumbest Thing I Did Last Weekend: I saw A Perfect Stranger.

Dumbest Thing I Said Last Weekend: (after putting on a baseball cap) "Wow, I look like Matt Damon in that movie were he wore a hat."

Dumbest Thing My Girlfriend Asked Me To Do Last Weekend: She wanted me to wait outside while she was doing some midnight shopping at the 125th St. PathMark grocery store. For anyone who doesn't now, 125th is main street Harlem, and being whiter than Woolite, I stand out. Imagine the possible conversations, had I waited outside:

Amused Passerby: Hey honky¹, what are you doing here?

Me: Er, waiting.

Passerby: For what?

Me: ...Gentrification?

Dumbest Thing I Saw: The last fifteen minutes of RV, the Robin Williams comedy, also starring Larry David's fake wife -- playing William's fake wife -- JoJo, Jeff Daniels, and some forgettable people. On the bus ride home, the driver started the movie with only the aforementioned fifteen minutes left to go; surprisingly, no one asked for him to rewind it, and I had no problem following the plot.

All things considered, a pleasant weekend. The torrent of rain in NYC delayed my return a day, meaning an extra day with my girlfriend, which is always good.

Back at the office, things are...normal. For the most part. Still, job security does not exist for a government contractor. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

¹True Story: One my first DC apartments was on S street near North Capitol; I went exploring shortly after moving in, and after rounding a street corner around the Shaw/Howard University Metro stop, I heard "What up, HONKY!" shouted from a passing car. I thought that was hilarious.

What Do You Call A Female Donkey?

Indeed, what do you call a female donkey? This question is vexing me 3:30 on a Monday morning. Outside the last of the New Jersey turnpike speeds by as the Peter Pan bus I'm in accelerates out of a tollbooth. One of the tiny TV screens -- ridiculously upholstered, along with the ceiling of this bus -- is playing some video of asinine trivia. The ass inquiry is it's first offering. I'm not nearly as annoyed as the man seated beside me.

"Fucking thing...turn the fucking thing off...fucking...fuck...turn fucking thing off!"

He spits the words out as they bubble up through garbles of phlegm.

"Fuck...fuck fuckfuckfuckfucking TURN IT OFF!!"

I'm staring off to the right; at nothing; away from him. Is it over?

He barely whispers, "...cunt."

What, I think, our driver is a man. This early in the morning and this far from home, nitpicking the ramblings of a roaming, raving lunatic seems to be a reasonable thing to do. Is he still upset about Bewitched?

The Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell vehicle was the in-trip movie, and my coarse companion did not hesitate to share his hatred of it with anyone in earshot. I preferred the more civil method of trying to drown the movie out with my iPod, but for some reason the driver had the movie's volume at an ungodly high level.

So I was forced to watch most of it. From what I gathered, Kidman falls for Ferrell and they end up together. I thought Kidman was playing the witch? Ferrel's character would have to be a warlock of considerable powers -- of the mountains into oceans variety -- to achieve such a feat. I thought I saw Michael Caine collecting a paycheck, but that could have been fatigue. Or denial; I still refuse to recognize Bob Hoskins' role in Maid In Manhattan, unless it's to point out when the acting begins and ends in the movie. Is he in the room? Yes? Then actual acting is occurring. No? Then enjoy the view(Jennifer Lopez provides a great view).

Anyway, Bewitched mercifully ended around three thirty in the morning, fooling me -- and my cursing seatmate -- into thinking we would be treated to the pleasantness of a dark, silent bus.

Then the TV asked as about the bitch donkey, before going on to test our knowledge of the Jackson 5 and Jim Palmer. Considering the cheesy new wave music, the video must have been produced sometime in the mid eighties. It went from question to question using screen wipes straight out of a high school audio/visual club production(the circle! the star! the turning page!).

Still, cunt?

Thankfully, the driver kills the video. The crazy bastard beside me is still muttering though. I can't be sure, but I think he might be half asleep. His rantings start out as whispers before riding a parabola up to screeches. Wiggling in my seat, leg sticking out into the aisle, I lay my head on half the head rest, trying to give him as much space possible while retaining some small measure of comfort.

I can't risk listening to my iPod; I might miss an audible clue of his inevitable attempt to slash my throat. That rules out sleep as well. Looking up at the ceiling -- why is it upholstered? -- I realize I have to be at work in six hours. I won't have time for any snoozing after my arrival, it will pretty much be a stop at my apartment and maybe the gym before going to work. That leaves the remaining, reaming bus ride of roughly two hours as my only opportunity to sleep.

It's so dark out. People snore, my companion occasionally calls some phantom a motherfucking bitch, but otherwise the bus is silent. A big, empty, rumbling, silent chamber. Daring me to close my eyes.

Fuck it, I think, if he kills me in my sleep, at least there will be plenty of witnesses. Straight to judge, jury, and executioner. I put some classical music on my iPod, recline the seat, and close my eyes.

I wake up minutes before our arrival in DC, unharmed, to the sound of my companion's whistle-high snoring. It's 4:30 in the morning. This is the life.

And I'm doing it all again this weekend(though hopefully not coming home as late).

Oh, and a female donkey is called a Jenny.