Whiskey and Running

While I was waiting for the x2 this morning near Gallery Place, no one got arrested.

Sorry, I thought that was note-worthy, even though it was 10 AM. But despite the lack of entertaining criminal behavior, the trip still delivered. Drunk man (again, please note the time) at the bus stop wanted to have a conversation about my athletic ability after seeing my bib number on my shirt from the race I ran this morning. He told me of his ability to run back in his day, before he had a punctured lung and was 51 years old. He paused to take a swig from a bottle that smelled of cheap whiskey, but the label was printed in Chinese, with that Chinatown-esque decor. He looked at the girl waiting beside me, who reeked of east coast snobbery and country clubs, and began singing the popular Taylor Swift song to her: "She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts..." and actually got angry when east coast girl couldn't finish the lyric for him. He asked if I knew the song. Of course I knew the song! Sadly, the bus came before he could sing me the Pink Floyd he promised.

The Power of Love

While listening to my ipod on the 92, I sat down next to nervous looking, strung out, yet also dangerous older man. He was covered in tattoos he clearly either did himself, or got in prison. I noticed him eyeing me, looking creepily pleased. He kept looking down at what I thought was my chest, but he then indicated that he was actually checking out my ipod.

He takes out this old school ipod in a big, heavy case, and points to the song currently on his play list: Celine Dion's The Power of Love. No joke. He closed his eyes and proceeded to sway in his seat the whole way down 8th Street.

Hey there...

This blog is an attempt to pay tribute to the complete and shameless debauchery that is the Washington, DC Metro bus system. For those of you who live near the Capitol Hill/Atlas district, you are all too familiar with the X2, the D6, the 90 buses, as well as other lines that run nearby. Surely you have your own experiences and words of wisdom to share.

As I approach my 3rd year as a DC resident, I am choosing not to tune out or ignore the racist, sexist, drunken, and sometimes genuinely wise commentary spewing from the mouths of my fellow bus riders, but rather to celebrate it for its sheer artistry.

Inspired by years of old favorites like, "You married? Can I go home with you?," "Hey light skin, I like to wine 'em, dine 'em, get behind 'em," and "You do what you do, you get what you get," I will use this forum to start documenting what will eventually be an integral part of my life memoirs. I'm not sure how old I have to be to start writing memoirs, but I'll have a lot!

Last night, as I waited for the 92 at 9 and F NE, I joined a group of stealthy young thuggish types, complete with the obligatory malt liquor in a paper bag and black n mild cigar tucked behind ears. Dressed in patterned tights and wool miniskirt, I was certainly out of place, but really, how different from my morning commute is this? I was soon approached by an older, drunker, probably homeless man with a bottle in his hand, freestyle rapping as he staggered towards us. "Hey there, white lady," he said, offering his fist for the customary "terrorist fist jab" (compliments of Fox news circa June 2008). I responded, offering my fist in return. He quickly retracted his and leaped back exclaiming, "Aw, shit! I can't believe this motherfucka (me)."

Confused and amused, I faked disappointment at his public blow off, and asked what I ever did to him. He staggered off and began to hit on the only other female in the area.

Finally, one of the quieter of the original group tapped me on the shoulder, looked at me with genuine sympathy in his eyes, and asked if I was nervous being around all these black people. Ah, the 92.