The Bard

This is why it's fun to be abnormally nosey...

While riding the 32 home from work (East of the river, if you will), I thought I was sitting across from your average pot smokin', pants saggin' teenagers. Little did I know, I was in the presence of a modern day Shakespeare. He left behind two pieces of notebook paper in flawless script. The first read: Kill the Bus Driver.

The second was a few lines of prose, although as you'll see, the poet's ability to rhyme randomly and without pattern is impressive. It follows (and yes, I still have the original):

Cause all I kno is get money

Iam strap on the rip for N**gas

that wanna take it from me you ain't my

homie n**ga soft that a cookie Iam

pro these N**gas Rookies

Getth money playin Hookies pleas can

you Help me fully automatic if a n**gas

want satsie [sic] Iam grippin the automatic

What do you think this is, kind reader? I'm simply at a loss when trying to interpret this masterpiece.

At least this is better than Monday when, on the 92, this old, hardened thug who no doubt spent some time in jail clutched 3 DVDs in his hand, presumably to return to Blockbuster. On the top of the stack? The unsuccessful pre-teen flick "Stick It" from a few years ago, featuring the infamous line: "It's not gym-nice-tics," spouted off by a perky brunette 13 year old gymnast. This dude's appreciation of cinematography is sure to make him a hit with the ladies.

Growing up on the 92

"Wait, you're still a virgin, too?!" - one pre-teen boy to another, in disbelief

The Scent of a Bus

This morning, the 92 smelled like feet. I don't know why. Usually, it's either old cigarettes or the unmistakeable breath of an alcoholic or sunflower seeds (the official snack of the 92, in case you were wondering). More upsetting? The fact that this morning's first bus ride was one of those days where it just quietly reminds you that life would be easier with a car. Nothing funny happened, nobody flashed any body parts... just the smell of feet permeating the air, a creepy old man staring at me with predictably unabashed lust in his eyes, a ridiculously high ratio of disabled to non-disabled riders (seriously, I know that seems wrong, but if the rest of the population were this mobily impaired while also incapable of forming complete sentences, our economy would be in even worse shape) lingering, creating this feeling of ever so slight but nagging discomfort. In some ways, I hoped for the loud, raunchiness I'd come to expect. Like last night, which was so full of activity I haven't even blogged about it. Words so often fail us when trying to describe new stereotypes and unexpected situations. I'll think about it more, maybe I'll write later, but it definitely involved a bunch of drunk transgendered teenagers yelling at one: "Girrrl, I'ma shove this hammer up your ass" to a person with a full beard. I felt confused in so many ways.

At least I had to take the bus again over my lunch break. A Random Crazy Dude (RCD) spilled coffee on me, didn't apologize, then spent the rest of the ride looking at me, cracking up inexplicably, and rapping. Too bad I couldn't decipher his lyrics. They were probably magical.

Tobacco on the bus

While waiting for the 28X in Falls Church (usually a safer bet than the 92) the other day, I saw this kid smoking two cigarettes, simultaneously. He was smoking them together, like one large one, as opposed to alternating puffs or something. When the bus got there, he put out the cigarettes on his pants leg and shoved the butts in his pocket, presumably for future use. Gross.

This reminded me of a time not too long ago where I saw a guy on the 32 storing a cigarette in the gap between his teeth, again, presumably for future use. Unsurprisingly, it was difficult to understand his speech with the sparse and unpredictable arrangement of teeth, half-smoked cig between them, and a probably crack habit, but I did understand him when he suggested that CP and I get married (CP is a good female friend of mine, initials used in case she actually values her privacy, unlike me). He said he'd really like to see us married, and seemed genuinely sweet about it.

Ok, and in other related news, the other day I thought I'd forego the debauchery of the bus in favor of a leisurely stroll home through the park since I'd had a rough day. Some guy walking towards me shook his exposed penis at me. Yup - it was pretty terrifying, particularly because it took me so long to process what was going on that by the time I looked away, I'd already subconsciously committed to memory every curve, color change, and little wiggle. Now, every time I close my eyes, my dreams are raped by the image I never wanted.

So for the future, I think I'll take the 92.

Beltway Hipsters

On the red line this afternoon, I saw a couple of tea-baggers get their giant ill-informed yet witty signs stuck in the metro door while they used their non-ironic white keds to try and pry it free. Heh. If they knew more about my beltway mentality and not just main street, they'd realize that the metro doors aren't like elevator doors... they'll totally close on you! It's been fun having the teabaggers in town... crowding the metro elevators, inciting more political controversy (because DC doesn't have enough of it), but watching out of towners struggle with public transportation just somehow never gets old. I can't help getting a little defensive when the "real" Americans talk crap about DC and our "beltway mentality," whatever that is. Hey guys! You're in my neighborhood! Your lovely protest will make me late for work because all the streets are blocked off. I am not some faceless entity that is taking your money. Oh, and one more thing... I think your fanny pack makes you look fat.

Oh, Beltway... other sightings included a serious man in business attire, conservative hair and... a hot pink wrist watch! They also included a 55 year old woman (guessing on age) with a low cut "Apple Bottoms" T-shirt. She held what was presumably a grandchild on her lap. And finally, I saw a thugged out guy standing outside the metro playing Ray LaMontagne for tips. The hipsters have taken over! Wait for MGMT to start playing in the background for congressional hearings.

Gangster Bump Its. Yes Please.

Yesterday, I saw the top of a man's crotch while waiting for the 92 on Florida Ave. You may be thinking to yourself that this is not a bad way to break up your mid-morning routine, but I assure you it is not. Said man was a heavy set, hairy fellow with visible poor hygiene. He turns around to face the wall (maybe he thought he was being discrete), unzips his pants and drops them halfway down his rear to properly tuck in his shirt. He saw that I saw him, and instead of apologizing or feeling embarrassed, he shrugged his shoulders as if I'd just caught him picking his nose or something.

But this horror was properly balanced by the combination of excitement, surprise, and admiration I held for... wait for it... a real live bump it on the 92! Yes, I'm talking about those plastic hair pieces on the infomercials that will give you instant "lift" that New Jersey is famous for - trashy accent included, I think (sorry New Jersey friends, you know it's true).

The proud wearer of the bump it was a fashionable young thing - leopard print chiffon shirt/jacket/scarfish thing and died and fried hair down to her waist a la Crystal Gayle. I spent most of the bus ride trying to figure out whether, in fact, she was sporting one, or she had just properly teased and sprayed it into cooperation, but just as I decided on my own that her hair was too fine to support that kind of height and precision sans bump it, she turned her head and I caught sight of the white plastic shining between pieces of hair. Yes! Proof at last- people actually do wear these things non-ironically.

Oh, and I got to watch this whole thing sitting beside a 50 year old man in gray camouflage shorts, a matching gray camo bandana wrapped around his head like Tupac, and an oversized T-shirt that read: "RESPECT MY GANGSTER." I'm not entirely sure what that means. Does he mean a gangster that he owns? Or maybe his gangstership? Gangsterdom, Gangsterocity? Thoughts anyone?

Hittin' up the D6 this morning. Happy Friday!

Overheard in Texas

On my weekend trip home to Texas, I learned (or maybe re-learned) a few things I thought I should share.

Lessons on Gender Identification:

"In a gender defined world, it's important to show that you're a girl. So that they know you can keep your pants on."-My wise youngest sister

On this note, she helped me realize that if, in fact, you are a girl, you must have your toenails painted and have earrings on at all times, lest someone mistake you for one of your male counterparts. I made the mistake of wearing strappy sandals in Texas with, gulp, unpainted toenails. It should be noted that I also had a floral headband and sundress. I will still subject to this:
"If someone were to guess your gender, they'd guess man." -aforementioned sister

The next day, in response to my grave error of bare toes, my sisters pulled together to take me for a pedicure. As I mocked them for a). being a regular at a nail salon, b). being so regular that they had a specific person they had to have do their nails, and c). their larger problem (although they would call it a skill rather than a problem) with material consumption, the woman doing my big sister's jeweled pedicure pointed out: "Usually, you all have more shopping bags when you come in here." Geez family - y'all freaking rock. Even the nail tech knows you have mall issues.

Lessons from Church:
"The Easter Bunny did not rise from the dead." -billboard outside a large Church, presumably on the secularization of the Easter season.

How to deliver an appropriately confusing complimensult:
Lady at church choir: "Your hair looks nice curly... I wasn't sure about what you'd done."
Me: "Err... thanks? Um, so you don't like my hair straight?"
LACC: "You know how much money people pay for curls like ours?"

"That Eucharistic prayer was shocking... full of surprises!" - quote from my sister and fellow singer, on the challenges of keeping up with the music and chant of a tri=lingual mass in which the Priest skipped around without pattern between English, Spanish, and Latin.

Lessons on Relationships:

People get fat when they get married. Sometimes not both spouses, but at least one. This is even more likely to occur when two good looking people get married because they are good looking. According to one wise sage: "Wedding cake has delayed release calories. They take several years to really kick in."

Lessons on Fashion (more!)
The airport is a great place to find great new styles, like the ever-coveted jeans suit, or the floral capri pant.

I became so overwhelmed at the airport that I began a 'stache count. I got to 17 before becoming pre-occupied with the age-old dilemma of donuts or cookies for breakfast. Among my favorite 'stache sporters (and please note that I'm not just talking about any facial hair that includes a mustache - I'm talking card-carrying, no-excuses, clean-shaven-except-the-molestache badasses)?

-One guy wearing high waist jeans, a fanny pack, and a blue tooth earpiece tucked neatly beneath his greasy, 70s porn style curls that perfectly complimented the targeted 'stache.

-Middle aged man with a prominent potbelly, basketball jersey, jeans shorts, dress socks, and dress shoes. Oh, and a big flavor-saver creepstache. Yes, please!

-Long ponytail (Joe Dirt style) with a whispy blonde 'stache.

-Aggie polo tucked into high waist pleated khakis with no belt. Perfect for the bigot-stache he perfected, less perfect for the inevitable scrambled egg stuck between the stache hairs.

That's all for today. I look forward to joining the more normal Washingtonians on my usual bus route.