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runswithscissors


Thursday, November 04, 2004

Last Friday: me, up at 4 p.m. Wrapping up loose ends -- a non-stop stream of detail work that took me right up to the moment I went out the door and into town to hop a bus south. A good day for a bus ride south, as it turned out -- a golden late-autumn day, Montpelier showing a surprising amount of late-season color, the air warming from early-hour frigidity to sweeter, kinder levels.

The bus: less than three-quarters full, allowing a fair number of riders two seats to stretch out in. At White River Junction, an hour south of Montpelier, we had to switch over to another bus, one already crowded, leaving few vacant seats, me sliding my adorable butt into the last available window number, leaving four or five vacant aisle seats, one of them next to me. The other passengers next to a vacant seat filled them with coats, bags, whatever might suggest 'Dude, don't even think of sitting here!' to a seatless traveler seeking a perch. I didn't. The result: a tall, beefy cadet wearing Norwich University dress grays -- someone who'd taken over two seats on the previous bus in an aggressive way that said 'sit next to me? as if!' -- approached, asking loudly, voice edged with attitude, "Is that seat taken, sir?" (Any time anyone addresses me as sir, I get the impulse to look around, see who the hell they're actually talking to, then tell them to knock the sir shit off.) I said no, he sat, his body large enough that it partially blocked the aisle, the duffel bag he dropped there completing the blockage.

During the switch between buses, he'd run to a nearby McDonalds, returning with a large drink that he now held in his left hand (the hand next to me). He pushed the back of his seat rearward, extended his legs out into the aisle, put a walkman on, closed his eyes, fell asleep. His mouth slowly dropped open, snores starting up as the big body relaxed in small, spasmodic twitches. Which is when I noticed the big soft-drink cup slipping gradually over in my direction, its plastic cover the only thing preventing its contents from running out on seats/floor/me. I poked snoring cadet a few times on the arm. No response. Poked him some more. Still no response. Looked out the window at the scenery, debating whether or not to escalate the poking to shaking, smacking, pulling walkman headset off to yell into ears. When I glanced back, his arm had completely relaxed, the cup tilted over, its top sprang off, soda poured out onto the floor -- amazingly, only enough reaching me to dampen the sole of my shoes. Waking with a start, the cadet jumped to his feet, apologizing for the mess, not appearing to know what to do. I suggested grabbing something to mop up the liquid, he ducked into the bus's portosan, reappearing empty-handed, the bus company apparently having decided stocking toilet paper was not a priority. He went and spoke with the driver, returned with three facial tissues, which had as much effect as a sponge trying to clean out Lake Michigan.

After sopping up what he could, the cadet tossed the dripping result into the portosan, sat down, plugged headset back into ears, closed his eyes once more. Relative silence descended, broken only by the sound of surrounding passengers trying to pull their shoes free of the slowly drying soda's adhesive effect.

[continued in next entry]


Madrid, te quiero.

rws 10:16 AM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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