#59 in the 47 Roanoke: Transit Epiphanies series

On October 26 I rode the 47 Roanoke home for the last time. I was moving from the Roanoke neighborhood over to Brookside and would be taking a new bus to and from work.

I thought it would be an uneventful ride until I saw "handicapped seat" at the bus stop. You remember him. He's the fat, filthy, grizzed Santafreak who grumbled at me for sitting in the handicapped seat he wanted and called me "four eyes."

Since I caught sight of him in time, when I got on the bus, I bypassed his favorite seat and sat by the second door in the middle of the bus. A middle-aged woman was sitting behind "Bad Santa" when we all got on the bus. After a couple of seconds she whooshes "ooooooEEEEEE!" and moves to the back seat of the bus. Apparently Santa is smelly and it's beginning to waft across the aisle and I struggle to open my window. The bus hasn't started moving yet, we're waiting for the clock to reach the departure time. The woman who moved to the back of the bus suddenly charges up the aisle, demanding to be let off the bus, "Lemme out. Lemme out NOW! Stankin' fool." She will take the 6:05. No doubt it will be more aromatic.

I decide to take her place at the back of the bus, right next to an open window. The bus starts its slow rumble up Main and two blocks later a young Mexican woman in running shoes gets on and sits in the double seat behind "Aromatherapy Santa." One stop later she moves closer to the back of the bus and struggles to open her window. A chubby girl in a great white skirt with gold and orange sequins trimming it helps her open the window. Sequin Skirt looks at me after helping Running Shoes and we all start to giggle as we realize why we're sitting in the back.

"Santa Stank" begins to mumble to himself and Sequin Skirt pulls out a cheap bottle of Raspberry Fling roll on perfume and offers it all around telling us to take a healthy whiff. "It'll block da' smail!" Running Shoes and I do it. Sequin Skirt tells us she bought it in a gas station on Brooklyn for a dollar. I fish in my bag for my tin of Altoids and pass those around, too. We all start laughing about the unbearable stench in the bus and Sequin Skirt says, "Yeah, this'll keep you sinus clear!" as she takes two Altoids. Running Shoes says thank you politely and the guy in front of me takes the whole tin, pours a handful into his palm and gives it back. I just grin.

We continue to giggle like fifth graders at "Santa Stench" who continues to grumble to himself and turn around to shoot withering glares at us for laughing in the back of the bus. All of us have our faces pressed up to the small open spaces in the window, breathing in the cool air. Sequin Skirt says, "Man, I rather be col' than breathe dat stanky butt!" Running Shoes and I crack up at this.

When we get to Running Shoes stop, she looks at me and Sequin Skirt for a beat and says goodbye and thanks. I tell her goodbye and feel a little drop in my chest. I won't see her again. The next time I need to ride the bus, I will be on the Max, the suburbanites' bus. Two stops later, it's my turn and Stinka Claus gets off at that stop, too. I turn to Sequin Skirt and tell her her outfit is sensational. She smiles proudly and tells me she made the skirt herself. I am very impressed and again, feel a little pang. I won't see Sequin Skirt again, either. She says, "Have a good one. See ya nex' time!" I toss a grin back and get off the bus. Santa Smells is wobbling his way into D.B. Cooper's and I start walking down Bell.

It's the last time I will walk this street and I look at everything closely, to make sure I can take it all with me.

#24 in the 47 Roanoke: Transit Epiphanies Series

Today, the bus was a veritable cavalcade of nut bombs.

It started at the bus stop in front of d'Bronx. I like that bus stop because then I can see all the early morning denizens of DB Coopers, the bar across the street that opens at 7 am. I am fascinated by Coopers. And I love watching the snooters who are so desperate they can't even drink at home at 7:30 in the morning, they have to go socially imbibe. I left the house too early today so I made my way to the DB Coopers stop so I could watch people leave and know that they were driving home (or to work!) in morning rush hour traffic and toasted, like Toast. No, not like MToast, but like wheat toast, but not as healthy.

So I sit down on the bench outside of d'Bronx with my coffee from the ultra-cheerful barista at Room 39. He's so goddam chipper it should be a frickin' crime before ANYONE has had their morning hit of caffeine. But I'm willing to forgive him for giving me too much happytude in exchange for the best damn java on the block. Two old street duffers shuffle to my stop and start asking themselves how they are. The first one says "Life is treatin' me like a dooooooggggg. A dawwwwg. Dooooohhhhhhhhggggggg." The second guy says he thinks he's going to Purgatory. He's going to come back as a native of a Third World country. Two frat rats, one in the feyest pink polo shirt I have ever seen stumble out of DB's. I check my watch. It is 8:45 am and these two buttnuggets are acting like it's 7:30 Friday night. They hoot and holler and climb into their red sporty stupidmobile and take off. I can be grateful that pinkshirted dickhead is NOT driving. One of the street duffers says, "Cain't b'leef they drink dat sheet. Serving it for 30 yearz!" ....and his bus is here. The 39. I never find out which Third World country he thinks he'll be reborn in.

The 47 arrives. The other street duffer gets on before me and fumbles with his fare. I swipe my card in time to the conversational cadence between the bus driver, an elderly African-American gentlemen and a woman. I enter on this line and I know that I need to wake my ass up in order to truly enjoy the ride: "What the HELL does a bunny rabbit have to do with the resurrection of Jesus?" I sit down and whip out my journal. This bus ride will be one for the ages.

Conversation continues in this vein as courtly elderly African-American gentleman adroitly proselytizes to the driver and another passenger about religious holidays. The bus driver, a young, spirited man who wasn't of the highest wattage sez: "If I see a fat man in a red suit come down my chimney, I'm gonna BLAST him!" The transit-preacher chuckles and replies, "Yeah, that's the only time I'd pull out my double barrelled. That'd be one dead elf."

I cannot write fast enough.

The bus driver and the transit-pastor continue to kvetch about the commmercialism of holidays and segue into Greek myths. Medusa with the snakes on her head? Those were dreadlocks. Yes, ma'am. Medusa was a sistah. So were Jason and the Aquanauts (sp) sez the buspreacher. The bus driver nods and says, "Yep. I seen it in the Clash of the Titans. I watch dat movie alla time." The preacher jumps on this statement and says that if the bus driver pays close attention to the Greek myths, then he will see they are about the suppression of the black woman. I cannot write fast enough.

Seven chattering Mexican day laborers get on at the West Side bus stop. They are boisterous and pleasant and I wish I spoke Spanish so I could understand what they are talking about. It is a mixture of spirited Spanish and some English but not enough for me to know what the topic is. However, two of them smile at me. I grin back.

The bus driver starts asking the preacher if he's seen Friday the 13th Part 2. It's his favorite movie. The preacher doesn't answer and begins to look at the rest of the riders.

A woman accepts a flyer from the preacher and as the bus nears my stop at 10th and Baltimore she reads, slowly, aloud, "Destined to Witness."

And I wonder what that means, exactly, for me.

Variegated Squash

I am between houses and beside myself. We don't have a closing date on our house yet. My husband has been packing like a rat for the past two weeks. He went on a cleaning binge last night that sent me to bed. He scrubbed the washer, dryer, fridge, freezer, stove top and then MOVED all those appliances to scrub the floors behind. Princess is right. I married a pod person. We went shoe shopping AT HIS REQUEST last weekend. Yep. He's an alien. Better guard the cow lips...

Stem cell research: They want my eggs? They can HAVE THEM!

Aside: commercial that I hate: anything that tries to sell me a car, especially an SUV. Commercials I love: That American Express one with Kate Winslet. Don't like AE. Would never carry one. Wouldn't mind getting friendly with Kate, though. The ones with the monkeys in the office who are throwing shred around and pointing their laser at the pants of that stupid schlub who is not cool enough to work in an office full of monkeys. Yeah, yer fired, dweeb.

Pimp My Ride is funny. Yes, it is. Those tricked out cars make me crack up.

Are you a member of LA? Princess and Les are. Carly is. She was inducted last weekend. Global, Sharon and Darling Nikki are. If you figure it out, you're a member. And if you figure it out, you have to buy the next round.

For THREE cents...

I would KILL my clothes dryer. And I almost did.

It starts like this: I like to do the laundry. Because, frankly, I just don't like the way my husband puts the soap in the machine (you can all just hold the anal-retentive-obsessive-compulsive-neurotic-behavior comments right now. This is my 'thing.' We all have a 'thing.' Yes, you do so have a 'thing'. This is mine. Deal.)

I am here today to tell you that YES, they CAN be trained. After enough kvetching about how my husband throws his clothes into the laundry--shirt sleeves rolled up, pants one leg inside out with all the crap still left in the pockets, sock donuts--he's Changed His Ways. Occasionally I find a tissue stuffed in a shirt pocket, but no more bellyachin' from me. He puts all his clothes in the laundry right side out, pockets emptied of cell phone, wallet, keys and scraps of paper. I feel I have no right to complain any longer.

But today, I wanted some heads to roll just like the change that was rolling around in the dryer. Seems I washed a small handful of change and instead of dive bombing to the bottom of the washer, they hid in the folds of clothes and made their evil escape into the dryer. Where they started bangin' 'n clangin' 'n tinklin' and makin' me crazee.

I opened the dryer and fished a penny out from under all the clammy clothes, shut the door and started things a-tumblin' agin. There was some more clangin'. There was another coin. I sighed, pulled open the door, found another penny and commenced to drying once again. I walked away and after a moment, heard STILL MORE metallic macarenin' in the damn dryer. I yank open the door and furiously toss EVERY DAMN PIECE OF CLOTHING onto the floor in search of the offending coin. It's another penny. I THROW everything back into the dryer, SLAM it (to make myself feel better) and PUNCH the start button again (to make myself feel more better).

I walk away to the comforting sound of clothes softly tumbling in a warm metal cocoon and contemplate breaking out the wine (it's only 8 am) because, obviously, I am in a genetically disordered mood and must require something to Take The Edge Off. Medicinal Purposes Only. But no, I just down my fourth cup of coffee and think about stealing all the money out of my husband's clothes when he comes home later.

Solution: Before doing laundry, steal all money in house. Keep in safe, noiseless place. Keep wine close.

In Them Thar Hills

Last year, Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell was one of my favorite books. It came highly recommended by Himself (he knows who he is). Himself was pleased to know that this slim little volume was named a Best Book for Young Adults in January.
Ree Dolly knows her father would never snitch, skip a court date nor jeopardize his family. When Jessup Dolly seemingly jumps bail and neglects to show up in court, Ree knows without a doubt that he's dead. However, Ree's word isn't good enough for the sheriff, the bailbondsman, the court or the local ring of modern moonshiners. She will have to supply the proof herself or the ramshackle family home, sitting on valuable timberland, will be forfeited to the bondsman. Ree's determined search for her father brings her to the homes of dangerous men and sinister women--her relatives. No one will tell Ree where her father is, and Ree is severely threatened for asking. The friendship of her childhood friend, Gail, and the protection of her Uncle Teardrop, keep Ree under control and among the living. Nonetheless, only Ree has the power and tenacity to find her father--dead or alive.
The strong, sympathetic characters move through this frightening and compelling story with affection coupled with violence. Readers will turn pages quickly and devour the small restful pockets of description of a land and people as cold as the season. Woodrell's hallmark is his lyrical and bleak prose surrounding the singular dialect of the Ozarks. Fans of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, True Grit by Charles Portis, Addie Pray by Joe David Brown, or Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons will enjoy.

The Harsh Light of Day

I suppose I should be mortified that I was BWIing last night. But nope. I wear my personal embarrassments proudly. It's what makes me the likable goof my friends appreciate. I spend my days thinking up ways to prove how Not Perfect Yet Still Utterly Lovable I am.

But I do need to stop dribbling ice cream down my front. There's nothing charming about that.

And I'm not hungover either. I found THE BEST hangover remedy. It's even better than that Australian stuff Sheila gave me. It's a picture of this dude I don't know, but think is rather pompous. This photo could make a person stop smoking, bat for the other team, scare the friggin' cancer cells right outta the riddled body, wake the dead, turn to meth, run a mile in the opposite direction in under two minutes, I could go on. Medusa would turn to dust if she caught a gander of this guy.

Heehee. I have an idea of how to use that photo......

BWI

yes, I aM BWI. I could get a ticket and fine for BWI. I am BWI--blogging while intoxicated. I am so looped i have txt evry one i know. i woul dhave text LES but i doh't 'have her phone number.

I just bought a house. See it here: http://infotube.net/search_detail.php?photo=1&Adnumber=145310

I will be signing a book contract next week. I have just come from a workrelaed happpy hour. yeah. i'm jhappppy. i went to winslows to see my husbnd play zydeco and see my other dear friends man to give me an update on her life. she has just passed her real estate agents license. on the first time. i am so impressed. but i am drunk. i LURVVV venus and sheila. they will tell the FORUM next week. that i drnktxtd them.

I think it's time to eat something. But first, a shorttlist of people i lurvvv even if i am drnk. prncess, glblib, toast, twitt, bdsee, meggsnbacon, bacnshu, lesbrn (happy hr s..cenario to follow), pinky, yrhusnds(thy will love R bsmt), twitNmtoast, new neighbots badseedntst., DJCLEM, KENT, AMELIA, BETH, MARCO, im soooo drnk, gott go. lurv U all. .

Which pill?

Should Marian take right now to soothe her nerves? First, let us examine the reasons why Marian feels she needs some of mother's little shleppers to get through the rest of the day.

1. Can't concentrate on work 'cause there's too damn much of it.

2. Might have found a house to buy and need to figure out how much to offer the gouger who wants to take all of Marian's savings and run away to the Bahamas. View house here.

3. Damn van is leaking anti-freeze and will cost $750 to fix. Apparently Marian's approach to car repair (The Christian Scientist method--the Lord will take care of it) doesn't work. Losing my car religion....

4. Phone call from one of my favorite characters in literature. Yes, this really happened. Spangler Star Tukle, the lead cowboy from my last She Reads column for Booklist left me a voice mail. He'll be in town on Wednesday and is "demanding to have lunch" with me. When I questioned his existence he let forth a line of invective that made me grin all over. I love that character. I love that author. His name is Robert Day and if you haven't read The Last Cattle Drive YOU ARE MISSING SOMETHING.

It is an American classic. Yes, it is. I will not be budged.

5. Who told Robert Day that I'm one of his biggest fans and who has enough pull to ask this man to drive all the way to Kansas City to have lunch with me?! And he's buying! ( I will offer to pay. I will buy the man a filet mignon if he wants one.)

Which pill? The little white vicodin, the little white valium, the little blue Tylenol or the Vitamin C?

The Holy Spirit Lives in My Bathroom

I'll get to the above in a minute, but first the Ashbaby. 'Cause the two are related.

On the left is THE Ashbaby. He is, without question, the Best Cat in the Universe. Yes, he is. No, I'm sorry, I beg to differ, your cat is sensational, fabulous, wonderful and marvelous, I am absolutely certain. But THE Ashbaby is the best cat in the Universe. I will not be budged.

So. THE Ashbaby is all bugged-out this morning because it's not hot. He's growling, yapping, chirping, squalling and climbing the walls (really, he does that) and chasing his tail and running back and forth from bed, through the kitchen, into the bathroom, where he starts climbing the walls. He jumps in the tub and starts yowling. It's Clem's job to play with him in the tub. It's my job to pick up this 20lb cat and walk him around the house so he can stare at the ceiling and anything hanging on a wall low enough for him to chew on.

Now we get ready for work, and THE Ashbaby goes racing back into the bathroom where he starts yowling and squalling and jumping on the walls and chasing his tail and playing the cello (cat people know what this is). He's making those low throaty growling sounds and Clem sez, "I think the Ashbaby is speaking in tongues. He's caught the Spirit!" And I say, "So the cat has found Jesus in the tub drain? Wow! The Holy Spirit lives in our bathroom! Where are those Jehovah's Witnesses now?"

Related story: The Jehovah's Witnesses like to knock on our door on Saturday mornings. Now, Clem and I are not exhibitionists or naturalists, but it's our house, dammit, and I will walk around in boxer shorts with the windows open if I want to. And I can't stop Clem from jaybird attire. It's his house, too. And you can't see anything unless you're at the front door. And we can see you coming before you get to the front door. Except for that one Saturday when we didn't see the Jehovah's Witnesses. But they saw plenty. Hee. Do we want to be saved? "I got yr salvation righchere, sweetheart!"

So, I'm wondering. Has THE Ashbaby got religion or is he just having a party in his mind? And if I pour Liquid Plumr down the drain am I going to hell?

Virtual Porch Happy Hour

I am on my porch with Lesbrarian and we are drinking beer (cause that's what I started with, but I have wine, if you want it) and we are talking about her new job. It is a balmy 82 degrees here in Kansas City and we refuse to wear shoes.

We are getting lightly toasted and will start talking about food after we are done making dirty remarks about everyone we know. But first, there are important world-shaking matters to discuss. The first is, "Which author are we going to spend the weekend with? Neil Gaiman or Dennis Lehane?" and "What should Marian do with her garden next year?" and "What color hair can Lesbrarian wear to her new job?" and "Yes, Lesbrarian will find a cool apartment AND be able to eat" and "What is the best way to transport feline critters from one town to the next? Do you need kitty-go-nap?"

Venus is singing in the basement with the rest of the Cass County Lamenters. She is on tonight and sounds great! When it's break time, Venus will bring that herbal beer she's drinking (what IS that crap?) upstairs and sit on the porch swing with us. She tells us what she's reading and Lesbrarian knows just the next graphic novel she should try cause she's never read one.

I take a sip of beer and start telling the story of the GrizzledMushMouthSanta I rode the bus with Wednesday who grumbled at me to get out of his "handicapped seat" and called me "four eyes" (ain't heard that one since third grade).

It's time for another round of drinks and the band is calling Venus back to sing again. Lesbrarian and I start hatching our scheme to take over the library AND military worlds. We are going to send all those Flyboys to William & Mary for MLS's and give the defense budget to the Library of Congress. Once the Flyboys have graduated, Lesbrarian and I will use them to create our own "Men of the MLS" calendar and GIVE IT AWAY because libraries will have plenty of money and won't need to fundraise.

Hmmmm. I should probably stop the Happy hour now.