Bus Report: Brenda

So old spice has perched himself within whiffing distance once again... A strong curlicue of fumes has assaulted my senses as I recoil in my late 70's velour seat.

The bus life is most definately sweeter with the addition of the iPod, though I believe I am suffering a massive Cher overdose...

Today a middle aged lady stepped on the bus in Lynwood. Let's call her Brenda Holiday. Brenda wears her hair in fine 80's fashion, as subtle as she can. Subtle in an IRS audit sort of way. She has scooped up her bi-level do in egg-shaped scoopfulls of mousse (just as the directions indicated - Brenda takes no chances). My guess is Vidal Sassoon. Someone told Brenda that her Olgilvie home perm made her look fresh... Fun... Youthful. What backstabbing bitches. I've seen handfulls of less-crispy noodles at Shanghai Garden. Yet Brenda works the circuit in the best way she can... Boarding the bus perhaps to her job at Shari's.

My guess is that whatever it is she does - it involves a hair net. (or it damn well should)

Oh its so easy to dog Brenda... In her "I love my cats" sweatshirt and peacock colored polyester (perhaps a blend?) pants with the creases so crisp you could slice through her best apple-brown-molasses-honey-almond spice bars. They're a favorite at the all-you-can-eat baptist pancake breakfast.

Bus Report: Lean Cuisine

So here I am again, tipping my head back to take in the view of yet another bus patron with bad shoes. As I peer out the window, cars gather around my metal capsule... My steel cocoon that seems to glide along an electric rail... Through Lynwood. My seat is badly stained.
As I speed toward downtown, I wonder why. Day after day. A fixture on this 414 and for what? I just can't give and give till my back is broken - I have to hold back a little something just for me...

A slowly defrosting Lean Cuisine sits in my bag. It is undoubtedly moistening my paperwork as I didn't have time to provide it with its own bag. It sits juxtaposed next to a carton of Sugar Babies. For shame... They tell the story of panties that leave marks on ones undersides... (or vice versa). I dream of my low calorie delight - Meatloaf with Gravy and Whipped Potatoes. Scrumptious. Oh, the lady in the car next to me is picking her nose. Lovely.
For now I shall acquiesce to dull torpor, confident with the knowledge that I shall confine my own nosepicking to my office...

Bus Report: Old Spice

Cold and wet... As raindrops on the glass collide and disappear into delicious moistness.
So many seats on the bus yet the elderly man drowning in Old Spice feels compelled to experience my nearness. As if only one church pew away, the saturated silver hairs mock me as if to say "linger in my scent, as I am the nectar of the gods". I am not convinced.
My own hair tells a story of abused hair products purchased on impulse - chosen only for slick packaging and no real substance. I am the quintessential consumer... Though I don no glittering gold today.

As I sit in an unshaven, disgruntled state of sloth I wonder where the future will take me... As I pull into Mountlake Terrace. This has become tedious and tiresome. I can see my drivers profile in a carefully positioned mirror. He seems unamused. I see him as my own personal Jean Dixon. What will the future hold, Jean? Oh, and here is my bus pass.

Bus Report: Bus Driver's Wife

Well its good news today as the bus drivers wife made it through heart surgery ok. She'll be making a full recovery.

Oh how windy it is in Mill Creek this morning... Almost enough to blow the glittering gold away.
As I sit in my seat I ponder the universe, and my place in its vast nothingness. Do all these articulated limbs wrapped around velour covered foam (once described as luxurious) really amount to anything? Crisscrossing legs among briefcases, handbags, and umbrellas.
Perhaps the now absent scissor-snaps lady has all the answers. Maybe it is I that is blind to her flowing tendrils of spun gold... Kept in check only by a pair of snapping scissors carefully preening and organizing each strand with precision.

I, the ubiqutous bitch of route 414 can only sit and wonder, iPod-less, in a static-y mess of Top 40... Fading out, along with my dreams. What good is all this glamour if I can't act like a rockstar?

Bus Report: Mynkh Stholle

We seem to be covering all of the eastern european women with moustaches today...

I am wearing my mink on the bus today... I dragged it on the ground. I look so beautiful.

No shimmering gold today. It got to be too much for everyone... Sort of a massive luxury overdose.