Distraction Plateau

In the past I've listed some various distractions some of us numb-assed bus jockeys engage in. My two main time killing distractions outside of scribbling this drivel are; Attempting to become a Spanish speaking poker champion.

I listen to Spanish instruction MP3s (18 hours worth) on my iPod. I started back in March of this year, but feel I can't progress. I need an email or AIM buddy that speaks Spanish so I can write back and forth. I grew up in southern California, about an hour north of the Mexican border, so the language has always been in my ears.

The card shark distraction is me playing Phil Hellmuth at Texas Hold-em and never winning, Maybe if Phil spoke Spanish while playing I'd have both figured out.

Buena seurte amigos y buenos noches. Es muy tarde.

"Thank you Driver, I like a good long bus ride"

Filing down the narrow cattle chute to board the ACF, the driver tells the happy man in front of me "This bus is the local, and it"ll take you an extra hour and a half. The bus next to us will save you all that extra time".

The happy grinning man tells the driver "I enjoy a good long bus ride", and he gleefully boards the bus. I think I need to keep my eye on this freak.

Maybe he knows something? Maybe he's got it all figured out. I ascertain he's an idiot.

The crazy thing is I see this same situation occur at least two or three times a week. With different people of course. Do they not believe the Driver? Or are people just that beat down that they just don't give a rat's ass?

Suburbia is the Daily Obstacle

Live in the Rural and work in the Urban. For me it's the perfect balance. You have the solitude, quiet and wide open space during your time. While at the job you have the world of the cosmopolitan at your fingertips, the accelerated pace stimulates when you need to be productive. The much needed exhale of the slow rural world is welcomed as punctuation at the end and beginning of each day.

Suburbia, that endless blandness of the static in-betweeness is the unfortunate divider of my two worlds of contrast. Town after town that string together a blur of nationally recognized anchored brands for the creature of status quo. Wal-Mart, Red Lobster, TGI Fridays, Olive Garden and punctuated with a central shrine of commerce, "The Mall". More reconfigured comforting, branded sameness.

The perfect equation would be a metropolitan vibrant city, directly connected to the rural expanse to go home to. If only there was a way to subtract the suburban from the equation.

The burbs are the obstacle I navigate through begrudgingly daily.

Stopped for a Piss.

The two beer chugging Frat boys complained to the ACF Driver that the bus's toilet door is locked. So we pull over at a Diner so they can piss. Now I'm pissed.

Insider Trading Frat Boy intell.

Two wall street entry level dudes sitting behind me. I hear every detail of their 1st tier finance world. They are going back to Scranton University's homecoming. They are slamming beers, talking ab out their new big city lives.

One of them works at AXA insurance and is bragging about how he was just given stock options in the company a few months ago at 18 bucks, and since the AIG crash AXA is now worth 38 a share being the jackal, and getting all AIG's business.

They are analyzing the drinking costs of NYC vs. Scranton. They both determine one night of drinking in NYC equates to one week of drinking in Scranton. But they would never trade back. The quality of going out drinking in NYC far surpasses Scranton, PA boozing any day.

Amazingly astute observations.

"Not A Very Good Idea"

Most people who ride the ACF live far from NYC so that they can afford a larger living domicile. Maybe most are prone to claustrophobia of the average NYC apartment.

It's a rainy Friday morning ride, all the windows are fogged up, You only see traces of head and taillight streaks zipping past the windows like white and red tracer bullets. The guy in front of me keeps wiping a small port hole of clarity with his jacket sleeve. He must see out to the thing he sees everyday, I guess he is the watchman that makes sure nothing has changed.

The NY Times wrote that the nation's top economic academics from Harvard, Yale, MIT, and the University of Chicago all agreed "It's not a very good idea" referring to the 700 billion dollar bailout scheme the Treasury dept. has cooked up. They all say the proposed plan will do far more damage than good.

Rolling blind at 70+ mph in a tin trailer trash mobile home with a diesel engine twice a day is "not a very good idea".It's the price all us ACF warriors pay. Curious to see how the 700 billion will affect us and at what cost.

Get The F*ck Outta Here!

For the past 40 minutes the guy behind me has said "Get the f*uck outta here" at least every 15 seconds. He has created an entire language with just this one phrase. He has every emotion covered. He is the Maestro of "Get the f*ck outta here".

I am mesmerized by the harsh cadence of his only phrase. I've turned my iPod off to not miss a one. It's so simple, direct and un-nuanced, I'm oddly envious.

Unabashed groveling to please click the little text ads to your right of this post.
Thank you so very much.

Be_are_why

Es Masculino Y Feminino?

Sometimes you just don't know.
You see a huge heap of blanketed humanity piled in a bus seat and wonder. Is that a Dude or a Chick? Chico vs. Chica no mas guapa or guapo.

Now I finally understand why some languages assign gender to inanimate objects. A door does not have a gender that I'm aware of in my mono-languaged world but Spanish knows better. La peurta is feminino, the door is female.

I'm still left with the unanswered question of: what gender is the heaving blanketed heap across the aisle from me?

Am I looking into a crystal ball? Will that be my future evolution of a numb-assed, bus riding commuter?

Ready. Set. Go!

Ok guys we're here waiting to board our beloved Chariot of the perpetual flaming anus. Let's really make this one count, let's dig down deep and find that extra little bit. We need to give a 110% tonight. And that means you to, hunched over fish-face dude, no phoning this one in.

Everyone with me? OK. Hands in the middle, and sound off like ya gotta pair this time.

Ready Set. KICK 60 MILES OF ROUTE 80'S ASS!

Yeah, you guys got the eye of the tiger, Now climb aboard that bouncy-assed whore and let's roll!

"Panthers Are Just Black Leopards".

On last night's zombie trip I sat across the aisle from a very drunk college kid. He passed out before we even started rolling, not very noteworthy.

About 45 minutes into the trip he jumps up wide awake and starts yelling something at me. I take off my headphones, but it's kinda fun watching him yell and not hearing him. He frantically asks me "have we passed the Delaware Water Gap stop!" I tell him "no we're still in Jersey". He calms down and I tell him we're almost at Panther Valley. (my stop).

Right before he nods back off he proclaims to me "panthers are just black leopards". That's the end of our exchange.

Something Sour & Unsavory

Tawdry, soiled, and public, is the overall skin-crawly feeling to riding the Ass Chariot of Fire. Yes you constantly rationalize, but each time your fingernails scrap along the rigid plastic armrest you know dark crusty shavings of all before you are now at home under your index finger and maybe a few more digits.

Ten or fifteen minutes pass and that piece of annoying bit of skin that is flapping on your chapped lower lip finally gets the best of you. You yank it with proud vigor and instantly remember the dark scrungy armrest shavings that you now have just licked your lip cuz the premature chapped lip skin you yanked is now bleeding a tiny bit. You now have every numb-assed slob's hands co-mingling in your bloodstream.

You are now assimilated and one with the ACF Borg. Part vampire, part commuter Zombie.
I am now one of them. Hell is full and the un-dead commuters ride back and forth. Nothing can kill us. We just whine, whinge and get annoyed but never stop riding.

Radio Station in the Swamp

Every morning we pass over multiple bridges just east of Newark. An odd sight that always intrigues me, a radio station and it's transmitter sits on a pier in the middle of one of the swamps. I never quite catch what the old neon red call letters say, but I know it's an AM station. I think about the people that work there, what must it be like to work in this glamorous media outlet in the middle of a jersey swamp?

Tomorrow I'll make a point of finding out the radio station's call letters. My guess is that it's either a oldies station or a creepy bitter talk radio format.

I found out what the station is. It's WNJR and it broadcasts only in portuguese, Radio Portugal 1430 on your AM dial.

I have been corrected by a co-worker it really is WMCA I stand corrected.

Port Authority Gets Cultured. And Moles The Size of Small Toes.

Waiting in line at Port Auth. to climb aboard the Ass Chariot in a Patron and Beer fuzziness. (Stopped in at Port 41) My ears catch something new, a Bach concerto is being pumped through the PA system. All the way down in the bottom basement pit of the skankyest of skanky. J.S. Bach is kicking out the jams. I'm waiting for Alex and his Clockwork Orange crew to appear and inflict a bit of the old ultra-violence.

Board the bus and have a seat, in walks Sam Ashe Dude, he is stunning, he struts up the aisle wearing a NY Rangers hockey jersey and plaid shorts. The dude is the man, no one else could pull this look off with such cavalier bravado as Sam Ashe Dude. He sits 3 rows in front of me and then I see them. Many moles the size of baby toes, they wiggle when he walks.

So much man, So much self confidence. He cracks open a Coors tall-boy and enjoys the ride home.

Friday Night Ride Home Driver Lost.

A very old feeble driver I've never seen is at the helm of the final ACF of the week. He does not take the usual going home route, no panic sometimes the other route through Newark is quicker.

Soon as we are on the Turnpike he pulls off in the emergency lane, turns on all the interior lights and asks us 55 numb-asses "how do you get to route 80?" SO a little woman with a thick Jamaican accent is navigating.

We are not on the regular route but we're going the right direction. For now.

"...oooh that smell, can't ya smell that smell?"

The snoring green hoodie wearing walrus sitting in front of me is jolted out of his sonic slumber. He bellows in a volume I think louder than he expected "oooh that smell, can't ya smell that smell?" Word for word he correctly quotes the Lynrd Skynrd classic.

Every morning this week the driver of the #553 Martz Trailways ACF flys down the steep downhill of Route 280 through all the Oranges. The new driver with the sloppy tie has the tach pinned, tranny screaming like a rice-burner drifter, and then stomps on the breaks and almost does a stoppie. Now is when "that smell" hits all 55 ACF riders simultaneously. It's the metal on metal smell of brakes strained to their maximum. The smell is strong and strange to most, and then is gone almost as quick as it happened.

The green hooded walrus is back to full chainsaw effect snoring.

Dark and Dark.

It's getting to be the most discouraging part of the year. I leave and it's dark and darkness drags me back home. No more summertime 9pm+ sunsets. It may as well be like going through the Lincoln Tunnel from NYC the entire 50 miles home.

In a car you have the benefit of looking forward seeing the signs on the hwy tick off signaling your getting closer to your destination. On the ACF if you sit beyond the first three rows, you can only look 90 degrees out one side, the bus's headlights don't illuminate the signs from this vantage point so it's as if you are staring out sideways into the darkness.

The only semi-interesting view is looking directly down out the window at passing cars. I'm always hoping to see something exciting, like a crazy Penthouse Forum story roll past, but it never does.

If you are ever driving westbound on route 80 through NJ, and you see a white and red Martz bus between 7:05pm & 8:20pm give all us ACF riders something to talk and write about.

Isn't It Ironic? No it is not!

Is it ironic that I'm seated next to the bucket of sloshing blue liquid that the Martz Bus Company defines as a toilet?

No.

It was the best seat available. It is a punishing coincidence that my personal number 2 (dump) schedule is out of wack. Was not able to let go of the usual pre-ACF deposit.

Back to irony. Why do we fall for and embrace this cheap-assed device? I'm the first to admit my addiction to both irony and satire. I'll take on satire another day, the other crutch to hide from reality or the possibility of original thought.

I just need to hang on to my shit until I get to the comfort of the handicapped stall at the gym's bathroom. The noise of people getting fit will camouflage my ability to let it all out. I predict 50 minutes until blast off.

Not many things can be more direct, or more real than having to take a shit. An absolute lack of irony exists in my current predicament. Only the rising tide of nature ticking away. To have to use the sloshing bucket of a toilet on the bus or hanging on for comfort, cleanliness and defecation harmony and bliss.

(note: below another pet peeve pointed out to me by a subway haircut aficionado. The cheezy device of using dictionary definitions in driving home a point.)

i·ro·ny1 /ˈaɪrəni, ˈaɪər-/ [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-] –noun, plural -nies.

1.the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning: the irony of her reply, “How nice!” when I said I had to work all weekend.

2.Literature. a.a technique of indicating, as through character or plot development, an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually or ostensibly stated.

I just need to crap. Now.

Tried Something New. 5 Hour Energy.

Who new what powers of hyper kinetic jitteriness could be packed into a 2oz bottle.

This was exactly the wrong thing to have 2 hours before the nightly ACF ride. After the late night last night I decided I needed a pick-me-up to make it through the last few hours of work. My wife is a Red Bull junkie and I hate that metallic taste, so I rolled the dice and gambled on that wee innocent looking bottle.

That racy, itchy feeling of all that niacin buzzing through me. Not the right recipe for a soothing chariot ride home.

The wacky back story to this legal crystal meth in a bottle is that; the guy I bought my KTM dirt bike from is a senior VP for the company that makes the stuff, it's located 10 miles from my house in NJ. I've gone on a few rides with him an he's always handing the stuff out, but I never tried it.

Twitching and tweaking the whole ride home.

In Search of Distractions.

It's a constant hunt to find distractions to pass the time while riding the ACF. Below is a list of activities me and my numb-assed bus riding compadres participate in during our rolling incarceration.

-reading books/magazines
-iPod listening
-DVD watching
-working on laptops
-schooling Phil Hellmuth in texas hold-em
-playing mindless games on your phone
-paying bills
-asking "where are we?" and "is this my stop?"
-beating Kasparov at chess
-staring at your pay check willing it to grow
-writing the next rap hit
-knitting
-administering and receiving hickeys
-putting on make-up
-eating unidentifiable things from tupperware.
-drinking beer from tall cans
-mumbling religious prayers
-scratching your head for 15 minute increments.
-playing hand held gaming devices
-snoring
-yelling at others for talking on their phone
-drawing pictures of the other riders.
-text messaging
-crying

And writing about it all on your phone.

Last Bus From Port Authority & Dive Bar Discovery.

Stayed a little late at work tonight and had plans on catching the 9pm bus. My plans went a wry when the subway decided to sit in the tunnel between stops for over 45 minutes. Missed the 9pm ACF by 3 minutes. Now I get to ride the 11pm bus, the last bus. Standing in line now half hour before it leaves, it's packed.

To kill the extra 2 hours I had a burger at film cafe on 9th ave, it never let's you down. Then I discovered a hidden nugget from the seedy past of NYC. Port 41 an incredibly skanky bar on the forgotten block of 41st street between 8th & 9th aves. The college aged girl bartenders wear the prescribed hot pants and bikini tops. They have 16oz PBRs in a can. This place is a hidden piece of schmootz that gets stuck in the corner that never gets swept. The disneyification of Times Square never found this place. Port 41 is right outside the exit where all the buses snake their way into the Lincoln Tunnel. It's an amazingly sad and pathetic location, not one trace of ironic hipster cool. I may have fallen in love with this place. The clientele is a mixed plate of every Union flavor and hardened going nowhere mid-level office drone. The uber-uncool crowd. They chat with me as if I had my name on the stool, sports, the insanity of the tanking market. What's truly great is that every Bukowski character that spoke with me had all the answers. If these guys were in control the Yankees and the Mets would win the world series every year, and the market would be in Gordon Gecko shape.

Port 41 took me back to my 10+ years of working in various factories during my 20's, for the exact length of time it took to drink 2 PBRs.

I hope it survives.