Life on wheelz.

From the archives. August 2014. Who wants to illustrate this?


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I missed the express bus to Philadelphia last week and was rescheduled on a later, longer bus. Under normal conditions (ie. no sinus pressure and plenty of snacks), a Greyhound bus ride is one of my favorite pastimes. How often do you find yourself locked inside a mobile freezer with an incredible array of strangers for 5+ hours? Not very, unless you’re traveling cross-country, or a masochist. It’s a great opportunity for people-watching and, as misery loves company, there is often a sense of community aboard.

The other night was hell, however, and I leave here a log of my SMS’ as proof (edited for context).

At 5pm, I am abusing my sudafed and thinking about Walter White.

We make a pit stop in Shady Rock, Nowhere. I pay four dollars for a slice of “New York Style” Sbarro pizza. The bus smells like cheeseburgers and cigarettes.

Someone help me.

There is a 4-month old child at the back of the bus. I know that he was born two months early because I am a professional eavesdropper. Earlier, a woman in a pink wife-beater, carrying a Wendy’s XL Frostie, commented on his “biiiiiiig eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyes!!!” for 10+ minutes.

At 9:30, we are just entering Harrisburg and I beg the lord to have mercy upon my soul.

I have to pee but I’m afraid of being left here. Our driver has used the loudspeaker to deliver the same speech at each stop. He informs us that he is not our “nice uncle,” and that he has nine nieces and nephews and a third grand-baby on the way. I will spend the rest of this ride trying to figure out how this information is relevant to his leaving us at rest-stops.

Someone has stolen the empty seat I was about to take. Life is pain and all hope has left my bones.

I’ve decided to deal with it. I am practicing zen.

My sudafed has finally kicked in, so I am awake. I learn that my seatmate is afraid of tunnels. She drinks water or whiskey to get through them. I try to distract her with questions. Our last tunnel, in her words, is a “double whammy.”

She gets off in Norristown. She is the only passenger to deboard. I like her and I know all of her daughters’ college majors, but I can’t help being angry.

It is midnight. Most people have fallen asleep. It now smells like breath and the driver keeps turning the headlights off as we pass Boathouse Row.

But the worst is over because I SEE MY CITAY. I’M IN MY CITAY.

I wait through nine taxis and one crackhead for my ride to arrive. Shwizz, Bliv and I drive to Lorenzo’s for a slice of pizza. They are bigger than I remember. A man approaches Shwizz’s window, asks for her number, and tells her that he has two pet fish and an anaconda he’d like to show her. I think this is a very poor pick-up line. We, as always, take Lincoln Drive home and Bliv acts like she’s in NASCAR, so I grip the door handle and try not to pass out.

Julia Cameron Probably Wants You to Be Christian

Happy 2020, y’all!

I think this decade will be cute, even though everything is on fire and egomaniacs are ruling the world. I feel like I’ve got my priorities straight and my ass on right, at least.

A friend recently recommended “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity” to me, so that will be my first project of 2020. I’m cheap but I also, like the rest of the adult world, probably need semi-extensive therapy. So, this is it.

After reading chapter one, I sort of feel like Julia Cameron wouldn’t mind if I went to bible study. There’s a lot of God talk going on. Nevertheless, Martin Scorsese endorses it and, regardless of how you feel about her particular brand of self-discovery, so does Elizabeth Gilbert. 

For those like me–uncomfortable with hippy-dippy shit and the suggestion that your ego might not be serving you as well as you’d like to believe it is, I suspect this book might be difficult to digest at times, but whatever. It’s definitely going to be more productive than psychoanalyzing Trisha Paytas.

BW Golden Hour

There are days when I live in what has been

When I worked as a catering waitress, it was all weddings, all the time. I listened to many  a tipsy toast and watched quite a few first dances that way. For a serial eavesdropper, the job was sort of a dream come true.

One evening, drink tray tucked beneath my arm, I recall crying as I watched a new couple shuffle around the ballroom to Ed Sheeran’s song “Perfect.”

Was it the magnitude of  their love that moved me, or did the song choice make me feel desperately sad? Feelings are hard to name sometimes. I imagined them going home, cuddling up under an obnoxiously large Live. Laugh. Love. sign, and posting sappy open letters to one another on their Facebook statuses. Not only did I think about love, but I also thought “I am an asshole.” Who was I to say there was anything insincere about it? (Pssst: 26, single-as-fuck, and in love with Manhattan Bagel).

Someone had an accident that night. I will never know whether it was a distracted toddler, or an ex-sorority-sister who had twerked a little too hard during “Wild Thoughts.”

I was polishing silverware when I found out. One of the older servers, on dessert duty at the time, burst through the kitchen doors and declared:

“I’m gonna throw up in my gaddamn mouth.”

“What’s up?”

“Somebody … shit… on the dance floor.”

The dish-washer cut the water and the cleaner stopped mopping.

“Excuse me, what?”

“Somebody SHIT… ON THE DANCE FLOOR.”

She marched out the back door to take a moment to herself on the stoop where servers smoked or sent Snapchats.

News spread quickly. The shift manager was soon spotted walking out of the kitchen with a bottle of bleach and a blue plastic glove, yelling:

I’m gonna fuckin’ kill myself.”

I laughed so hard it hurt and the cleaner shook his head in the way one does when they are no longer surprised.

Dusk, Darkness, & Daylight in La Manga

La Manga Salinas

Las salinas: where the flamingos live. It smells sulphuric and, in some parts, looks like snow. I felt at peace here. I also wished for an ancient man to saunter out of the abandoned saltworks — to no avail.

Mar Menor de Noche

El Mar Menor:  “Large pond.” “Small sea.” “Lagoon.” At its deepest, it doesn’t surpass seven meters. It’s warm, concerningly so, like bath water, and determined to remain beautiful despite the buckets of sunscreen floating through her.

La Managa Watermelon

Playa Paraíso: Equal parts Spaniard & Brit and so humid that you will be wet whether you are in or outside of the water.