For roughly a month and a week, my immediate post-work routine has involved walking a half-mile from work, having a beer and a shot at a pizza joint, killing time until I got on the bus.
I've gotten to know most of the late-night drivers fairly well. There was a new guy tonight, which made sense, as one of the drivers I'd gotten to know gave me a lift to work early this afternoon. She'd mentioned she was up for a new shift cycle, so it stood to reason that when I saw her that afternoon, I would not see her that evening.
All of this having roughly no meaning whatsoever on my life was promptly forgotten; under-realized.
So I get on the bus tonight, and I swear to god, the bus driver looks like Weird Al or Ross's old roommate D'artagnan. I was excited. I said something along the lines of, "Hey, new driver on the route!"
This was intended to be a jovial greeting. Instead, it invited a view of soul-crushing burden.
"Not really. I've driven this bus for ten years."
It wasn't his hair or posture that was so pervasively depressing. Over the years, I've come to view those tell-tales as signs of interesting conversation.
But it was a damn burden for him to even speak to me, and I'm talking about a guy who wasn't yet forty.
Anyhow, in a combination of defiance and remorse, I plugged my earbuds in and listened to the UHF soundtrack for the remainder of the trip home.
At the Pizza Luce, I drink tallboys of Pabst and doubles of Jameson. Tonight, my home selection includes the equally prince-and-pauper selections of Black Label and Henessey.
Fire-wise, my options are curiously limited to cloves (Djarum Black Supersmooth, because I hadn't seen them before and I haven't had cloves in forever, although the way 'supersmooth' is written in lowercase and surrounded by a soft foil-embossed oval is really creepy because it seems like it would be far more natural on a condom package...) and mentholated Remington 'little cigars,' which were given to me in exchange for a single Camel.
Changing gears, I think I'm about to scrap my MySpace page. I check in and all I find are thirteen surveys from Jeremy and a new flyer for some concert at Rowland's joint back in Verm.
Since I enjoy wallowing in isolation while crowing about the virtue of my abilities, when I finally get back to making rackets again, I'll start a new page and be obtuse about it.
Yeah, it's what being passive-aggressive is all about. Sue me. It would only get my attention.
By the way, The Venture Brothers is the best program still on television.
Since I'm unfocused, I'm going to drink more and watch parts of season three again.
The Hennessy is too stuck up to say goodnight, but the Black Label would like you to know that I love you very dearly.