Even More Bus Stories
Today was, evidently, Emo Day on the bus. Now, for those of you too unhip to know what Emo is, I'll give you only one hint. It's NOT a large aggressive bird native to the South Pacific. But you're close. Hit up Wikipedia, because I don't have time to educate wannabe loser dweebs like you. That was a joke, by the way. A very Emo joke.
Anyway, practically the entire bus was infested with youngish males wearing skinny-leg pants, huge belt buckles, so-ironic t-shirts and women's jackets from the '80s, with huge sunglasses and greasy-choppy hair combed partially over their face, in that Spend 4 Hours In Front Of A Mirror Trying To Look Like I Don't Give A Shit style. Now, this would be completely typical on a Wednesday or Thursday night (weekends are SO Bridge-and-Tunnel, not True Emo), but this was a Tuesday morning, a work and/or school day. At first I thought there might be some free daytime concert somewhere by some band that I'm too old and not remotely cool enough to have heard of, but then I realized with a big DUH that Emo Types, just like Goths, wouldn't be caught dead at a daylight event. No, these are generally creatures of the night, with the exception of those who work at record and/or thrift shops, or the 'poseurs' who work at other retail establishments.
By the way, the difference between True Emos and poseurs, I am told, is difficult to spot until the music starts. The ones who are dancing -- more than a barely perceptible bobbing of the head -- are the poseurs. Another way to tell is to ask them, "what do you think of the band?" If they ignore you, or if they say in a monotone voice, "it sucks" -- then they are the real deal. Of course, there are those who will tell you that the poseurs are the ones who show up; that the only True Emos stay in their room in their parents' house writing suicide notes. But I digress.
OK, so what was up? I wondered. Did some trendy, rarely hiring used record store put out a 'help wanted' sign? I never found out. No point in asking one of them, because if he answered, I'd know he was the wrong one to ask.
* * *
A couple of weeks ago on the bus, I was sitting in the seats near the front that face each other across the aisle -- the ones you're supposed to reserve for seniors and the handicapped and really really fat women who take up three seats but think they can squeeze in next to you. There was a decent-sized crowd on the bus, but it wasn't anywhere near full, and there were plenty of seats left for the handicapped so I didn't feel guilty.
Across from me was a lovely young semi-hippy chick -- you know, the ones who wear long gauzy skirts and have blonde dreadlocks and nose rings but they shave their armpits and take showers. Yeah, it's rare that 'hippy' and 'sexy' go together but she was one of those. Probably 20 years old though, so I should have been ashamed at myself for repeatedly glancing in her direction. Bad dawg that I am. She smiled at me at one point, though. It was probably the mushrooms.
Anyway, her stop came, and she stood up to exit the bus. Only problem was, she was stepping on her long gauzy skirt, and when she stood, in an instant it was pulled down to the floor. Not a good day to have chosen not to wear underwear. Gave the whole bus -- including lucky me, across from her -- quite the show. She scrambled, obviously embarrassed, to untangle her skirt from her flip-flops and pull it back up, and I'm sure her face was beet red as she ran out the door -- if only I'd been looking at her face.
Did I mention being a Bad Dawg?
* * *
Speaking of which, I swear to Gawd this is true: on a different day, my buddy The Butcher and I were standing there holding on for dear life as the probably drunk bus driver careened around cars and pedestrians with abandon, when I noticed an overly clean-cut young guy sitting quietly in a seat nearby. He was wearing a tie, and I immediately recognized him as a member of the Church of Latter Day Saints. You know, the Morons. They just have a look about them; even a smell. Anyway he was staring straight ahead, oblivious to my scanning of him (or deathly afraid I was some gay devil worshiper trying to make eye contact to suck out his soul or something), and I noticed his little plastic badge perfectly aligned right above his perfectly pressed shirt pocket. Sure enough, LDS. But then I couldn't help myself; I pointed out the badge to my friend and we both just started laughing uncontrollably, so much that he looked up at us nervously and people around us backed away just a little, perhaps thinking us just a couple of the crazies that frequent public transit. Why were we laughing, you ask? Well, the name on the badge said: ELDER POUNTAING.
For those of you who, shockingly enough, might not know what 'poontang' is, may I lovingly present you with the definition.
* * *
OK, so this one is not technically a bus story, but those last two reminded me of an event several years ago, when I was interrupted in the shower by the doorbell. I was almost done anyway, so I wrapped a towel around myself and, dripping wet, ran downstairs to the door. I peered through the peephole, and what to my wondering eyes did appear, but two solemn-looking old ladies holding 'AWAKE!' pamphlets. Jehovah's Witlesses. It was just too good to be true, and it wasn't even my birthday. I turned the knob, swung the door open wide, and dropped the towel.
"Won't you come in, ladies?" I said, with a cheshire cat smile. But neither one was looking me in the eye. Needless to say, they politely, if nervously, declined my invitation.
I wonder if they ever spoke of it, or if they pretended nothing had happened?
Gawd, I love fucking with The Religious.
* * *
Anyway, practically the entire bus was infested with youngish males wearing skinny-leg pants, huge belt buckles, so-ironic t-shirts and women's jackets from the '80s, with huge sunglasses and greasy-choppy hair combed partially over their face, in that Spend 4 Hours In Front Of A Mirror Trying To Look Like I Don't Give A Shit style. Now, this would be completely typical on a Wednesday or Thursday night (weekends are SO Bridge-and-Tunnel, not True Emo), but this was a Tuesday morning, a work and/or school day. At first I thought there might be some free daytime concert somewhere by some band that I'm too old and not remotely cool enough to have heard of, but then I realized with a big DUH that Emo Types, just like Goths, wouldn't be caught dead at a daylight event. No, these are generally creatures of the night, with the exception of those who work at record and/or thrift shops, or the 'poseurs' who work at other retail establishments.
By the way, the difference between True Emos and poseurs, I am told, is difficult to spot until the music starts. The ones who are dancing -- more than a barely perceptible bobbing of the head -- are the poseurs. Another way to tell is to ask them, "what do you think of the band?" If they ignore you, or if they say in a monotone voice, "it sucks" -- then they are the real deal. Of course, there are those who will tell you that the poseurs are the ones who show up; that the only True Emos stay in their room in their parents' house writing suicide notes. But I digress.
OK, so what was up? I wondered. Did some trendy, rarely hiring used record store put out a 'help wanted' sign? I never found out. No point in asking one of them, because if he answered, I'd know he was the wrong one to ask.
* * *
A couple of weeks ago on the bus, I was sitting in the seats near the front that face each other across the aisle -- the ones you're supposed to reserve for seniors and the handicapped and really really fat women who take up three seats but think they can squeeze in next to you. There was a decent-sized crowd on the bus, but it wasn't anywhere near full, and there were plenty of seats left for the handicapped so I didn't feel guilty.
Across from me was a lovely young semi-hippy chick -- you know, the ones who wear long gauzy skirts and have blonde dreadlocks and nose rings but they shave their armpits and take showers. Yeah, it's rare that 'hippy' and 'sexy' go together but she was one of those. Probably 20 years old though, so I should have been ashamed at myself for repeatedly glancing in her direction. Bad dawg that I am. She smiled at me at one point, though. It was probably the mushrooms.
Anyway, her stop came, and she stood up to exit the bus. Only problem was, she was stepping on her long gauzy skirt, and when she stood, in an instant it was pulled down to the floor. Not a good day to have chosen not to wear underwear. Gave the whole bus -- including lucky me, across from her -- quite the show. She scrambled, obviously embarrassed, to untangle her skirt from her flip-flops and pull it back up, and I'm sure her face was beet red as she ran out the door -- if only I'd been looking at her face.
Did I mention being a Bad Dawg?
* * *
Speaking of which, I swear to Gawd this is true: on a different day, my buddy The Butcher and I were standing there holding on for dear life as the probably drunk bus driver careened around cars and pedestrians with abandon, when I noticed an overly clean-cut young guy sitting quietly in a seat nearby. He was wearing a tie, and I immediately recognized him as a member of the Church of Latter Day Saints. You know, the Morons. They just have a look about them; even a smell. Anyway he was staring straight ahead, oblivious to my scanning of him (or deathly afraid I was some gay devil worshiper trying to make eye contact to suck out his soul or something), and I noticed his little plastic badge perfectly aligned right above his perfectly pressed shirt pocket. Sure enough, LDS. But then I couldn't help myself; I pointed out the badge to my friend and we both just started laughing uncontrollably, so much that he looked up at us nervously and people around us backed away just a little, perhaps thinking us just a couple of the crazies that frequent public transit. Why were we laughing, you ask? Well, the name on the badge said: ELDER POUNTAING.
For those of you who, shockingly enough, might not know what 'poontang' is, may I lovingly present you with the definition.
* * *
OK, so this one is not technically a bus story, but those last two reminded me of an event several years ago, when I was interrupted in the shower by the doorbell. I was almost done anyway, so I wrapped a towel around myself and, dripping wet, ran downstairs to the door. I peered through the peephole, and what to my wondering eyes did appear, but two solemn-looking old ladies holding 'AWAKE!' pamphlets. Jehovah's Witlesses. It was just too good to be true, and it wasn't even my birthday. I turned the knob, swung the door open wide, and dropped the towel.
"Won't you come in, ladies?" I said, with a cheshire cat smile. But neither one was looking me in the eye. Needless to say, they politely, if nervously, declined my invitation.
I wonder if they ever spoke of it, or if they pretended nothing had happened?
Gawd, I love fucking with The Religious.
* * *
posted by brioSphere at 4:54 PM
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