"The Man on the Clapham Omnibus"

     I rode the bus today. Not something I'm wont to do usually, but necessity is the mother of adventure. Or stepmother, whatever. If asked, I'd probably say I'd rather take out my own liver with a dull grapefruit spoon, than ride public transit with the unwashed masses; but, for better or worse, I started my three month journey with all the good humor I could muster, I thermos full of coffee, my book, an Ipod, and a willing spirit.

     The stop by my house is two blocks away and at the end of the line. When I got on, there was only one other person beside me and the driver. I fiddled with the idea of reading or listening to the radio, but decided instead to bear witness to the cross-section of society that would be accompanying me to downtown. 

     This is Seattle, not L.A. so the quality of riders is noticeably better here. Skinny hipster dudes with scraggy beards and Chrome bags, cute little northwestern girl commuters with their knee-high boots, awkward student types and the like. And then, there were the interesting people, the stand outs. 

     In Crown Hill the bus stopped at 70th and opened it's doors. After what seemed like a long pause, I see a handled cooking pot crest the handrail, followed by the neck of an old guitar. The Che sticker on the back of the guitar was only slightly less worn than the guitar's owner. Clad in a red beanie, three hoodies, a jacket, and a beard that looked as if it used to just be a moustache, but had lingered long enough to grow into its own entity; was a street performer of considerable age and questionable ability.
   "Can you get me home?" He said, in an almost unintelligible raspy voice, and sat down without even an attempt at payment. The bus driver closed the door and pulled away from the curb. It had taken quite a bit of effort to climb the three steps up into the bus, and so he rested for a moment before painfully fumbling through an assortment of scrap paper, finally selecting a particular shred to show to the driver. The driver waved him off, and let him ride, probably more out of pity than whatever had been on the waded piece of garbage he had to show him. 

     The unmistakable sound of no more than two or three dimes, rattled around inside of his pot as he settled in. He sat in the first seat by the door, pulled his hoodie over his eyes, and napped, mouth agape. 'Home' turned out to be another bus stop in Queen Anne, and I watched briefly as he set up for his afternoon show.

     A few stops later, as the bus was getting ready to pull away from the curb after letting some people off, there came some frantic calls from behind.
   "Wait bus!"
   "Wait bus!"
   "Wait bus!" The last few calls coming only inches from the door, although just as loud as the first. Scrambling up the steps clambered an obese but jovial man with a racquetball in hand. After paying and sitting in the same seat previously occupied by crusty guitar player, he stared out the window, smiling and using his racquetball as a sort of 'viewfinder' focusing in on this and that. His smile faded as his gaze turned towards me, and slowly lowered his racquetball, as if I was displeased with his actions. Of course, I wasn't, and was also a little hurt that the mere sight of me was enough to sully the mood of this otherwise gregarious soul. I attempted a smile back, but it was a little too little, a little too late.

     I exited the bus at Pike Street, amid faux gangsters, office types, and homeless wanderers. I made my way to work, wondering what characters the evening trip might bring.

"My House Rules"

     Now, I don't mean to imply there are 'rules' at my house. Clearly, there are not; no matter what my wife thinks. There are definitely some 'strongly suggested guidelines', but no, I mean it more in a 'Jeff Spicoli' kind of, statement of fact.
   "Dude, my house rules."


     At my house, there are limitless cups of giant coffee. My cost? Pennies. At Starbucks you have to cram next to bleary eyed commuters, cattle calling for their morning syrup fix, for about 5-6 bucks a pop. No thank you. 


     If you happen to over do it on cheap accessible coffee, there is never a line for the bathroom at my house. And if you find yourself a tad dehydrated from all the running back and forth to the loo, expelling unneeded waste, well you can even chug milk right from the carton - although I myself would never do that.


     The breakfast menu is a little DIY for my tastes, but the lady that runs the kitchen usually stocks it with pretty good stuff and you can have your eggs any way you like them. I usually enjoy my meals in the lounge area, where you can watch T.V. in your jammies.


     There are shower and restroom facilities at my house, with a wide array of citrus themed  grooming products to choose from. Afterwards, you can just throw your towel anywhere on the floor, and the cleaning crew will pick it up later.


     I really enjoy staying at my house, and while there have been disagreements with the staff from time to time, I'm fairly certain I will continue to give them the business. Err, I mean my business. Whatever.

"Who is Firmley Shakewell?"

     It has recently come to my attention that some people are confused about the history behind one Firmley Shakewell. 

      Firmley Shakewell is CEO of Shakewell Industries, the largest buttons manufacturer in Seattle, located in the Northwest since the turn of the century, and also owns a controlling interest in an award winning pickle farm in Spokane. He is a philanthropist, a patron of the arts, and is involved in grass roots political organizations and general do-goodery.

     Son to Reginald and Marjorie Shakewell, he was born in the back of a private trolley car in old Beverly Hills, CA. He enjoyed a normal childhood, in a private montessori in Salzburg Austria before attending university at Oxford on a dual rowing and fencing scholarship. After receiving his doctorate in wine pairing, he took over the reigns of the family business, propelling it to the pinnacle of the buttons industry.

     Surrounded by controversy after the 1948 fire bombing at Velcro International Headquarters, he emerged unscathed and went on to patent break through innovations in button technology.


     Today he can be found fighting crime in Capitol Hill, while nursing orphaned kittens and giving hand-jobs to homeless veterans.

"Worry"

     I worry a lot about worrying too much. I know it isn't good for me. I guess everyone worries from time to time, and probably worries that it's too much. Intellectually, I know that everyone worries about something, but sometimes I wonder what that thing could possibly be? 


     I see plenty of people who clearly aren't worried about the way they are driving. Although some of them are worried about how their make-up looks while they're driving. Some are worried about text messages, coffee and sandwiches, nose picking, but not driving. 


     I notice a fair amount of people worry at work, although not necessarily about their own work and certainly not the quality of their work. It's usually about your work, or the lack of your work, or the amount of work they are being asked to do.


     I know people worry about their friends, but they tend to be worried that their friends might somehow have it better than them, or are taking short-cuts, or simply have it easy because the Universe chooses to smile on them.


     People are always worried about family, because families are worrisome. 
   "This seems okay now, but I'm worried my family will somehow fuck it up." And, of course, they do. 
   "Junior's appendicitis fucked up my whole fishing trip."


     It worries me that people worry about these things, and I'm worried that all this worrying is for naught. In a hundred years, no one's gonna give a shit. So I'm going to be progressive and start not giving a shit about it now.

"Let's Get To Work"

"Hot Place"

Down to the 'Hot Place',
I fear that I may go,
For thinking all the things I do,
About those that I know.

Down to the 'Hot Place',
I fear that I might stay,
Because I'd rather stay down there,
Than live up here today.

"Post Youth"

When I was young and brash,
They'd gather round and cheer,
Upon each one, a smiling face,
And eager, open ears.


But now that I've grown old,
My audience is gone,
Thank God I did it then,
So my memories live on.