A bad case of the transportation blues.

I used to get strangely sad, or at least emotional, on (mostly) public transportation, really of any kind. In my memory, it's linked to this time that I saw a girl crying on the T in Boston, freshman year, but the phenomenon started before that. Buses, trains, whatever. Bring on the waterworks. Probably because these were times I got to listen to emo music on my discman (!) uninterruptedly and look out the window and the barren highway and stuff. (Not like it's even barren in a scenic way-- rumble strips and exit signs really all look the same.)

Anyway, I guess after taking the bus and the subway and planes (and even funiciulars!) a million times in lots of different places, I grew out of that, but sometimes I feel snatches of my old, seemingly-uninspired sadness. I did this morning as I was on the bus leaving Schenec. Sure, part of me was sad to be leaving, but I found myself getting teary-eyed and it didn't feel like it was related to anything logical or anything like that.

Ah, nostalgia. Sentiment. Wasted on a dirty Adirondack Trailways bus?

My trip was very nice and very indulgent. Slinky was still seemingly under-the-weather when I departed, which makes me very, very nervous. I didn't do anything productive, really-- ran errands with my mom, cleaned some stuff up in my "old" room that I had left over the summer, rounded up some old clothes I'm hoping to sell (get in line, hipsters!), ate ice cream at Stewart's, listened to records, went to lunch with my grandparents...it culminated with a sighting of "the guy whose house blew up" who I have seen at the bus station before. He's always good for a laugh-- at least if you're my mom, who literally cannot control herself when he is around. Jane's nuts. I sound so small-town America. To counteract, I'll relate the following, overheard er route to Albany:

Woman: He asked me what her favorite color was. I said blue. But don't buy her no blue 'cause she ain't no fucking Crip, I said.
Man: Uh-huh.
Woman: I said, she ain't no fucking Crip.

Right?

Yesterday, I went to see my friends Justin and Shannon and their three-month old baby son, Jarell. This baby is really sort of unfairly cute, and we know how I feel about babies... and kids... and, well, people in general, sort of. Justin makes me laugh so hard. We had a grand old time reminiscing about Corey Joye, the time Jimmy Gortva ("the dirtiest boy on Earth," says Justin) looked up Ms. Andrews' skirt, Lavonda Sontag, watching OJ Simpson's verdict being read at lunch time in fifth grade (fifth grade! who let us do that?!), and the kid Richard who only said "bird."


Meredith Monk just walked into LM. Excuse me while I do a modern dance run. Right out the door.

If only.

Work calls.