Bus Ride

The Ole Grey Dog

Back when I was younger, I wanted to surprise my sister on her thirtieth birthday. I thought an unscheduled visit would really offset the potential impact of leaving her twenties behind. I also thought it would be fun to travel from Rhode Island to Virginia on the bus because I had never ridden on a bus before. While I was right about my sister's attitude towards her birthday, I was dead wrong about the bus. I should've known something was amiss when I went into the bus terminal and asked to buy a ticket, the clerk asked,

"To Virginia? You want to ride the bus to Virginia from here?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"Okaaaaay," she responded.


She printed out my ticket which looked like the perforated strip you win at arcades. You know, one of those dimly lit places where you get 36,000 tickets for playing Skee-Ball which you cash in for a few, bite-sized Twizzlers. I folded up the strip as I asked,

"Are these everyone's tickets or just mine?"

She frowned. There was no waiting room at the bus terminal. It was more like a tiny space just big enough for the clerk and a terminal. Once I got my tickets, I was supposed to wait outside on the street for the bus which would be along shortly. I said my goodbyes to my parents as the bus rolled up.

Back then buses were the only means of travel which allowed passengers to smoke. While airplanes and trains all banned smoking, bus companies actively advertised that one could enjoy the cool menthol flavor of their favorite cigarette while traveling onboard an ole grey dog. People primarily travelled by bus because it was cheap, and you could light up. Although I appreciated the low cost, I didn't care for smoking at all. In fact, I despised it having grown up with siblings who smoked in our childhood home. I never understood how someone could get addicted to cigarettes because right from the start, smoking is vile. I never got past the putrid smell of burning tobacco to the euphoria of nicotine without giving up. Good thing too, because not for nothing, but smoking kills you.

Soon I was on the highway, burning up the miles, the wind blowing in the vents, the countryside streaming by my window. I settled into my seat. As I looked at the endless prossession of cars threading down the highway, I tried to think of something poetically pretentious like how small we all were on our insignificant journeys. I spotted my parents driving home in their blue Saturn. Before I had time to get their attention, the bus veered off an exit as my parents continued on. I thought maybe we had mechanical troubles or something before I realized that we were stopping in the next town to pick up more people. The whole process of pulling off the highway, loading humans, then getting back underway took almost a half an hour. When we got back on the highway, I thought,

"Okay, now we're going."

Just when the bus got up to speed, we started slowing down for the next exit. I surmised that maybe we blew a tire or something, but we threaded our way to a terminal in a small town. As more people climbed onto the bus, I suddenly realized why my ticket was eight feet long. Every perforated section represented a stop we were to make. I quickly counted through all my tickets. Less the two stops we already made, we would be getting off the highway 36 more times. The next stop was West Warwick, Rhode Island, my parent's hometown. It took me two hours to get back to where I started out. This was going to be a long ride, made longer by the dude who sat in the window seat next to me. He began to snore like he had a gaping chest wound.

"Hey buddy. You're snoring," I said.

"Like I can do something about that," the guy exclaimed as he awoke.

He began searching his pockets until he found something he liked. As he turned to me, I noticed a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"You got a light?" he asked.

I shook my head. Eventually, he unearthed a book of matches. He wasted no time lighting his cigarette then inhaling deeply. Being on the last mode of transportation to be concerned about secondhand smoke, I realized I was trapped in a moving cloud of carcinogens. When he was through with his cancer nail, Smokey crushed the remains of the butt in a flip up ashtray on the armrest then nodded off. Shortly thereafter, he resumed his guttural snoring as the bus pulled away. I looked through my tickets again. I thought of getting off at the next stop and finding alternate transportation, but I wasn't near a train terminal. Best to sit back and take in the firsthand snoring and secondhand smoke.

We made a big stop in New York City, weaving our way through crowded streets. I thought I would get off the bus and use the loo. The bus driver was having no part of that. He warned,

"I'm pulling out in five minutes with or without you."

He recommended I use the toilet in the back of the bus. I found the head by following my nose. Back in my cheese wagon riding days in middle school, the cool kids rode in the back. The rear of the ole grey dog smelled like, well, the rear of an ole grey dog. When I opened the door to the loo, I discovered that the toilet was clogged with three different color turds. I tried to flush, but the logs only rocked gently in the pressurized blue flow. Obviously, others tried the same thing, but with no luck so they just heaped on their contribution to the growing art project in the bowl. Luckily, I was just pumping the bilge, and as far as I could tell, I'd make it to Virginia without having to drop any friends off at the pool.

As I stood before the biscuit laden bowl and deposited my lemonade, I noticed a big hole in the wall of the bus. It was the size of a fist and I was thankful for the fresh air pouring in. When I finished, I bent down to look out the hole. I saw a bunch of people sitting on some steps of an impressive looking building. They all had a clear view of my junk as I relived myself. I washed my hands in a sink full of cigarette butts and discarded gum then got out of there.

Back in my seat, I looked through my string of tickets. There was about 25 stops left. Eventually the bus began moving. My row mate was sleeping heavily as the last cilia in his lungs struggled to keep his spindly frame alive. Secretly, I hoped he was having terrible dreams like his girlfriend cheating on him with his brother or his dog dying in a hunting accident. Before long, I dosed off. I awoke with a jolt. My row mate was smoking. The bus driver was standing before us in the aisle issuing strict instructions to the passengers.

"You have a half hour. Don't be late. I don't do a head count, and we leave promptly in thirty minutes," the bus driver recited.

It took me some time to get my bearings. I asked Smokey,

"Where are we?"

"How the fuck would I know?" he answered.

Funny Bone

I looked about groggily. We were in a rest stop. Everyone started to get up and fiddle with their luggage in the overhead. I seized the moment and shot off the bus, making a beeline to the convenience store. As I entered the little mart, I considered the bathroom which I surmised would be cleaner than that on the bus. I checked my watch. I was already ten minutes down and t-minus twenty minutes and counting. I hit up the refrigerators for a drink. The only thing I could find that wasn't a sugar laden sports drink was apple juice. At the register there were gobs of little packages of crap, Slim Jims, Hostess Ding Dongs, Gummy Bears. I settled on a Drake's Funny Bone, which according to the manufacturer is a devils food cake "filled with rich peanut butter crème and enrobed with a milk chocolate-flavored icing." Whatever.

If you ever had a Funny Bone, introduced in 1961, you know they're foul tasting Twinkies, most likely consumed by people who have firsthand experience with the Vietnam conflict and the moon shots. I couldn't recall ever eating one and since pickings were slim, I had a go. I bolted back to the bus with seconds to spare. When I entered, I was the only one onboard. The thirty minutes window elapsed, and still I was alone. I broke into my apple juice and Funny Bone as I looked about. I thought,

"Bus driver's going to be pissed."

I hoped Smokey didn't make it back in time, and we ditched him in Munson, Ohio or where ever the hell we were. As I tried to wash down the the Funny Bone with the apple juice, I noticed the drink tasted odd. I didn't think much about it as I began reading the ingredients of a Funny Bone on the wrapper. I really wasn't sure what "crème" was. There was a whole host of things comprising a Funny Bone like partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil, polysorbate 60, soy lecithin. Although I prefer my palm kernel oil to be fully hydrogenated, bus riders can't be choosers.

When I came across an expiration date on the wrapper, I wasn't immediately sure what each number meant. The first was under thirteen and was probably the month, the next was in the twenties so was likely the day while the "1991" was certainly the year. The only problem with all this is that it was 1992. My Funny Bone had expired a year ago. I swigged down the last of my skunk apple juice as I contemplated the expiration date on the wrapper. Suddenly, the Funny Bone didn't seem so funny. Some people began filtering onto the bus. They were fifteen minutes late. Smokey came onboard holding a fresh pack of Marlboros. The bus driver finally arrived last after being gone for an hour. Not being a seasoned bus patron, I didn't know that the bus driver's strict orders where bullshit. Shortly, we were back on the road as my row mate tore into his collection of carcinogenic sticks.

I wasn't able to sleep so I looked through my string of tickets. Twenty left and I would be off this bus to purgatory. Shortly after we got underway, something began to awaken deep in the recesses of my lower gastrointestinal tract. I looked at my tickets, wondering if I was going to make it off this ride without having to contemplate returning to the turd museum in the back. I tried to sleep but things seemed to progress rapidly. Before long, I was staggering like a zombie to the aft septic tank. As I entered the toilet, the smell alone almost made me hurl. The toilet was still clogged by the tricolor turds. The thought of having to puke in that bowl was enough to make me, well, puke. I leaned against the wall as the bus rocked back and forth. If I was to bob for spumoni, it would be in the trash laden sink for sure.

Before long, my stomach settled to a point where I was pretty sure I wasn't going to spew. Instead, I suddenly had to take a power dump. Now, you might think that things had changed for the better, but you'd be wrong. Having the Nutella squirts meant I had to use the already clogged toilet in lieu of ralphing in the relatively clean cigarette and gum filled sink. If I was going to get near that toilet, and do anything explosively, I was going to have to rid the bowl of its current inhabitants.

I began flushing the toilet vigorously as I rifled through the cabinets for whatever I could find. I came up with yellow rubber gloves and a toilet brush. There was little choices and very little time which allowed me much later in life to relate to Captain Sullenberger flying Cactus 1549. Do I don the rubber gloves and pick up the turds and dump them in the wastepaper basket? My stomach groaned ominously. Landing in the Hudson looked like the only option. I tried flushing again, then I noticed a very small plunger behind the toilet. The handle was only about a foot long. It seemed like it was a better option to try to clear the toilet with the plunger rather than handling stranger's shit, but the short handle meant my hands would be inside the bowl.

I felt and heard a rush of fluid inside my bowels. I was certain I going to have a surgical shit, that is, when you take a dump and your feel like you just underwent a major operation. I needed to act fast.

"Wait! The gloves!" I thought.

I pulled on the gloves, took up the little plunger and began pumping the clogged bowl which was now filled with a brown broth of bacteria as well as the aforementioned tricolor turds, only one of which was floating. I was very concerned with my proximity to splash back. The breech in the bus wall began to whistle in the wind as if to say,

"Luke, use the hole."

I thought of reaching in and snagging the floater and tossing it out the hole which was at eye level as I plunged. Peering out the portal, I saw we were crossing a river. I knew if I remove the human C4 from the toilet, and the gloves ripped, I'd be dead by the time we reached Virginia. I thought of the Tallahatchie Bridge and the song, Ode to Billy Joe, by Bobbie Gentry.

She and Billie Joe was throwin' somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

Just then I noticed the broth level decreasing. A few more plunges and the bowl emptied, thankfully. Another flush and we were Challenger go for throttle up. I cleared and cleaned up the bowl in time to meet my growing needs. Later, I returned to my seat. My row mate was smoking as he said,

"Where are we?"

"Choctaw Ridge," I answered with authority.

I arrived in Virginia right on schedule as my tickets ticked away. My sister was suitably surprised.

"How was the bus?" she asked.

"Wonderful," I answered.

My bus ride taught me the importance of minding expiration dates, especially on food. A few days into my surprise visit, I learned that bus tickets were nonrefundable so I threw them into the trash then flew home. There was no stops, no smoking and relatively cleaner toilets.

The little bag of beer nuts they gave out never tasted so good.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on June 29, 2017.

Send in the Clowns

Back in 2016, there was a rash of clown sightings across the country. It all started during the summer in South Carolina, not the funniest state in the union, but apparently one in which the clown population was allowed to go unchecked. People began to report that clowns were seen in the woods. It was believed that they were living in an abandoned house by a lake. Clowns near a lake in the woods? That's not good. Stephen King just stopped what he's doing to find a pencil.

In the fall a few hundred students from the University of Connecticut mobilized in a cemetery at midnight to hunt clowns. They carried shovels, hockey sticks and golf clubs. Presumably if they encountered a clown, they would have beaten it to death. Students organized a clown hunt at Penn State University as well. Five hundred people showed up. Something tells me that the kids involved in these activities are not majoring in STEM.

Two clowns were arrested by the police in November. They were charged with an obscure blue law about donning a mask in public. Apparently one of the clowns stayed in character and answered all the officer's questions by squeezing a horn. If you tase a clown, does its nose flash? I wonder.

The police crack down on clowns across the country was more unsettling than the clowns themselves. I read about a dude who is a professional clown being arrested while driving to some kid's birthday party. It's bad enough that his career choice is one rung lower than a puppeteer, but he gets dumped in a holding cell full of drug dealers dressed up as Bim Bom.

Experts said that copy cat clown hoaxes, spreading across the country via social media, were taxing emergency personnel, who were already stretched thin. The real problem is that we have a society that calls the cops for just about everything. I have a friend who once called the police for deer in her backyard.

#ClownsLivesMatter trended briefly on social media. People were urging restraint and a policy of "if you see something, say something." Of course, this discriminated against mimes. Experts advised that ignoring a clown is the worst thing you can do. They also believed that clowns are probably more afraid of us than we are of them. Being chased down by an angry mob wielding hockey sticks and golf clubs would certainly shake me in my boots even if they were four sizes too big.

During a White House press briefing back then, Press Secretary, Josh Earnest, was asked if President Obama was aware of the growing presence of clowns in many states. Imagine having the opportunity to pose a question to the Press Secretary for the leader of the free world and asking about clowns. They could have bombarded Earnest with inquires concerning the staggering nation debt or what really happened in Benghazi. They could have asked him if he thought we were doing enough to stem climate change. Instead journalists wanted to know what the president planned to do about all the clowns on the loose across the country.

One thing is for sure when it comes to sending in the clowns, don't bother. They're already here.

Editor's Note: Originally published on October 13, 2016. Clown sitings dropped off by the holidays which was a good thing since if it kept up, clowns were going to die, and nobody wanted that no matter how far down the uncanny valley this whole thing went.

Prince's Greatest Moment

Back in the spring of 2016, the untimely death of Prince at 58 preoccupied the media which were mainly concerned with the cause of his demise and what I called at the time "unsettling revelations." For me the latter chipped away at the pedestal I always imagine Prince standing on. In the 80's when the movie, Purple Rain, came out, starring Prince as "the Kid," you couldn't help but think he was way cool. He played a crazy guitar. He was a genius musician like a modern day Mozart. He rode a motorcycle. He got the girl in the end, and he was a showman with a troubled past like James Dean with a dash of Liberace.


I, for one, was blissfully unaware of how short Prince was. Back then I read he weighed 112 pounds. I really wanted the news media to stop ruining my larger than life image of Prince, but they kept reporting things like he stood 5' 3" and kept two doves as pets. One news source reported that the birds grieved following Prince's death as recalled by his sister, Tyka Nelson. I didn't want to know every detail about Prince's private life, but the news kept flowing in. At the rate they were going I expected the autopsy to reveal that Prince had a boil on his ass.

Prince often wore clothes that were a bit effeminate. He wore purple tuxedoes and frilly shirts. Now I was wondering where did he get these articles of clothing? You certainly can't get such flamboyant threads in the Boy’s Department of Kohl's. Prince was a showman even if he never wore capes or furs or expensive jewelry. It was a testament to how cool he really was. Anyone who can pull off a frilly shirt as a fashion statement has so much excess swag that they could drop some on the side walk and still be awesome.

Prince grew up a Seventh-day Adventist and as an adult he became a Jehovah’s Witness, hawking religious pamphlets door to door. I read an article in which a Jewish couple recalled Prince coming to their door with other witnesses. I image he was mistaken for the little well-dressed, well-behaved child that always accompanies them. One time some Jehovah’s came to my door and tried to drop off a copy of the Watchtower, their seminal monthly magazine. A teenage boy accompanied them. To this day, I swear the kid was trying to speak to me through Morse code via eye blinks. He relayed,

“Please rescue me from these nut jobs.” I often wonder what happened to him.

The constant dancing around the stage in high boots apparently wreaked havoc on Prince’s hip. His religious beliefs prevented him from getting a blood transfusion, necessary for hip replacement surgery. Jehovah’s Witnesses eschew blood transfusion because they believe the Bible prohibits ingesting blood. They even get down to the nitty gritty stating that red cells, white cells, platelets and plasma are a no go while the use of parts of blood such as albumin, immunoglobulin and hemophiliac are okay. I didn’t realize the Bible was so specific. It makes sense because Jesus never got a blood transfusion.

Prince’s music was cool in the 80's, but it never really evolved. Same ole extended droning guitar tracks. John Parelese, who writes about music for the New York Times, described Prince as, “a master architect of funk, R&B, rock and pop.” Funk maybe, but in an olfactory sense. Prince would often get into long drawn out tracks and make all sorts of unscripted rambling statements like

“That's what the people say! Right Sheldon?”

He’d often bring it all home in overdrive by scream something unintelligible like,

"Take me away!"

His shining moment was during one of these extended riffs when he invited Kim Kardashian on the stage. This concerned me as Stephen Hawking warned to never put matter and antimatter together because they'll annihilate each other along with the release of “a large amount of energy." The hugely talented, multifaceted, artist should have never stood so close to Kim Kardashian. I expected at any moment they would cancel each other out. Not to mention there was more antimatter than matter. Stephen never told us what would happen in that case. Best I can tell, there would be a big flash. Prince would be largely consumed, leaving a small amount of Kim along with her butt implants on the stage.

Surgical butt implants are certainly a trend my generation could never have predicted. Call me ole fashioned, but I just don’t get deliberately making your ass larger. I grew up on the Sir Mix-a-Lot trend setting song, Baby Got Back, and I might be out of my element here, but I think it was more a cautionary tale than large ass advocacy. I don’t think having a huge gut will ever be fashionable nor will people in the future get belly implants even though Sarah Robles won a bronze medal in powerlifting in Rio in 2016 and again in Japan in 2020. Now, if she had won the gold, things might have been different.

Whatever Kim did to get up onto that stage, she certainly didn't think it through. Apparently Scott Dipstick, the dude the Kardashians collectively ignore, gets paid to exist at parties. They call it a “club appearance.” The Kardashians ignored Bruce Jenner too until he won Glamour’s Woman of Year, prompting women all over the country to acknowledge that white men have to take that away from them too. It’s not enough that Caucasian males have dominated the workforce for decades, taking all the leadership roles, Glamour has made it clear that white men make better women as well.

Maybe Kim thought she would just exist on the stage like a club appearance. Prince didn't think it through either. It wasn't like he was coaxing Lady Gaga up there. She could have sang or danced or played the piano. Prince clearly wanted Kim to dance, but this is a closely guarded Kardashian secret, - none of them can dance. If you saw her sister, Kendall, in the futuristic video, Balmain x H&M, battle strutting from scene to scene as she calls in her minions, you know she can't groove either. For the big finish when Kendall finally gets warmed up, she kills it with some tight hand dancing.

Kim is famous for an odd array of things. Growing up in a room in which OJ almost offed himself, a sex tape, marrying a dude for 72 days, balancing things on her ass. Something tells me Prince was hoping for one of these, and I'm not talking about the balancing act.

Kim later explained that she was so star struck standing that close to Prince that she forgot to take a selfie. That’s like the Pope forgetting to genuflect. I kept waiting for Kim to whip out a Rubik’s cube, do a handstand. Anything. When Prince wants you to dance, you dance, and if you can’t dance, then you fake it fast. I’m sure, beyond any doubt, Kim Kardashian must be able to twerk. I would just stand back because I'll bet Kim could crack a walnut between her butt cheeks. After a rather uncomfortable twenty or so seconds in which Prince tried to get Kim to dance, bum hip and all, he realized she wasn’t going to play along then turned to her and screeched, 

"Get off the stage!"

Followed by,

"Welcome to America."

Kim made a quick exit much to our collective relief. It was a terribly uncomfortable moment. Kim is famous for having a large seat cushion which anyone can see is too big to fit into Prince’s wheelhouse. Kim did her best. If you watch closely about a minute in, Kim extends her arm and says,

“Pick a card. Any card.”

That was Princes greatest moment, kicking Kim and her huge fake butt off the stage. Thank you, Prince for that timeless moment raining purple on the Kardashian's phony world.

Editor's Note: Originally published on August 25, 2016.

My Foray into the World of the MRI

Magnetic Resonance
Tube of Death

A few years ago I had to go for a Magnetic Resonance Image (MRI) of my head. Some time earlier I developed claustrophobia during a MRI. The hole in the machine was the size of a basketball. Back then the technician asked me what music I wanted played during the test. I said,

"Anything but '70's music."

I also asked them to tell me when I was half way through the test, but they never spoke to me again throughout the entire procedure. When they slid me into the hole, my shoulders wouldn't fit so they jammed me in anyway. My stomach plugged the orifice completely so not only couldn't I breathe, it was dark as well. When the music came on, they were playing Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild. That was all I could take. I pushed the panic button. No one came so I pushed it again. I think the technician went for a cup of coffee because it took them forever to extract my ass out of that tube. From that day on I've been claustrophobic.

Now, the medical wheel of fortune turned against me yet again, and I was scheduled for another MRI. They told me I could take valium, but I would need to be driven home. My wife, Christine, was unavailable as she was on travel for work. Back then when people actually went into an office without fear of contracting a life threatening virus, management occasionally required employees to get in some actual face time with colleagues in a country that paid a fraction of US wages. I could've ask one of my guy friends for a ride home, but I didn't want to be around any of them while high on prescription drugs. I tend to say things that piss people off, and being stoned might reduce the last vestiges of inhibition which in today's world where by people are offended by terms like "pet owner," "fat" and "ugly," it might be devastating to my social circle. By the way, the correct vernacular is "fur guardian," "radially gifted," and "visually challenged."

So I figured I would go straight up for this MRI, but before I went in I would have to practice. I set up some pillows on the floor and slid my head into the hole. Yes, I went to my appointment with a hole in the heel of my right sock. As I said my wife was on travel so there was no one to give me a once over before I left. One time when Christine was away, I sent Willy, our youngest, to school in his pajamas. My wife damn near birthed a bovine when she saw the pic of Willy on his teacher’s Facebook page dancing with his kindergarten friends in his pajamas. Earlier that morning she texted to remind me,

Willy in Kindergarten
in Pajamas

"Don't forget to comb his hair."

Later when she questioned me I explained,

"Willy said he had his clothes on."

Willy exclaimed rather defensively,

"Dad said I had my clothes on."
 

Annette's Handy Work

I'm not sure what happened that morning, but now I was on my way to be stuffed into the medical tube of death. The kind person in attendance, Annette, informed me that they were not going to play any music and that she or her coworker, Don, would speak to me throughout the procedure. She affixed an IV to my arm so mid test they could inject some gunk into my circulatory system "for contrast." I was pretty confident I could do this straight up because their MRI machine was noticeably larger than the one I got stuck in. When Don put a cage over my head so if I lifted up in panic I wouldn't break my face, a wave of terror swept over me. I looked like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.

Annette placed a wet face cloth over my eyes which she claimed would calm me down, but as thoughtful as she was I was having no part of a rag over my face. I felt like I couldn't breath. I slid into the machine with eyes open shaking like a Red Bull factory worker. I reversed my right sock so the hole in my heel wouldn't show up in the picture. Now if you ever had an MRI, you know it sounds like being inside of a modem with a low baud rate.

Going In

"Boing, fwop, fwop, fwop, eeeert."

I don't know what's going on in that machine, but it sure sounds intense. The grinding noise is enough to make you think the machine is coming apart. At one point I swear they set it to eleven or something because my jaw started vibrating. I thought they were going to open up a worm hole. I fully expected that when I hopped off the table it would be 1942. All these loud noises were messing up my head which is why I was in this thing in the first place. The year I spent in India on a mountainside with the Maharaja really helped. He taught me to meditate on a happy place. So I imagined I was in my shed with a case of Budweiser stubbies and a stack of nudie magazines, humming the Pina Colada song while I worked on that birdhouse I'll never finish. It seemed to work.

"...Oh hey, it's you."

Inside my Head

Before long the test was over. Don got me unhooked as he gave me some sound medical advice for my post MRI treatment. I expected him to tell me that I wouldn't be able to get lost in the woods for the next day or two as I should tend to head north. So even though I am violating at least seven HIPPA provisions, here's a picture of my head.

As I wrote this, I got a call from my doctor. One in 10,000 people get a tumor on the nerve in their ear that causes tinnitus, the annoying ringing in your ear. I'm in the 9,999 so it doesn't look like I'm going to be fitted for a pine box any time soon. I guess this is good news that after my third MRI in six years, nothing is wrong with me. When delivering the results, my doctor said in regards to the ringing in my ear,

"You must be prone to it,"

which is medical speak for,

"We haven't a fucking clue what's wrong with you."

Look at the bright side. I know for sure I don't have a tumor in my noggin, I got over my fear of confined spaces, I'm not going to die just yet, and my doctor is getting a new boat!

Editor's Note: Originally published on March 3, 2017.