THE BUS AND YOUR SENSITIVE PARTS

This blogger takes the bus. Four days a week I head over to Marin to babysit a bunch of cigar-chomping rightwing goozbas, on the other three days I head down to Chinatown for a necessary sanity break.
Tuesdays I usually go to Chinatown twice.

The bus is not my favourite means of conveyance.
But, other than my feet, it's my only one.

Pursuant a conversation overheard on the bus yesterday evening when returning from the saltmines, these quotes:

"Maybe I should stop stressing out over my bosom, and just let it all hang out. Here it is, bouncy bouncy!"

"Never show off your freckled bosoms before three in the afternoon; it's just not done!"

No, I did not turn around to scope out either of the people involved in that conversation. They sounded like their reality and my reality should never intersect. Besides, coming back to the city I tend to close my eyes, crawl inside my head, and tune out the world of humans as much as possible. Pesky things, those humans. They're all over.

And one of them left a sportsbra at the bus stop for me to find this morning. It was empty.

Usually, sportsbras on Van Ness are occupied.

And not quite so nasty looking.

Maybe it was hers.

Freckle.



AFTERWORD

Underneath a post from a year ago, someone who identifies herself as 'Curious bus passenger' said: "Do you still smell bad, one year later?"

The essay in question described the repulsed reaction that refined elderly Chinese aunties have to white guys (me) who reek of pipe tobacco and the occasional small cigarillo. Why, the odour is positively disgusting, nauseating, frightful, and stomach-churning.

"Do you still smell bad?"

Yes, I do. Worse than ever. All over Chinatown ancient dames of refinement and taste run screaming as soon as my potent smell turns the corner and attacks them. Dang, it's worse than ripe durian and stinky tofu combined! Leavened, or enriched, with the slimy sweat that, as a Caucasoid, is the curse I share with all other Kwailo, and you will surely understand why paint blisters in my presence and innocent little children howl in terror at the mere thought of me.

I still smell bad. Mostly of aged Virginias, sometimes Latakia mixtures, and occasionally tiny cheroots. Along with wood wax, dusty books, and strong tea.

Virginias: grassy and slightly herbal, and an undertone of sweetness because of carotenoids, which are the flavour and aroma compounds present in stone fruits, like peaches, plums, nectarines, and apricots.

Latakia: a smoky tobacco, firecured over burning scrub and connifer, because of which it shares terpeneols, much like Lapsang Souchong Tea and fine single malt, which get that by the same route.

Small Cigarillo: Panter Blue; manufactured by Agio in Duizel, Holland. Connecticut wrapper, Indonesian filler (Besuki) with a touch of Brazil.
Great for summoning the bus, like magic.
And irritating earthmom-types.


Bosoms: People who show off their charms are considered "fast".
And may be shunned. Men too. Oh, the horrid immodesty.

Evenso, I like bosoms.

Not freckled.




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