The ride back
This one's gonna be a little on the brief side. I spent most of the trip back to Seattle with my head in a book.
When checking in to make sure that my ticket was still in order, in the booth where the train station workers did their thing were several cardboard plaques, probably given to them by someone's grade school class after a field trip. The one that stood out read "I ate a hotdog at the train station!" I'm not sure if that was a thanks, or an excitement over pork.
We left the station about thirty minutes late, and I wasn't out of town before the first stop, this one due to maintenance. I told the woman assigning me my seat the usual lie about getting motion sickness, and request a window seat. She tells me she can't, but will assign me to the first free one that comes up. I spend the next 36 hours in the same seat, next to someone's grandmother. She only says one thing two me the entire time "Echuseme," whenever she needs to get by me.
In a town that might be named Oceano, there is a giant sheet metal T-Rex. I consider introducing it to the moose down the street.
While passing a school it occurs to me that I haven't seen any school playgrounds in Washington, much less a kid's school. It's a sudden odd realization, and it bothers me for some reason.
In front of me is a kid, probably in his late teens. He's dressed in your typical LA gangsta gear, and on his head is an Atlanta Braves hat. I can't tell if the hat's supposed to be commentary or not, because the rather offensive mascot is colored different shades of black.
We stall on the Questo (I have no idea if I'm spelling that right) grade, above SLO, and the kid in front of me starts expounding to his girl about how he's the youngest child, and this makes him the favorite. He finds about four ways to put that sentence together, and then repeats them. Ad nauseam. In the tunnel, he mocks the girl for being scared of the dark. I can't hear what her response is for any of their conversations. Either she's quiet, or he's loud. Probably both. He then starts in on his relationship with bees: "I'm not scared of bees. I'm allergic. Every time I see a bee, I swing at it. I swing at it, and then I run really far."
He then expounds upon beef: "I won't eat Angus beef. You know what part of the cow Angus comes from? Yeah, you know what it sounds like? Yeah, it comes from the rear end."
Trading card games: "I was into Pokeman for about a year. I used to have all the cards." He then proceeds to explain why Dragonball Z is better than Final Fantasy: "Shit, in Final Fantasy, you're not fighting by yourself."
When I stand up to get away from the moron, I note that he has his pillow across his lap, and has lain three Slim Jims down, parallel to one another, creating a sort of barred window. He won't eat Angus beef, but he'll eat a Slim Jim?
When I get back, he explains gender roles to the girl: "You know, if God wanted women to be in power, they would. That's why men lead and run everything." I try not to point and laugh. I always wonder how the yahoos with that theory have managed not to meet the majority of women that I know.
By the side of the road is a speedboat, up on blocks with the words 'Rustbucket - Fuck this shit' spraypainted on the side of it.
The moron shuts up.
Behind me, a guy who looks like Ernie, if he had lost most his teeth to a meth habit, starts explaining the geography of Lodi to another passenger.
Two rows up an exchange occurs regarding the wonders of the digital age: "You can download games to this." "From the internet?" "Yeah, from the internet." I wonder, what the fuck else do you download from? Isn't every other transfer of data referred to as 'copying?'
Somewhere in Northern California there's a store with four words on the front of it: 'Grocery - Gas - Meat Processing.'
In Oregon there's a thing called the Buffalo Exchange, that looks like a strip club, but in it's back window is a neon sign that blinks "Buy. Sell. Trade."
In Southern Washington there's a sale on Lays potato chips at the Bi-Mart.
Not so fond of that trip back, given that I got home about six hours late, and I spent a good deal of it thinking about beating people with bricks, and reading books.
More on the music and books later.
When checking in to make sure that my ticket was still in order, in the booth where the train station workers did their thing were several cardboard plaques, probably given to them by someone's grade school class after a field trip. The one that stood out read "I ate a hotdog at the train station!" I'm not sure if that was a thanks, or an excitement over pork.
We left the station about thirty minutes late, and I wasn't out of town before the first stop, this one due to maintenance. I told the woman assigning me my seat the usual lie about getting motion sickness, and request a window seat. She tells me she can't, but will assign me to the first free one that comes up. I spend the next 36 hours in the same seat, next to someone's grandmother. She only says one thing two me the entire time "Echuseme," whenever she needs to get by me.
In a town that might be named Oceano, there is a giant sheet metal T-Rex. I consider introducing it to the moose down the street.
While passing a school it occurs to me that I haven't seen any school playgrounds in Washington, much less a kid's school. It's a sudden odd realization, and it bothers me for some reason.
In front of me is a kid, probably in his late teens. He's dressed in your typical LA gangsta gear, and on his head is an Atlanta Braves hat. I can't tell if the hat's supposed to be commentary or not, because the rather offensive mascot is colored different shades of black.
We stall on the Questo (I have no idea if I'm spelling that right) grade, above SLO, and the kid in front of me starts expounding to his girl about how he's the youngest child, and this makes him the favorite. He finds about four ways to put that sentence together, and then repeats them. Ad nauseam. In the tunnel, he mocks the girl for being scared of the dark. I can't hear what her response is for any of their conversations. Either she's quiet, or he's loud. Probably both. He then starts in on his relationship with bees: "I'm not scared of bees. I'm allergic. Every time I see a bee, I swing at it. I swing at it, and then I run really far."
He then expounds upon beef: "I won't eat Angus beef. You know what part of the cow Angus comes from? Yeah, you know what it sounds like? Yeah, it comes from the rear end."
Trading card games: "I was into Pokeman for about a year. I used to have all the cards." He then proceeds to explain why Dragonball Z is better than Final Fantasy: "Shit, in Final Fantasy, you're not fighting by yourself."
When I stand up to get away from the moron, I note that he has his pillow across his lap, and has lain three Slim Jims down, parallel to one another, creating a sort of barred window. He won't eat Angus beef, but he'll eat a Slim Jim?
When I get back, he explains gender roles to the girl: "You know, if God wanted women to be in power, they would. That's why men lead and run everything." I try not to point and laugh. I always wonder how the yahoos with that theory have managed not to meet the majority of women that I know.
By the side of the road is a speedboat, up on blocks with the words 'Rustbucket - Fuck this shit' spraypainted on the side of it.
The moron shuts up.
Behind me, a guy who looks like Ernie, if he had lost most his teeth to a meth habit, starts explaining the geography of Lodi to another passenger.
Two rows up an exchange occurs regarding the wonders of the digital age: "You can download games to this." "From the internet?" "Yeah, from the internet." I wonder, what the fuck else do you download from? Isn't every other transfer of data referred to as 'copying?'
Somewhere in Northern California there's a store with four words on the front of it: 'Grocery - Gas - Meat Processing.'
In Oregon there's a thing called the Buffalo Exchange, that looks like a strip club, but in it's back window is a neon sign that blinks "Buy. Sell. Trade."
In Southern Washington there's a sale on Lays potato chips at the Bi-Mart.
Not so fond of that trip back, given that I got home about six hours late, and I spent a good deal of it thinking about beating people with bricks, and reading books.
More on the music and books later.