Oh, the bus stop theme. It was all part of content creation for a class of mine, so bear with it. I swear no more.
1. Smoking. Not to offend the millions who campaign against smoking, but honestly, there is rarely a better feeling than sticking it to the man by smoking not near or around the bus stop, but directly within the prescribed five meter non-smoking radius. And, of course, there’s the added benefit of successfully killing time.
2. Drinking. Specifically, Underage-Drinking. Remember those days? The ones where “going out” meant sitting at a bus stop with ten friends on your way to a “house party” in someone’s basement and chugging a mickey of cheap vodka? Yeah. Now tell me all those times that you had to hold a friend’s hair back as she puked off the side of the bench didn’t make you feel like a bad ass mo-fo. Thought so.
3. Pot. It may just be the social nature of the drug, or that the smell of marijuana overrides the general foot-like stench of the bus your about to embark, but pot takes the cake (mmm… cake) when it comes to bus stop drugs. Trust me, serious considerations were put into a variety of other illicit substances – but, really, no one wants to snort lines off a bus bench.
4. Graffiti. It’s almost like bus stops were designed to be doodled on. And scratched into, and painted on. They’re the ultimate urban poster board of Sally + Joe 4Evas, cartoon faces, and local trademark tags; not to mention an excellent source of time killing literature.
5. General Destruction. The bus stop offers all sorts opportunities to take part in some good old fashioned wreckin’ stuff and, by wreckin’ public stuff, you get to really partake in some serious illegal activities. Go for the gold and send a bat through the glass, bring a screwdriver and dismantle the “bus stop” sign, bring spray paint and take graffiti to the next level and just paint the whole, bloody stop.
6. Sex. There’s a bench, shelter from the elements and – uhh – easy access. And that’s without the thrill of “riding the bus” in public.
7. Prostitution. None of the previous options quite illegal enough for you? Then take it all the way and “hang out” at the bus stop – auspiciously wearing thigh-high leather boots and short shorts that allow for under-ass – regardless of whether you’re male or female. Thanks to the high traffic nature of a bus stop, you’re bound to develop a fast-paced, publicly illegal business in no time.
Thursday 7 October 2010
Place
Each tap on the canvas above is uneven. Some are loud and heavy, hammering oh-so-slowly, oh-so-steadily from bowed branches. Others are tiny pitter-patters that fill the silence between bigger drops, falling from the skies beside the trees – every knock a reminder of just how dry the blankets are inside. Inside, away from the rain and the mist and the wet of the ocean, the tent is warm. Beaten cloth circulates breath and body heat like a thermos, until even the tip of my naked nose is comfortable. The damp is meaningless.
Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.
Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.
Route 6b W 4 W
Route 6b Northbound, 8:37am, W 4 W
You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire
Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.
You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire
Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.
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