Bunch of Bitchy Little Bunnies
Business has taken me to some strange places. I once began to book Greyhound tickets to Toledo only to be admonished that my destination actually required a passport and a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish.
I had one and learned the other on the fly.
These days I'm mostly on trains in and out of New York City from time to time, each time more open-mouthed and goggle-eyed at the controlled pandemonium that that place is.
Pretty strange from a former inhabitant but I haven't forgotten that the constant fantasy I played out when I lived there was someday not living there.
Someday is here and I am grateful for my little corner of Swellsville, Fungus County.
Not that I dislike New York, I'm just happy to walk down a street where major drama isn't playing itself out with every third couple I pass. Geez, its exhausting keeping up with the fifty bucks she got from Benny the Sailor to get straight and the complete bitch to her coworkers when she doesn't even know how to add tax percentages up to being pretty sure we left it in the hotel safe but maybe I'd better call the 800 number.
Not to mention the detrius. You find, on the streets of Manhattan, stuff that were you to come across it in any other place in America, wouldn't make a lick of sense. Yet here all you need to do is look around and some sort of explanation takes form.
Playing cards down a subway grate? Three card monte hastily disposed of as a cop pulls up slowly. Guy with fourteen rolls of felt on a handcart? Fashion district. Mom, Dad, sister, brother, cousin, brother in matching tee shirts, flip flops and polarized sunglasses? DesMoines; welcome to Times Square. Everything else that's weird? Welcome to on going performance art.
Now and again though, I get thrown a curve. Well, a curve in an assignment I really wasn't expecting but, bunny being bunny, it conforms to "the way things tend to work out given your luck."
That is to say last February I was off to a place within earshot of the Canadian border where isolated thoughts snapped off frozen in your brain. I remember joking with a colleague as we jumped up and down, frantically trying to drive blood into the frozen extremity of our liver, that with my luck I'd probably wind up in Florida in August.
Ha.
Ha ha ha.
I just got my next gig.
Florida.
So hats on and hydrate, I'm off to 'gator country for a bit. Just bought a pair of melt-proof shoes off the 'net and tonight we're watching Ice Station Zebra. Over and over.
This of course all means one thing: If you live anywhere north of Fargo, look for me next January. Fidel, Raoul, set up the guest bed in July.
Humming "On the F*****g Road Again";
Bunny on.
I had one and learned the other on the fly.
These days I'm mostly on trains in and out of New York City from time to time, each time more open-mouthed and goggle-eyed at the controlled pandemonium that that place is.
Pretty strange from a former inhabitant but I haven't forgotten that the constant fantasy I played out when I lived there was someday not living there.
Someday is here and I am grateful for my little corner of Swellsville, Fungus County.
Not that I dislike New York, I'm just happy to walk down a street where major drama isn't playing itself out with every third couple I pass. Geez, its exhausting keeping up with the fifty bucks she got from Benny the Sailor to get straight and the complete bitch to her coworkers when she doesn't even know how to add tax percentages up to being pretty sure we left it in the hotel safe but maybe I'd better call the 800 number.
Not to mention the detrius. You find, on the streets of Manhattan, stuff that were you to come across it in any other place in America, wouldn't make a lick of sense. Yet here all you need to do is look around and some sort of explanation takes form.
Playing cards down a subway grate? Three card monte hastily disposed of as a cop pulls up slowly. Guy with fourteen rolls of felt on a handcart? Fashion district. Mom, Dad, sister, brother, cousin, brother in matching tee shirts, flip flops and polarized sunglasses? DesMoines; welcome to Times Square. Everything else that's weird? Welcome to on going performance art.
Now and again though, I get thrown a curve. Well, a curve in an assignment I really wasn't expecting but, bunny being bunny, it conforms to "the way things tend to work out given your luck."
That is to say last February I was off to a place within earshot of the Canadian border where isolated thoughts snapped off frozen in your brain. I remember joking with a colleague as we jumped up and down, frantically trying to drive blood into the frozen extremity of our liver, that with my luck I'd probably wind up in Florida in August.
Ha.
Ha ha ha.
I just got my next gig.
Florida.
So hats on and hydrate, I'm off to 'gator country for a bit. Just bought a pair of melt-proof shoes off the 'net and tonight we're watching Ice Station Zebra. Over and over.
This of course all means one thing: If you live anywhere north of Fargo, look for me next January. Fidel, Raoul, set up the guest bed in July.
Humming "On the F*****g Road Again";
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Saturday, August 08, 2009
3 Comments:
well, you know, it could be worse. at least it's not a dry heat.
Next time you decide to joke around, try something like "Gee, I would hate it if everyone who read my blog was suddenly gifted with big honking bags of cash".
Just try it...
not to rub it in or anything, but I'm on my way out the door to the relative cool of the Nawth Carolina mountains, where I will roll down the windows and hug some curves.
hasta la
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