My chariot awaits, my dancers entertain

I love public transportation:

Our bus system here in Bellingham recently underwent a serious (practically surgical) make-over, and to get everyone in on the fun, the good folks at WTA are running a very special promotion: the bus is free for all of August. Which is basically like Christmas for a whole month, where I’m concerned. I can just…walk on a bus? Anytime I want? For free, you say? Excellent…

Since it’s summer and all the college students are still elsewhere (wherever it is they list as “permanent address” when filling out credit card applications), most of the buses are completely mine. Just me, the elderly & infirm, and the crazies. But more often than not, it really is just me, sitting the back of the bus with my textbook-sized copy of House of Leaves (yup, I was one of those kids). Sorta like having a chauffer, actually, but without the bubbly.

I love roofers:

And by roofers I mean the fellows who are apparently practising traditional Celtic-dancing on the top of my building right now–in heavy, steel-toed boots. Occasionally, they chuck stray shingles over the edge of the building without so much as a “Fore!”, which is provoking a severe phobia of “things falling from above” in me every time I leave my apartment.

I love The Faint:

For providing the soundtrack to those rooftop rehearsals of The Lord of the Dance that are taking place directly over my head. Also, for helping me realize my drop-kicking skills (it’s a disturbing game, but it’s wickedly fun).

I love the DMV:

What could I possibly say about the DMV that would be witty and original? Surely hundreds–no, thousands–of essays have been written on the waiting, the shady comrades-in-waiting, the two malicious-looking employees behind the counter (nevermind the fact that there are 6 lines–only 2 of them are ever staffed), the waiting, the sinking feeling of taking your number and realizing it’s somewhere in the 700’s while number 81 is “currently being served”, the guy who takes you on your drive test and fails you (it was only a curb, for crying out loud; it wasn’t actually a child), the waiting…and I won’t even get started on the photos. We all know about the photos.

But, listen, my experience really was different. Why? Because I was only there for ten minutes. I took my number (#031), found a seat, read half a page in my book and listened in on a few (sadly uninteresting) conversations before some bored-sounding lady came on the intercom and said, “Now serving number 0-3-1.”

I looked around at all the people who had been waiting much, much longer than I had–who looked like they’d basically moved in, begun work on their five o’clock shadows and such–and felt guilty for a single, fleeting second.

Then I marched up to the counter with my winning ticket.

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