Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Someone I’m Glad I’m Not Dating
Monday night, 8 p.m. While I’m riding the “1” Muni bus up California Street, a twentysomething girl dolled up for a night on the town steps on at Laguna and takes the seat across from me. It occurs to me that her cheeks have so much makeup on them that they look like they’ve been airbrushed by a high school yearbook retouch artist; her left eyebrow appears permanently cocked, and her lips perpetually pursed.

After a few seconds, her cell phone rings, one of those complex new jingly rings that has brought the word “polyphonic” back into the mainstream for the first time since the swingin’ days of the early Renaissance. She fishes the phone out of her tiny bag.

“What do you want?” she barks. Pause.

“Well, I’m on my way home, since you obviously didn’t want to go with me.” Pause.

She shakes her head for a few seconds, then sighs loudly. “It doesn’t matter. You have to want to go with me.” Pause again.

“Whatever. I’m not hearing an apology, so...” She makes a big gesture out of hanging up (which is of course difficult with a cell phone, since there’s no way of slamming it down on to the receiver), stuffs the phone back in her bag, and, eyes rolling, storms off at the next stop. Good luck with that, kids!

On a Mostly Unrelated Note
One can learn the most amazing things while doing Google image searches for pictures of Muni buses—for example, they have mountain bike unicycles now. In the words of that great Muslim folksinger and airline hazard, ooh baby baby it’s a wild world.

On a Completely Unrelated Note
Dick Cheney is so predictably snarling and evil and John Edwards is so predictably smiling and plastic that I just couldn't bring myself to watch their little tête-à-tête even though the Red Sox were already up 8 runs. If I missed anything good, I trust you people will fill me in.