1. Tuesday, November 20, 2001

    gwen asked me to apologize, 

    so im apologizing, gwen, im sorry, baby. i know youre nursing a sore ankle and youre a little testy. im a little testy too. i saw you wipe out at the Staples Center. i really hope your record does well. you seem like youre a cool girl, even though youre still letting a british prettyboy touch you all over. i like your clothes. im glad your friend discovered Tsar. im not so happy with how your ex-manager is guiding their careers, but thats not your fault.

    i havent bitched about the bus lately, but today it really ruined my morning.

    i was skipping to the metro stop writing a little poem about how everything is nice and sweet in the morning. i passed the church next door where they have this huge cadillac that pulls this sweet old third-wheel, and even though they have a super-huge parking lot, they park the mini-motor home on the public street which makes for one less parking spot for all the hot babes who like to knock on my windownpane in the wee hours and whisper promises of thisnthat, which are sometimes accepted.

    but the third wheel didnt get me down, the fact that the train was late didnt bum me, the fact that the connecting train was late didnt get me, cuz i arose from the wilshire vermont station and it was warm. i took off my gangsta flannel and let the sun hit me. the one legged mexican man asked for change and i smiled a polite hell naw instead of frowning it. it was all good.

    but then the 720 Rapid didnt want to get out of the parking lot. there were 50 people waiting for the bus and me and there were three 720s in the parking lot pretending to hide. practicing to be paperweights, smoking their cigarettes, talking about lennox lewis, lying about whatever, getting on my last nerve, killing my natural high.

    finally bus number 7072 starts up, turns the corner and makes its way to the stop. As reluctant as a $10 suck from a $2 ho.

    mr. busdriver did not open up the back door to let half of us with bus passes slip through the back entrance. the dude who normally stands at the stop with us from the metro wasnt there to yell, “back door, Miguel!” so we all had to squeeze through the front. but that is more an irritant, not a bummer. it wasnt the reason that once i saw the wasp hovering around the cabin of the clean red Rapid darting this way and that, did i pray that it would find its way up front to the driver of #7072 and insert his deadly suicide stinger into his evil eye.

    it wasnt because driver of 7072 stopped at a green light at Normandie. it wasnt that he yelled at everyone to go to the back, even though the back was filled – with people like me! it wasnt that he put in his earpeice to listen to his native music behind his Oakley shades.

    i didnt wish bad vibes upon the driver of the public taxi because of his quick starts and short stops or the way that he never smiled at anyone and mumbled out the upcoming stops like it was a warning, a threat, a dare. Crenshaw! La Brea!

    i wished a bloody tragic death on the $50k/year driver because he didnt realize that he had people on the bus who had to get to work, who wanted to get to go to work, and he was on his way to Santa Monica Beach and he didnt appreciate it. i wanted to fight this fuck and even if i lost, i knew id get a few good shots in cuz when i brawl i cheat. i bite i scratch, i go for the ‘nads. i fight like a bitch, fuck you mr. bus driver. im gonna beat your ass and make you open up your back door. im gonna make you tell people what busses connect at what stops, what points of interests are coming up.

    im gonna fuck you up so bad youre gonna wish people a nice day and tell them what time it is every hour on the hour.

    “we’re approaching Fairfax, Fairfax Boulevard, Los Angelinos Peterson Auto Museum. The Children’s Museum, and the 99 cent store. it’s 9:05 the 216 connects to my left, as well as the 345 and the 20 and 21 lines. you have a blessed and stress free day. Fairfax Boulevard.”

    im gonna make you smile you mother fucker and thank people when they leave your $350,000 vehicle, and tonight i’ll pray that wasp that rested a mere 7 feet from your shaved head dug its stinger deep inside your neck and flew off leaving that deadly quarter inch behind as a reminder that you’re not the only fucker who has to work today, so spread some love you little cunt.

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