I think I fell asleep on the ferry. At the very least, I was in that semi-lucid state between sleeping and waking. I was keenly sensitive to the lapping tide of the New York Bay, and the couple $4 whiskey shot/Genesee beer combos I had at International Bar toward the end of the night were splashing around uncomfortably in unison with the water. I thought I was going to hurl.
Once the boat docked, I zombie-walked through the terminal and up the ramp to the bus. The S51 is the most direct route; and thanks to the usual bus driver, it’s lightning fast. At 4 a.m., the usual driver is a man, seemingly 35-40, with a barbell piercing in his right eyebrow. He gets the hybrid bus moving, too. The bus doesn’t stop, as much as it pauses at each stop as we rocket down Bay Street. Red lights are merely suggestions.
But last night, the driver was different: a matronly woman. She drove at a careful speed and came to gentle, courteous stops. Most remarkably, she announced upcoming stops over the loudspeaker with a cheerful voice. When it came to my stop, she asked me, “Is here good, or do you want me to move up?” As if she knew where I lived. “As far up as you can go,” I said, and she took me all the way up to the corner. I thanked her, and so did my stomach.
I look at this, and I can almost taste the Cheetos.
luro:
(via flickflickflicker)
Dude. Fucking owls, bro.
I really wish DC would just let me write a new Swamp Thing series. I’d even pay them to let me do one. If I had money. Actually, I’d prefer to be paid, but I work cheap!
The people I work with at the polling place are becoming extended family. They’re people who are familiar, and whose company I enjoy, and I only see them about once or twice a year—on the major holidays. I catch up with my real family in late December and my election family on the first Tuesday in November. They’re actually the first people I wish a happy holidays. Just like family, I’m involved in their squabbles.
When Dane Cook flaked for our first interview time, I figured it was a case of the publicist blowing smoke up our asses. Love him or hate him, he is a pretty big name. He packs arenas around the country, and not a lot of comics can say that. When the interview was rescheduled, I waited by the phone for half-an-hour and figured it was a bust. Sure enough, he called. I’d heard he was a dick, but he was pretty friendly on the phone, and even called me back when someone came to his door. He did most of the talking, and I’m cool with that.
I got about 80 pages into Needful Things while working the door at the polls yesterday. I would’ve gotten further if it hadn’t gotten so dark outside (our polling site has no exterior lights, save for one at the top of the walkway, so around 6 I have to scrounge around for a string of rope lights and lay it down along the sidewalk; still, people complain like it’s my duty to install more adequate outdoor lighting to a 150-year-old church). I’m a notoriously slow reader, and Needful Things is about 1,000,000,000 pages, but I’m going to do my best to get to the end, because so far, it’s really good. I haven’t read a King novel since high school, and I’d forgotten how easy it is to get immersed in them.
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(via lolerature)
BEST.
Halloween only comes once a year, but Stephen King is open for scary 24/7.
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