Good evening. On the, habitual, 3:56PM out of the City. The NFI is 2.
I realize now that I am becoming part of the ethnographic observational environment of which I am writing. Everyone I ‘know’ and have come to report on is in their same place as I’d expect them. Very Twilight Zone.
For example, the overweight woman, who has an initial passing resemblance to a very pixieish collegiate friend of mine, is here. She is one seat over, window side, facing me. She has finished balancing her checkbook (how quaint is THAT!), writing up her grocery list in an embroidered pocket notebook (green paisley, if you were wondering), and has decided to nap the rest of the trip home.
In-line with the bench-facing-movement side of the jump seat, and across the aisle, is Clive Owen. He has no shortage of audio or video on his iSkuttleSporeFlare player. The 6-foot 10-inch, muscular but slim Owen has just enough room for his perpetually-jeaned legs. His feet are on the floor at a roughly 5-degree angle from ‘up’, or at a 265° angle from his seated thigh-line at the knee.
Behind him is Carmella Soprano. An overweight but not obese woman who could actually be a man. Which she is on the phone, it is clear that she is no nonsense and a results oriented kind of gal/guy. Her strangely masculine face is belied by a jewish-grandmother-to-be body type (I love you Bubala!). Today her white tiger striped purse matches the print on her white-print blouse. Wow. I never knew you could coordinate that way. I am fashion-illiterate.
For a bit of a surprise, Basil Fawlty has decided to join us and is three seats back; two seats behind our sleeping balanced checkbook. Basil has his hat on, a brown, wide brimmed cowboy hat. The hat band has brass studs in it. Unfortunately, he paired this exquisite chapeau with a blue sea-windbreaker thing that would traditionally be worn by country-club types on their way to the yacht. Very Mr. Robinson. Plastics.
War Correspondent is here. His bruised face is in shadow from my view. He’s looking out the window again. He has had a long day listening to traders and financial analysts dissect the impact of the impending Fiscal Cliff. Truth be told, he’d rather jump off a cliff like he had to do on that great assignment to Nicaragua back when he was a cub reporter. Him and his translator/contact had to leap from a cliff out of drug-lord territory using homemade para sails, MacGuyver style. He puts his hand on his head to stave off the impending headache, but the memory brought a little smile to his face. Well, that’s something.
Behind WC is our dearest friend(s), Dr. Jekyll-Hyde. He is dojng better. He is talking to himself less these days. He’s reading a lot more, which I presume both or all of his internal personalities are digesting, and therefore he (they) don’t debate as much.
Also here are Jay Cutler (drunk), Caucasian Barack Obama, Mary Steenburgen and an up and coming Latino hip hop artist. Happy Thursday to you all. Safe travels.