Good afternoon. On the, late again, 4:30PM. I’m still tableted, but now have more room to type. Picture a hunched over, bespectacled, darker skinned hobbit of pleasant and perhaps humorous girth, tapping away at a bright screen.
I’m supposed to go to the gym today, but I won’t. Core workout at home instead. Maybe take a walk. My partner in life will be out tonight, leaving me to be responsible for the genetic experiments at home.
Well, enough about me. I feel better already as a fellow twice my size and a tenth of my insecurity about weight and health, sat down in the jumpseat facing the direction of travel. As a reminder, I sit in the jumpseat to face my fellow commuters and opposite the direction of travel. The jumpseat fellow looks a lot like the 80’s comic Louis Anderson. Louis is listening to something from his MP9 player and doesn’t seem inspired at all. His wristwatch is about as big as Captain America’s adamantium shield. He is well to do and reasonably well dressed.
Also aboard and facing me in the next seat is my old friend Clive Owen from Spike Lee’s Inside Man. He is also wearing a big faced watch! Holy Hourglass! It’s as big as a sundial! My last watch broke during a hour long battle with baby diapers some years ago. I never got around to purchasing a new one. Is modern horology getting bigger and badder? Are these watches meant to trigger some remote device? Get a satellite feed to the phone? I hope our national security dollars are being used to investigate this chronological connundrum.
Anyway, Clive is in his usual pose, head down at a 45○ angle, looking at his relatively petite iCrackerdroidV screen and catching up on the latest Piers Morgan gun-nut guests and rants. Evidently Clive, though he is a Brit, totally loves guns and regularily goes to the various public gun ranges in the collar counties about the City. Yet, he also seems to understand that eventually guns will need to be downsized for the good of the public at large. It is the fear of change that has America up in arms. Clive gets it. Others do not.
Young George Carlin is here, asleep. Behind him are two very vocal African American women just coming home from a long days work as highly prized executive assistants or team leaders. These two know all the nitty-gritty about ev-vry-thang, including but not limited to how the senior exes launder money, who is sleeping with the new project manager on the 10th floor, why Donna was REALLY sick, and the phone numbers of every mid level exec at the competition with the same info about their own firms. The two women are catching up on family, work gossip, and what to bring for the church social next month. They have pleasant, singsong voices.
Also to be mentioned are Edith Bunker, Aziz Ansari, Jack Lew (working on his handwriting), and Jimmy Carl Black.
Thanks for keeping up. Safe Travels