May 6, 2004

Walking Wounded

The train was filled with little children -- two classes I beleive, all of them eleven or twelve years old. One girl was repeatedly asked by her teacher to take various seats as they became vacant. The peculiar girl would obediently sit, then jump up, and refuse to sit there again - because the seat was "hot." Either she was referring to the residual heat left by the former occupant's butt, or she be coo-coo.

In the station, an old man looked like Grampa from The Muensters. He played on a keyboard, played a song like a Merry-Go-Round.

In front of him, dozens of little toys - clowns, cowboys, robots, cars - danced and danced under battery power.

Beside the toys, a round-bellied, round-faced Arab man, with a tiny mustache, danced as well. He held one hand open on his round belly, and the other hand above his head. He moved only his feet. He wore a beige, too-tight shirt, with a big horizontal stripe, clearly from the early 70s.

They had my donut. And work blows. But text messaging my sister and mother has given the morning at least a single smile. When all else fails, make fun of your mother.