Just two guys at the bus stop making the time go by. Tomorrow they'll be saying the same things, or maybe something different. And I'll be watching them from the bus window. Or maybe someone else.

What's too painful to remember, I simply choose to forget. What's a Doo-Dah Parade?

People who eat at Baker's Crust, to be specific. There seem to be quite a number of them, all chewing and swallowing and drinking and talking. It's enough to turn your stomach.

Bus riders are not like you or me. Well, they're not like you. They're like me.

With my luck, she's giving some sort of gang sign that will inevitably lead, through however many twists and turns, to my being beaten to a pulp. If you're going to be beaten to something, pulp is not what you want to shoot for. I'd put in a request for being beaten to the consistency of silly putty, see where it went. When I was younger, I used to dream that I was made of silly putty and I would press myself against people and then transfer their image to a canvas and people would marvel at the likeness and give me a grant. I've come to realize the impracticality of that dream in the intervening months, because silly putty doesn't have eyes and, with my luck, I would press myself up against a gangbanger, and then I'd be back at square one.

Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw.Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw.Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw. Draw draw draw draw draw draw draw. Draw draw draw draw.

A vanishing breed. Shills for the Brave New World claim that people are doing their reading on the internet now, but the numbers show that even those who are, are reading less. And if you ever tried reading a book on a computer monitor, you know why. When we stop reading, we put our brains in the hands of those who spew content onto our TV and computer screens. Even if we disagree with these jerks, we're letting them set the agenda. Who's going to be left to say that maybe Angie's pregnancy isn't quite as important as the decimation of marine life in the Gulf of Mexico? Well. maybe it was always this way. Maybe it's nothing more than that I'm entering the grumpy old man phase of my life. There's something to look forward to.

I don't require that the things I say mean anything, as long as they sound portentious. I'm easy on myself in that regard. I cut myself some slack. Because, goddamit, I like myself. I grant myself plenty of Me Time, because if I don't who will? If I don't love myself, how can I love others? And why would I want to, anyway? Wouldn't that be cheating on myself? I'm the kind of person who heeds the instruction to affix the oxygen mask to my own face first, so that I may help others, if I should so choose. If that other person could make a compelling case for me helping them. If they could persuade me to put them on the agenda for help. And then, of course, I would have to bring it before the committee. The committee of one. The committee is not inclined to add to its already burdensome workload. The committee tables a lot of things. Just a heads up.

Last weekend, while at the Auto Show at the Virginia Beach Convention Center (don't ask), I stumbled into a giant roomful of ladies all dressed in bright red. It was an amazing sight, and a welcome respite from observing acres of paunchy men staring at shiny cars. Turns out these women belonged to a sorority and were having their annual convention. Evidently this sorority was founded on the premise that wearing red clothes gives life meaning. Anyone who can find a meaning to life, I say more power to them. If I thought it would give my life meaning, I'd consider wearing red, except I'm sure I would be trailed by pesty kids wanting to give me their Christmas lists.

Was able to go to figure drawing group for the first time in a while. They've finally got a new permanent location, a church right around the corner from Tortilla West, which helps ease the transition back to everyday life on Tuesday nights. They told me this place was a church, but it doesn't resemble a house of God as much as a house of Ware, which is fine with me. By the way, the Tequila Shrimp, a few of which appear next to Mr. Mintle's martini, were pretty frickin good.

Taking the surface routes to the oceanfront is such a deadening experience. Mile after mile after mile of shiny signs on dull buildings. Townhouses, condos, strip malls, chain stores, not a one looking more than ten years old, and not a one interesting enough to catch your eye. It's a place for people who have no sense of their past.

Today I received mail from two exotic locales: Quezon City, Philippines; and Toronto, Canada. I mean real mail, the kind you can hold in your hands and stick up on the wall. This is a small pleasure that we're in the process of losing, like buying a little box of gummed reinforcements. In the era of email and texting, the only people who still send regular mail are those who put it in window envelopes, the kind where you can catch a glimpse of the words "Final Notice" in the window. As nice as it is to see a familiar name in your email list, it's no match for discovering an envelope in your mailbox with your very own name written by hand. Thanks, Winnie and Terry!

It was an unseasonably warm and sunny day, and as I walked on Hampton Boulevard at ODU, I saw a kid bopping to some private song on his iPod and thought "all's right with the world", until I came within earshot of him. The way he turned and looked at me left no doubt whose body would be in da cooler if he had any say about it. "Looks like you're getting jiggy with it, my brother," I said by way of breaking the ice. "Bodies in da cooler" he replied. "You got DAT right, my negro," I said. And in spite of the fact that I had thoughtfully refrained from using the n-word, he chased me down Hampton Boulevard to 49th and then west on 49th for 3 blocks before giving up. Dude be off the hook, man. So I cranked up some tunes on my own iPod, Donovan doing "Sunny Goodge Street", and made my way back among the whiteboy backpacker geekasses back to the bus stop.