Monday, November 17, 2003

I made friends with an ex-con on the bus home from LA yesterday.

Yep, it was fun. All I wanted to do was read my art history textbook. All he wanted to do was talk to someone. In a way, it's kind of sad. But I learned a whole lot about how to not break my parole and still have fun! This guy, a tall, muscular, mustachioed dude, was just getting back from a 15 day parole pass trip to Ontario, CA. (See, when you're on parole, you are limited to a 50 mile radius of your hometown, and you can get a pass to vacation outside of that area so that if you are pulled over you are not in violation of your parole. He is wise in the ways of jail.) He went down there to hook up with some college girl and ended up hooking up with her mom, instead. He showed me a picture. She was wearing a black cowboy hat atop her dark curls. It made her look like she was from New Jersey. He then told me about his dead friend, who was recently hit by a train. He showed me pictures of him, too. Apparently, he just carries this stuff around with him. He even had those little ribbon rememberance things you get at Mexican funerals. This man is infinitely prepared for things to tell what Chuck Palahniuk calls "single-serving friends" in Fight Club.

That was way more than I would have ever wanted to know about this guy. Why can't I have a peaceful busride back to campus where I can be boring and academic and read my textbooks with fervor? That's all I want. But I guess with an ex-con, one feels compelled to nodd and smile like you care. God knows why this guy was in the pen. I was not about to ask. Really, I just wanted to do my art history homework.

The really interesting part about this was that he told the same exact things to the woman who came to sit with us at a later point on the bus ride . . . the same fucking routine, only in Spanish this time.

This engagement ring, on an only slightly related note, is an amazing tool. Had this ex-con been hitting on me, rather than just being lonely and odd, I certainly would have had to employ its laser-beam like powers on him. Last weekend, the guys, Heather and I all went to see The Matrix Revolutions. We got there exceptionally early, grabbed coffee, and got in line. Before the "queuing" (as those silly Brits would say), we perused Borders for a bit. Now, keep in mind that this is The Matrix and, naturally, I am all gussied up in vinyl and boots and the whole fucking shebang. I look like Trinity, but with a pretty girl's makeup. I'm wearing this ratty little jacket I love, with patches from cult movies running down both of the sleeves. So, we walk in, and Heather and I peruse the first table of books we see and I am immediately caught by the eyes of some long haired Renaissance Faire junkie. He compliments me on my outfit. I am now prey. I say thanks, and explain that we're seeing The Matrix, just so he doesn't think I'm a bondage freak everyday. He then takes note of the Rocky Horror Picture Show patch on my jacket, and starts up a conversation about going to Rocky. He is from Marin! Lo and behold! We go to the same Rocky back home! And then, by an odd turn of events, he offers to drive me down to the NuArt in LA for RHPS . . . if I give him my number. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. My fiance lives down in Santa Monica, so I go to the NuArt with him, usually." I flash the ring. He is silent. This cat has eluded yet another hunter.

I thanked Marcus immediately. Never again will sleezy guys be a problem. I am freed.

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