Tones of Home

The title is just right for riding the commuter bus into work - it's a Blind Melon dirge of a song. I, however, took the high road on this gorgeous exurban morning and iPod'd to Summerbirds in the Cellar and to Wilco, both a bit more upbeat.

That off-set the ride on the Mad Max death buggy otherwise called the 'commuter bus.' What is it with those drivers? Unhappy? Undermedicated? Violating parole with wish to be dragged back to Sing Sing? Brake-go. Lane A-Lane-B-Lane D-to hell with it, back to Lane A. Hot, clammy and then icy cold. Did Stalin publish some manifesto on human misery that commuter bus companies have secreted away?

I've been back from campout but one week and the itch is scratching me to get back into the sticks. My reading materials, like the book on 1800's Canada naturalist experiences, must be a bad influence. Think I'll whack Mr. Driver about the head next time he messes with us. Great - I'll be on the roadside crews and be prime meat for him to wax me the next day!

Let me take a deep breath, mentally wander back to Ontario and futher mull over the vagaries of life in the commuter lane (we have NONE in southern MD, have I griped about that?). Too funny...