Bustime Entertainment

About the time the man--covered in every color paint (blue, green, red) and wearing shorts that were so short that the legs of his boxes showed out the bottom--walked on the bus, the pair behind me began talking.


First they catelogued the people they knew who looked at them and thought they had it all. "But people never think about the time I was kidnapped and held for ransom," said the man.

"You're right," said the woman in a it's-a-damn-shame tone.

Apparently the pair was returning from a dream interpretor, which they termed a dream consultant. The woman got all excited, realizing she hadn't told her most recent, vivid dream to her counterpart.

In said dream, said woman and extraneous friend were in a zoo. The woman dream-magicked herself into a pen with a bear and its cub. She began describing some gate, which looked like this:

"Which is just silly, because with a triangle gate, I mean, what's that fence supposed to keep out?" says the woman laughing gently at herself.

"Now, let's not debate the nonsense of dreams," said the man.

"I'm just trying to give you an idea of what the gate looked like." And she went on to say, that the dream consultant told her the bear symbolized her parents and that the three pointed gate only proves Freudian theory of the child, mother, and father being the center of a person's life.

"Yes," said the man, "Isn't that the truth!"

Then, the man said he needed to make a phone call. He got up and walked to the front of the bus where the painted man was sitting. When he came back, he said some mutal acquaintence of theirs was going to the same concert they were headed for.

"He said he wouldn't miss it for the world," the man said.

"I just thought it would have sold out, and he couldn't get tickets," the woman replied.

"Well, I'm sure when he said he wouldn't miss it, he only meant that if there were tickets available, he would get some and go to the concert."

"Yeah," said the woman, "I get it."

The New Job

"Metals don't just go running around naked in solution," was what my boss told me when we were doing a quick chemistry briefing about how the heck his lab equipment works.

Later he made falafel for everyone, and we discussed the fact that Hilary Clinton is unelectable, but Obama is kind of naive. Afternoon conversations revolved around getting one of the lab guys laid with his "gramma" friend. Then we shot tequilla from the "evidence locker."

Luckily for me, I tend to get involved with pretty cool companies. My last one gave us icecream when we participated in fire drills. What's not to like? Keep from dying in possible flames and get icecream. Or don't. Here in the big CO, we get lunches made for us daily. If you can get over the underlying, constant panic of going broke at any time, this job is pretty laid back.

The Things that Colorado Janet Does

Colorado Janet is taking measures above and beyond those that Chicago Janet has taken in the past. Colorado Janet takes figure drawing classes and sketches nude women. Observe!

Colorado Janet goes to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and sees Aspen trees turning yellowy-gold up the mountains. Observe!

Colorado Janet sees Elk. She sees lots of elk.

Colorado Janet hikes to the top of the Tundra when it rainy snows and clings for dear life to rocks as the wind blows.

Hooker in a Bind

I've got posts in the works right now, but until they're ready, here's a little something I wrote about a year ago (07/23/2006):

A hooker went looking for an apartment today. Well. Not really a hooker. When I asked her what she does, she said, "I'm a dancer."

"Really?" I said. "Where?"

"Bachelor parties."

"Interesting." I wasn't lying. It was interesting. I wanted to immediately look over from my computer, which was displaying all of the one-bedroom listings under $1000. I wanted to survey her. The body of a woman whose sexual prowess is legendary. Stripper. Synonymous with lust. Endless appeal. Sexual mystery.

This particular stripper was a banker until her supervisor denied her time off on a Wednesday afternoon about five years ago. (Was it really a Wednesday? If it were me, I can't be too sure I would remember, but this stripper said Wednesday, and she seemed to have a good memory.)

"I had a friend that was doing it at the time," she explained as though stripping in Vegas was something casually common like drinking, knitting, or bobsledding. Stripping is just something you get in to by happenstance.

People would ask me, as I drive them around showing apartments: "How did you get this job?"

"There was an ad in the paper, and I called every day until I got an interview." This is happenstance. I saw a help wanted sign in the stripper-store window, and I decided to apply, is not happenstance.


"That guy who just passed us," she said referencing a 5-foot 2 dude wearing a white-base, purple ringer that had the word "Wonka" written in characteristic script where a breast pocket might have been on a less socially awkward shirt. "That guy was at a party I did a couple of weeks ago. That's the thing about working in this area: If I go to the Cubbie Bear or something, I'll definately run into someone. They'll come up to me and be like 'Hey' and they're all careful about coming up to you if they think you're with a boyfriend."

The guy in the Wonka T-shirt didn't do anything at all.


While we were driving about, we had covered a lot of topics. Actually, she did most of the talking. She grew up in Chicago. She took off a Wednesday afternoon from the bank, and then, jobless, moved to LA. Once out west, she considered continuing her BA in writing that she started at UIC. But most of her credits didn't transfer, and she wasn't privy to spending money on coursework and books just because her American History course didn't include a component of California state government.

Then she moved to Vegas where she worked strip clubs and eventually got into bachelor parties, which were the sweet life of exotic dancing. This of course supposes that a person's ideal work hours are Friday and Saturday from 9 in the PM to 1 in the AM.

From what I gathered through round about answers, she left Vegas for two reasons: (1) she split with the boy she moved there for and (2) she wanted to finish her writing degree. "I've got two semesters left, if I work hard."


The think I immediately noticed about this girl was her vocabulary. Off hand, I can't remember the exact words that impressed me. But my syntax, I'm pleased to say, would give most seventh graders a run for their money. Her's had my brain's personal assistant thumbing through reference materials at lightning speed. "Psst. She means promising or good," my assistant whispered in my ear.