Bus Report #871

A whole week and a half so far, riding the 33 Ashbury/18th Street (as the 33 Stanyan would now like to be called) with the giant genie.

The giant genie, his chatty and flirty friend, and the giant genie's beard grooming routine. And his eyebrow brushing routine. Good stuff. Beard oil. Dandy comb. Lotion and mustache balm and his black comb that reminds me of the plastic combs my dad always carried around in his pocket when we were all younger.

Much, much better than the man who was flossing his teeth on the 22 Fillmore last night. Ugggh.
The flossing was bad enough but then the man squirted something onto his finger from a tube, and I thought he was going to brush his teeth with his finger. Luckily, he was just applying lotion. Thank you gods of Muni, thank you. Most of the time I feel like it's more of a "are you there gods of Muni, it's me Rachel?" situation.

This morning my commute was made even better (better than the giant genie? But HOW?) by the New Yorker Fiction podcast. I listened to Tobias Wolff reading Denis Johnson. And my day was made.