Bus Report #887

I can't hear a thing these days - too many years going to shows sans earplugs. I have to watch TV with the closed-captioning on, read lips in loud places.
But with my headphones on and the sound cranked up, I am just fine.
Today I took the 33 Ashbury, Bruce Springsteen shouting into my ears at top volume.
Russian woman on the phone in front of me, per usual.
Man with too much cologne, a few rows back.
I opened the windows, stared at a greasy spot against the otherwise clean windowpane.
Bus rattled down Arguello to Fulton, Fulton to Stanyan, the park early morning quiet, shrouded in fog.
People rolling up their sleeping bags. Trash strewn all across the entrance of the park. Welcome, welcome everyone.
Two men zoned out, standing still yet weaving in place anyway in front of McDonald's.
Further down Haight, people loading veggies and fruit into the bins out front Haight Street Market.
Beautiful red tomatoes. Golden butternut squash shaming me and the months' old squash lurking in my kitchen cabinet.
Dude in a car refusing to move for the bus to turn. Bus honking. Honking.
Car slowly backs up, more honking, backs up some more.
Last night's dreams slowly seeping back in to my consciousness. People I haven't thought of in years. Actors from long-ago canceled television shows. The warm weather making me sweat even as I still shiver in my jacket.

The Boss tells me he's on fire just as the bus hits the hairpin turn on to 18th.

In the Castro, a trash can actually is on fire - smoking smoking on the corner of 18th and Castro.