E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com Archives March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 current Blogs Mandapants farkleberries Uranium City Records The C.M. Sienko Foundation Storyteller Musings Solotarian Views Lynne Wiora Tek Poker News Blog Some Biscuits Evil Eye Emporium Niggling Doubts Pressure Release Sara as Mommy runswithscissors Defective Yeti Afternoon Delight trancejen The Terrarium Bird Nird Slipperily Tofu Hut Stereo Gum Links Fixed Gear Gallery Get Crafty This is Grand Featherproof Books Gapers Block Chicago Bird Watching	No one must know my terrible secret... House of Noh! Saturday, November 13, 2004 I’ve been riding on trains again. Trains I think are the perfect transportation for me. To be sure, there is a very important downside in that the seats (in fact, chairs in general) on trains hurt my coccyx (which can‘t be good, kundalini-wise). I have a friend who said he took some acid once and rode on a train. He says he sat there in his seat and as he peaked all he could hear, and even sense actually, was that rhythmic thumping, clunking type of noise that you hear inside the train as it goes down the track. Somewhere en route he fell asleep. A conductor woke him up at his stop and he got off the train, but then half an hour later my friend realized that the clunking noise never stopped! I guess it never went away. He just got used to it. Even years later I’d ask him sometimes if it was still there. He’d get really quiet and look like he was thinking hard about something, and then he’d be like, “Yeah, it’s still there all right!” Last time I was on a train there was this really drunk guy going all the way to Texas. When he first got on the train, even though there were lots of seats left, he walked down the aisle and wherever there was a dude sitting alone, the drunk guy would ask that dude, “can I sit with you, sexy?” Almost everybody grudgingly said yes, I mean, that’s train etiquette and all. But the drunk guy didn’t really want to sit down with any of those dudes, he’d just go on to the next dude. And if he was lying about wanting to sit down next to them, I suppose the question remains: did he really think all those dudes were sexy or not? The drunk guy didn’t call me sexy or ask to sit with me. Perhaps he just found me unattractive. That’s okay, I mean, everybody’s got their own tastes and all. It’s perfectly natural. OR! And this is my preferred theory, my huge bushy beard, (alas, it’s been cruelly pruned as of late), protected me from those sorts of harassments. It once protected me from being the victim of an act of violent crime in Dublin, you know. After the drunk guy finally found his seat, he amused himself by trying to bully the conductor into letting him step off the train for smoke breaks at non-smoke-break stops. After he got bored with that, the drunk dude pulled out a suspect half-full bottle of perfume and started wandering the train, boasting of the perfume’s expense and high quality and offering (and in some cases, demanding) to squirt it on people. He didn’t bother me with it (again, the beard). I didn’t realize the full extent of the fragrant terror the drunk guy had wrought until I reached my stop and lined up in the narrow stairwell down to the lower level of the train with the other people getting off at my stop. The stairwell smelled like ambergris and Lysol and window cleaner all mixed together. As I stood there in line behind a middle-to-older-aged woman wearing those kind of glasses where the earpieces connect to the lens frames at the bottom and a helmet-shaped perm we could hear the drunk guy below us, shouting around an unlit cigarette in his mouth about how he was going to get off the train to smoke at the stop and the conductor HAD BETTER let him back on the train. “I don’t know if that guy’s just drunk or what!” the woman remarked to me. Then she indicated the middle-to-older-aged man standing patiently in line in front of her. “He sprayed that perfume he had all over my husband!” Brian 4:38 PM Comments: Post a Comment

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House of Noh!

Saturday, November 13, 2004

I’ve been riding on trains again. Trains I think are the perfect transportation for me. To be sure, there is a very important downside in that the seats (in fact, chairs in general) on trains hurt my coccyx (which can‘t be good, kundalini-wise). I have a friend who said he took some acid once and rode on a train. He says he sat there in his seat and as he peaked all he could hear, and even sense actually, was that rhythmic thumping, clunking type of noise that you hear inside the train as it goes down the track. Somewhere en route he fell asleep. A conductor woke him up at his stop and he got off the train, but then half an hour later my friend realized that the clunking noise never stopped! I guess it never went away. He just got used to it. Even years later I’d ask him sometimes if it was still there. He’d get really quiet and look like he was thinking hard about something, and then he’d be like, “Yeah, it’s still there all right!” Last time I was on a train there was this really drunk guy going all the way to Texas. When he first got on the train, even though there were lots of seats left, he walked down the aisle and wherever there was a dude sitting alone, the drunk guy would ask that dude, “can I sit with you, sexy?” Almost everybody grudgingly said yes, I mean, that’s train etiquette and all. But the drunk guy didn’t really want to sit down with any of those dudes, he’d just go on to the next dude. And if he was lying about wanting to sit down next to them, I suppose the question remains: did he really think all those dudes were sexy or not? The drunk guy didn’t call me sexy or ask to sit with me. Perhaps he just found me unattractive. That’s okay, I mean, everybody’s got their own tastes and all. It’s perfectly natural. OR! And this is my preferred theory, my huge bushy beard, (alas, it’s been cruelly pruned as of late), protected me from those sorts of harassments. It once protected me from being the victim of an act of violent crime in Dublin, you know. After the drunk guy finally found his seat, he amused himself by trying to bully the conductor into letting him step off the train for smoke breaks at non-smoke-break stops. After he got bored with that, the drunk dude pulled out a suspect half-full bottle of perfume and started wandering the train, boasting of the perfume’s expense and high quality and offering (and in some cases, demanding) to squirt it on people. He didn’t bother me with it (again, the beard). I didn’t realize the full extent of the fragrant terror the drunk guy had wrought until I reached my stop and lined up in the narrow stairwell down to the lower level of the train with the other people getting off at my stop. The stairwell smelled like ambergris and Lysol and window cleaner all mixed together. As I stood there in line behind a middle-to-older-aged woman wearing those kind of glasses where the earpieces connect to the lens frames at the bottom and a helmet-shaped perm we could hear the drunk guy below us, shouting around an unlit cigarette in his mouth about how he was going to get off the train to smoke at the stop and the conductor HAD BETTER let him back on the train. “I don’t know if that guy’s just drunk or what!” the woman remarked to me. Then she indicated the middle-to-older-aged man standing patiently in line in front of her. “He sprayed that perfume he had all over my husband!”

Brian 4:38 PM

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House of Noh!

Saturday, November 13, 2004