This wily old galoot went to college a passel of relative time arcs ago, and every cuss that snagged sheepskin had to take a course in world cultures. Fucking liberal arts requirement, no matter what us dunces and anomies hoped to make of our rusticated, inbred selves.
There was this eight hundred pound world cultures guy, Ph.d, and he drummed diversity and exotic modes of thinking into our hides real good. I'm still to this day picking cognitive shrapnel out of my lower back, from all the heated debates. And eons forthwith from those piney college discoveries, the very source, the grail, the golden honey dripper held heaven high, dripping honey on people, turns up downtown everyday. Would you fucking believe it's the 83 bus?
Many a time it hauled, in relative discomfort, my calloused bones through the Hill District. It's always packed like expensive salmon in a plastic vacuum container, and passengers get hurled around as the bus navigates the narrow winding side streets. It's like conducting a family reunion inside a cement mixer. But it provides a better course in world culture than the one I got at college. Yesterday it had to do with the subject of human relations in a distressed community.
In the course of a conversation, a young woman explained that she and her sisters all live together, and, her words precisely, "We can't stand each other." Before that, she was talking about her best female friend, not related to her, who was the one person she could always be nice to. She and her sisters yell at each other all the time, and it's the way it is. Some high brow college cretin might start in here with people 'compartmentalizing' their emotional lives, defining boundaries, applying ordinary common sense to a situation less than ideal, but necessary. The young woman was both revealing and confirming the clearest representation of a whole course of study. As usual most people on the 83 bus are more edifying than that dusty college course I had to take.
She had a great deal more to say about both the human condition and her own relationships within it. Off the cuff she added, "If I don't know someone, they ain't my friend." I'd heard this credo expressed before, in the Hill, and the irony is that I had to learn exactly that, the hard way, a million times over, in a lot of different places. All I was doing, at the time was overhearing a conversation on the miserably crowded bus. And it provided me an affirmation. I got the news, weather and sports, figuratively speaking. I got the 411. On the 83 bus. Even numerology comes crashing into the picture. Collectively, it was and always is a bountiful trip through the Hill.
There was this eight hundred pound world cultures guy, Ph.d, and he drummed diversity and exotic modes of thinking into our hides real good. I'm still to this day picking cognitive shrapnel out of my lower back, from all the heated debates. And eons forthwith from those piney college discoveries, the very source, the grail, the golden honey dripper held heaven high, dripping honey on people, turns up downtown everyday. Would you fucking believe it's the 83 bus?
Many a time it hauled, in relative discomfort, my calloused bones through the Hill District. It's always packed like expensive salmon in a plastic vacuum container, and passengers get hurled around as the bus navigates the narrow winding side streets. It's like conducting a family reunion inside a cement mixer. But it provides a better course in world culture than the one I got at college. Yesterday it had to do with the subject of human relations in a distressed community.
In the course of a conversation, a young woman explained that she and her sisters all live together, and, her words precisely, "We can't stand each other." Before that, she was talking about her best female friend, not related to her, who was the one person she could always be nice to. She and her sisters yell at each other all the time, and it's the way it is. Some high brow college cretin might start in here with people 'compartmentalizing' their emotional lives, defining boundaries, applying ordinary common sense to a situation less than ideal, but necessary. The young woman was both revealing and confirming the clearest representation of a whole course of study. As usual most people on the 83 bus are more edifying than that dusty college course I had to take.
She had a great deal more to say about both the human condition and her own relationships within it. Off the cuff she added, "If I don't know someone, they ain't my friend." I'd heard this credo expressed before, in the Hill, and the irony is that I had to learn exactly that, the hard way, a million times over, in a lot of different places. All I was doing, at the time was overhearing a conversation on the miserably crowded bus. And it provided me an affirmation. I got the news, weather and sports, figuratively speaking. I got the 411. On the 83 bus. Even numerology comes crashing into the picture. Collectively, it was and always is a bountiful trip through the Hill.
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