From K through 5, my bus route to school was fairly uneventful. Oh, there was the usual rambunctiousness found among a bus-load of healthy elementary-school kids, packed with wild monkey energy. But there were never any harmful intentions toward anyone onboard. I always rode along, head against the window, watching the world roll peacefully by, feeling generally safe in my surroundings. 

On occasion, the chocolate milk we had for lunch would surge through our veins, turning us half-mad, and we had little choice but to act up. Otherwise, our little-kid bodies would burst. Sometimes the excitement we couldn’t contain en route to a field trip would get the best of us, and someone would mess up and spit out the window or wet his pants. (Not me, of course.)

But during these turbulent times, when the bus driver peered at us through that movie-screen-size rearview mirror of hers and yelled at us to straighten up or she’d march us right into the principal’s office, we’d snap to immediate attention. Deep down we longed to be subordinate. We felt bad when reprimanded. In fact, let it be known, we wanted our bus driver to like us.

Not so in middle school. The middle school building stood on the opposite side of town. Therefore, my bus route changed. Instead of the once happy neighborhoods, it now crept through those of kids who despised their bus driver. I’d expect better manners on prison buses. They’d yell obscenities at the bus driver and laugh at her empty threats. You mean she won’t really turn this bus around and take us back to school?  Even more appalling, they lived to destroy the lives of their classmates.

The worst thing about it was that several of the mean kids on my bus were legally old enough to join the Army. I was terrified of them, defenseless. I watched in stark horror at their antics as I tried to make myself invisible. I’d take a backseat, white-knuckling my Trapper Keeper, so no one could bully me from behind. Most the time this worked. The mean kids took little notice of me. They’d turn their wrath on each other or on a kid who stunk or looked funny. But sometimes the backseats were taken, and I’d find myself in the shark-infested middle of them. 

Over the years, I have mostly tried to black out my sixth-grade bus route. But once in a while, when watching a beautiful sunset or something, I’ll get whacked over the head with a sudden violent vision of the past.

There I am, in sixth grade, on the bus, with an acne cluster on my forehead, just trying to make it to school. Then snap! I hear the nauseous sound of a thick rubber band cutting the air. It came from behind. This is quickly followed by a burning sensation on my nape, which spreads like lightening to my toes. I can feel my pulse in the welt that is forming. On instinct, I turn to confront the source. When I meet the eyes of the 18-year-old hoodlum in the seat behind me, I immediately know I made a mistake. But it’s too late. I already turned around. 

“What are you looking at?” barks the kid. He looks crazy, like he’s itching to hurt me. ”You gotta problem?”

“Umm…” I say. “Well, umm, I thought you might have accidentally flipped me with a rubberband.”

“Nope.”

“OK. Sorry.”

Sometimes they wouldn’t even use rubber bands. Instead, they’d simply flatten their hands like paddles, lick the length of their flag-pole-length fingers, and smack the Dickens out of some poor, unsuspecting sap’s neck. I guess the wetness allowed for greater sting. I quickly learned to pop my shirt-collars to absorb some of the blow.

Then, one day, out of the blue, my bus route changed, just like that. I don’t know why. I didn’t even question it. I just figured God had heard my prayers. At first, suffering flashbacks, I’d scurry to the corner of my seat and tremble whenever anyone getting on or off the bus would accidentally brush against me. But in time, this all passed. I started wearing my shirt-collars down again. I even befriended some older kids–who were nice.

Nowadays, I sort of feel like I did when I was on the bad bus route. But substitute the bus route for the present-day bad economy. One day you’re just riding happily along, feeling safe, and then suddenly a major, century-old financial institution goes up in smoke. Car companies run out of gas. And, instead of your neck, it’s your 401K that’s getting smacked around. Or your job gets a wet-willy. (For those who don’t know, a wet willy is when someone jams a wet finger in your ear.)

Yes, throw in some Joe Biden gaffes, and you got some pretty scary times. But for the sake of Optimism, I reassure myself that things will one day bounce back. I have hope that my bus route will once again stretch through the peaceful neighborhoods of the bull market. In the meantime, however, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea to wear my collar up.

Categories: Life, Travel
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Maybe I’m getting old, but this New Year’s Eve I was in bed before the ball even dropped.

I hadn’t planned it this way. Jess and I started out with dinner and a movie, prepping ourselves for the proper ringing in of the new year. By ten o’clock we were back home, as planned, watching Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Ryan Seacrest 2009. (Is it me, or does this title get longer every year?) By 10:15, I wasn’t ready for the surprising discovery I’d made. To my astonishment, I realized I had Dick Clark on more out of duty than enjoyment. 

I knew not wanting to spend New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark was wrong, un-American and, perhaps in some households, immoral. I felt strong with guilt. On TV, dedicated New Year’s Eve enthusiasts shivered in Times Square streets, like homeless revelers, sacrificing their comfort so I could be entertained from the warmth of my own home. Alternative Rock Bands straight off the cover of Teen Magazine plucked guitar strings with frozen fingers for my New Year’s Eve benefit. And here I’d rather watch Seinfeld re-runs.

How ungrateful was I? I tried to fix things. I resolved to get into a chilly so-so performance by a sleeveless Taylor Swift. Next, the Jonas Brothers, and their Tom Hanks haircuts, brought all they had, too. I swayed to their garage-band sound.

It was no use. My soul was simply unfazed, no, worse, it was bored. Not even Ryan Seacrest with his puffy coat and ear muffs could cheer me up. What was wrong with me? What did 2008 do to me to make me so calloused? Was it the government bailouts? Too much Hillary Clinton? Brad Pitt’s new trash-stache? I didn’t even know myself anymore.

Before Will.I.Am could finish his bit, I had flipped to a station showing the movie Elf. Jess, who was half-asleep by now, hardly put up a fight. Now I had seen Elf probably a hundred times already this Christmas season, but I loved it exactly the same every time. As Buddy the Elf (Will Ferrell) was singing his Christmas gram to his estranged dad, I promised myself that I’d flip back to Dick Clark before midnight.

Sadly, this never happened. Jess and the dog were snoring on the couch by 11:30, and secretly (I’m just now admitting this to myself) I was happy to call it quits for the night. In bed by 11:45, I decided to ring in the new year by reading a book. Beside me, Jess and the dog were unconsciously paying their last respects to the dwindling 2008.

At exactly midnight, I heard fireworks outside, which according to next day’s news reports some were actually gunshots fired at the sky. Evidently, some locals had celebrated themselves into believing they were figures of the Old West. Though not much for public safety, these urban cowboys were impressively punctual. The ringing of gunshots hit midnight right on the nose. I suspect they’ll show up perfectly on time for their court dates. 

It was 12:01 when a dull sadness caught me off guard. I tried to pinpoint the source. I guessed first it was simply nostalgia for the old year. That’s perfectly normal. Maybe it was because I’d missed the ball drop, and the count down, and all the magical feelings that come with welcoming in the new year with a formal fuss. People were blowing horns, wearing party hats, and kissing their spouses in the living rooms of the houses of my imagination. Not to be left out, I kissed Jess’ sleeping head. She didn’t budge.

Then I guessed it. My serotonin levels had experienced the equivalent of a train wreck after taking in the depressing Will Smith movie, Seven Pounds, earlier that evening. I won’t give away the ending, but let’s just say I hope I don’t accidentally see it again. I was sort of hoping to ride into the new year on a lighter note. But this dream, as were several other 2008 dreams I had, such as getting to hang out with the Burger King, were blatantly squelched.

Anyway, once I solved the mystery of my low mood, I was able to move on to the more serious question of the evening. Why couldn’t I care less about making a big to-do over New Year’s Eve?

By 12:15 I found the slippery solution: I was happily content with what I had at home. I wasn’t missing out on all the people and parties out there. They were missing out on me and all that was with me, i.e, my wife, dog, and Buddy the Elf. Comparatively, everything else, Dick Clark included, had lost its luster.

Whew…all this psychoanalyzing had made me sleepy. I killed the lights at 12:20a.m., January 1, 2009. From there I slipped into my first dreams of the new year. I can’t remember what I’d dreamed that night exactly, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had something to do with paling around with the Jonas Brothers, firing guns into the frosty air, and looking-forward to getting home early.

Categories: Life, Philosophy, Television
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