Tuesday, September 8, 2009

You Worry About the Wrong Things

The lady at the Irving Park Rd. and Sheridan Ave. bus stop with the below average face, below below average weave, clothes like a dickhead, and abnormally large ass in proportion to her waist incessantly pokes and prods at her hair, carefully manicuring her bangs so that they fall pefectly across her knockoff Dolce and Gabana glasses.

The young school girl in her freshly pressed uniform blouse boarding the bus with her purse in one hand, Verizon Envy clamped secuely against her right ear. She's explaining to one of her parents that she has to go to a friend's house to babysit while the parent and another child go to "Disney on Ice". After a drawnout verbal exchange, the girl finally relents, falling back on that all too familiar teenage phrase -- "I'll just see you later at home. Bye!" Kids say the darndest things.

A middle aged lady sits across from me, exhausted from another long day at work. She oscillates in and out of consciousness, trying to grab a few moments of rest before she gets home. The lady grabs nervously at a gold crucifix hanging delicately around her freckled neck. I wonder if she's thinking what I'm thinking -- "if Jesus was a real as this chain around my neck he'd be looking out for me and my family."

The young store clerk at [store name redacted] that checks the status of all her Facebook friends as clueless customers meander around the store wondering whether their formal wear needs are worthy of the inconvenience they will cause by temporarily postponing the beautiful blondes social networking. The assistant looks on in between shuffles of his online Solitaire game. "Craig, can you grab this (my returned tux) and take it in back?" Craig eyes me disdainfully. I've just interrupted his recreation and replaced it with customer service. Customer service --a novel thought.

The old woman at the Irving Park Rd. and Kimball bus stop approaches the bus with cane in tote. The light blue of the cane matches the tint of the oxygen machine fastened securely across her slumping shoulders. The bus operator lowers the hydraulic lift on the bus to better accommodate the elderly potential passenger. "There's too many people on this bus! I'll wait!", she exclaims. It's rush hour. I board the bus and head straight to the back (because that's what curteous people do on crowded buses, right? Hardly). The automated PA announcer says in a sharp Anglophied male voice, "Priority seating is for the elderly and passengers with disabilities. Your cooperation is requested." Cooperation usually takes one or more persons working together. I wish that old lady had gotten on the bus. I guess she'll just have to wait 20 minutes for the next packed bus.

Two young ladies wearing black jeans and white t-shirts sitting in the rear of the bus talk in rapid Spanglish on their phones. They both have on crisp new black and white Chuck Taylors. It's almost their stop. One girl gets up and adjusts the back of her pants. No belt and no panties is usually not a good combination when your pants don't exactly fit -- more than likely on purpose. She checks her purse to make sure that she has everything since everything in her purse is priceless and irreplaceable. Thank God there are no textbooks obstructing her frantic search.

Everyone seems to be doing the same things -- fixing their hair, rubbing their noses, smoothing the puffiness under their eyes, readjusting their clothes, looking at what other people are wearing -- sneaking a peak at the technology that other people are talking into/listening to/reading from (Not really reading. No one reads anymore).

Everyone is worried about their appearance and that of others. I suppose that we all in some way, shape, or form cling to those things that we feel we have control over, no matter how insignificant they may be in actuality (notice that I didn't say reality).

I can almost hear Kanye West crooning about some model-type "worrying about the wrong things"....as he grabs his Jesus Piece and flashes his American Express Blackcard.

Ironic? Definitely.

Coincidental? Hardly.

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