In Transit

I've added a new feature to this blog, over on the right, below the picture. It's a countdown! It counts down to my last day commuting to D.C. for work. It should reach zero as I begin my two-hour journey home on that day.

But I have to tell you, as much as I won't miss the commute, I might miss some of the characters on the train. It's five improv (not for children) performances a week, Monday through Friday, starting promptly at 4:55. Get there early so you can get a good seat.

As creatures of habit, regular commuters tend to find a particular car and ride in it every time, creating a melting pot of personalities --

-loud, quiet,
-black, white, tan
-gay, straight, indifferent, homophobic, closeted,
-effervescent, abrasive,
-thoughtful, thoughtless,
-lawyers, waitresses, cubicle drones,
-generous, poor,
-old, young, new --

Take all of these ingredients, add alcohol, train delays, out-of-order restrooms, unreliable HVAC, and frequent light-hearted and sometimes filthy insults.

Pour into tight quarters on the upper gallery of a Chicago car.
Sprinkle the mix with unsuspecting, infrequent commuters who sit down below--

- the occasional tee-totaller who glares at the freely-passed bottles of beer or liquor

- the woman who thought she'd sleep all the way home

- the prude

- the sourpuss

(It will stir itself).

Finally, just for color, garnish with a hot college girl next to the homosexual.