Based on a trip I took one weekend. 6 hours on the road and 3 on the rails to catch a 30 minute set at a teen center, play some Super Smash Bros, and be abandoned at a hotel at 10 pm. I’d do it again any day. Send me the tickets. I’ll be there.
New Hampshire or BUSted
Ascend the stairs to your luxury motor coach. Ride in style on seats stuffed with discarded hotel mattresses, fronts covered with remnant red and blue Cosby sweaters and backs of pilled gray old sweatpants lining. On the seat backs, cup holders hang lethargically to the left, beside a tray smeared with indiscriminate brown and sticky substances, held up by one hinge and a piece of petrified chewing gum. Household outlets are out of place add-ons beneath the seats or under the headphone jacks placed on a bias closer to the window seat. Across the aisle, an elderly man eats something that looks like fried potato but smells of onion from a piece of crumpled aluminum foil cradled in his hand. While two rows back, a large black man bobs his head to Dancing Queen by ABBA playing entirely too loudly through his apple ear-buds. On some of our buses (betcha can’t guess which ones) glorious, free, slower than dial-up wifi is offered intermittently throughout your journey. Complimentary stale pretzels and lukewarm water are available in the retired fishing cooler on the seat directly behind the driver’s seat. A restroom, with all the luxuries of a stainless steel outhouse, is located in the back corner. A bowl of antibacterial wipes is provided, in case you’re feeling fancy. There are no windows but discreetly placed gap somewhere within the restroom provides not only natural air conditioning but the soothing sensation of relieving oneself in a wind tunnel. Upon arrival at your destination, all bags will be gently thrown on the collective pile. Thank you for riding the bus. Please follow us on twitter, like us on facebook and recommend us to all of your friends who are too broke to travel any other way.
Clamor of the Bands
The room is sparsely filled, teenagers in neat lines by the low corner stage. Lit by a slit of light from a high window, the technicolor vomit of a disco ball and the half-functional discarded remains of a decade’s Christmas tree lights. Parents occupy the chairs and benches in the back. The coffee stains on the ceiling dance as vibrations move across the white poster-splattered walls and faded tile into the pillar I diligently prop up. The room moves in unison with the strings of the bass, punctuated by the boom of the bass drum, cut by the cymbal. The vocalist screeches a duet with the feedback from poorly placed speakers. The guitars duel for dominance, both lose. The first set ends, and the florescent lights kick on, and people scatter like cockroaches to dim corners. The band slips out the side door for a smoke.