I’m finally typing again on my laptop, which makes me happy. I had forgotten what a connection I had made with this machine, though it was created by the evil HP demons, and I do feel rather geeky thinking I have an attachment to a computer. I’ve missed writing my thoughts down while on the train, since the thing jerks back and forth so much it blurs my handwriting. The seats are also so cramped I have no room for my laptop unless I sit in the seats that are supposed to be made available to the elderly and handicapped. I’ve never seen either at 7 in the morning, so I avail myself of their seats all the time now. Without my laptop to play music and write on, I’ve been sleeping almost every time I get on the train, developing one of the strangest sleep related patterns I’ve ever come across, and that is the synchronous wake up.

I’ve observed this occurrence before when riding the bus system of Phoenix back before I came to college. Regardless of how bad the guy next to me smelled, or how large he was, or loud, and believe me it was always one of these things if not a combination, despite this I was always able to go right to sleep within 10 minutes of sitting down. Part of this was because my poor sleeping habits started way back then, and if anything I was even more foolish back then. It’s also a self perpetuating cycle, since once you find out you can get sleep on your commute, you factor it in to your routine. Anyway, I would then sleep soundly with my face pressed against the far from sanitary window, only rarely waking for a quick moment to see a new companion taking the place of the last one. I would then immediately close my eyes again and block the thought of them.

You see I rode the number 3, one of the longer routes in Phoenix at the time to my knowledge. I rode it from very close to my house all the way downtown, and it usually took about 90 minutes. This was the same bus line my father had ridden not long before me, in the years when he still worked for APS. I would occasionally hear him tell stories of the interesting characters he came across on this daily adventure, and wonder if they could really all be true. My dad’s description and warning was, “The number three … You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy, we must be cautious.”

This wasn’t far off base. One morning I had to wait by the side of the road for about half an hour because the regularly scheduled bus had been held up by a stabbing. This happened fairly far north, which was unusual, but it happened on the number three bus, so it wasn’t utterly shocking. The man later claimed the CIA had implanted a chip in his leg that made him do it. Particularly downtown, it was not uncommon to pick up very shady looking characters, who often couldn’t keep their personal business to themselves for the duration of their trip. I remember several times the bus driver stopped the bus and joined in the shouting to try and resolve things. I also remember once stopping to pick up passengers, starting to leave, and then stopping very suddenly due to shouts by those looking out the window. Apparently some drunk old vagrant had managed to roll into the street with his head in front of the rear tire of the bus. After a lot of shouting he came to and wandered off again.

The number three ran along Van Buren, the street well known in Phoenix for its evening activities. This included some cheap bars, but primarily prostitution. I never saw the street at night however, so I didn’t understand when girls would make jokes about working on Van Buren. I would respond that I did too, wondering where they worked. They’d just laugh, realizing I was indeed a homeschooler, and therefore clueless. My favorite part about the culture associated with the number three were the large number of mentally retarded passengers that rode it for the first 20 minutes or so that I was on it. The one that most stuck out in my mind would call out in a very loud voice every morning what day it was, what day tomorrow was, what day he got paid on, and sometimes he’d add what yesterday was. I was always in the know on days of the week. The guy who usually sat next to him just continually threw angry glances at the guy in the aisle or the guy in the seat across the aisle, whichever didn’t exist, and made fierce hand gestures and appeared to be picking a fight with his imaginary adversary.

The point is, all this went on around me and entertained me immensely for the first few weeks, but eventually became routine. I therefore slept fabulously through it all, and the funny thing was, I would always wake up about 20-30 seconds before I needed to get off the bus. I don’t know if my body knew how long I could sleep because I’d become familiar with the route, or if it picked up on key sounds like the names of the streets being called out by the driver directly preceding my stop, but whatever it was, it was alarmingly accurate.

Now I do the same thing, with just as little clue as to how it works. I never miss my stop, and I wake up consistently around the same place. This morning was a bit different though, since I’ve been working out I sleep even more soundly. Luckily this time my companion was a mom with two kids, and the little girl, who was absolutely adorable, hit me and woke me up a little bit before I had to get off. That’s the most interesting thing that happens on the train. It costs more so it keeps the colorful characters off, I guess.

I began working out on Tuesday, joining the local community recreational center near my house. I have successfully targeted every muscle in my body, and now fight to suppress the moaning accompanying the aching pain brought on by any movement at all. It’s glorious, and it might just be the motivation I need to quit smoking. This weekend will be a good test to find out.

In other news, I have picked up a cheap book to learn java, and I learned tonight about one of the early inventors who envisioned robotics and artificial life. I read about it in a new book called Edison’s Eve, which I have decided to purchase soon because I verified this piece of information that I found incredible. In the late 1700’s, this French guy Vaucanson created this mechanical duck that mimicked the movement of a duck, ate like a duck, and then secreted what it ate. It had over a thousand moving parts, as many as 400 articulated parts in just the wings, and this device was about the size of a duck. With determination like that, we should have androids that laugh at how simple C3P0 was. Check out the incredible shitting duck here.

Thanks for reading all this stuff, I guess I’ve been holding it all in recently. I think my next trick will be to begin publishing my dream journal in Lesbian Writings, since I thought I was going to put stuff in there, and that never worked out. Please keep writing, I love reading all you guys’ blogs. Take care.