These are the rest of the ill-fated Indianapolis trip. The price for that pale son of a bitch hot dog should have been a warning. I do enjoy Greyhound, though. I like being on the bus at night, the only one awake. Seeing a red dot that might be a Coke machine a half-mile away at a gas station. Horatio Salt told me before I left that there are always bus stories. Richard Matheson wrote a few, his ownself.
I'm still getting notes about my head. Its OK right now, earlier I had a screaming headache, and I don't even want to talk about yesterday. As long as I don't get double-vision, I'm cool. After the contusions in my head after the accident in 1989, I described the headaches as like having a twisty nail hammered into my head, yanked out, then punched in just...a...little...bit deeper. This wouynd here, its cake. Not good cake, mind you.
5 comments:
I've only ridden a bus once late at night, on a long trip. But I know what you mean.
Something about bus trips in America puts me in touch with the truth of the country: the space, the distances, our vast economic underclass. Yeah, Greyhound rocks...
Take care of yourself, Wayne. You're in charge of some precious American cargo, dude.
Damn...Wish I could have been there, Wayne.
Off-topic:
Another kind of "Psycho"
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