Trudging to work is usually unpleasant. My bus is filled with ballerinas and pedestrians who, apparently believing I am an apparition of some kind, try to walk through my back. They are unsuccessful. Inevitably, someone sneezes near you, and that someone loathes the idea of sanitary public space, and you and the back half of the bus catch the spray. If only someone was going to see Gallagher; I would've hid behind their plastic watermelon smock.
Today was that typically agitating bus ride. But, since it's par for the morning at this point, I was able to tune it out with closed eyes, a death grip on the hand rail, and some AC/DC.* I got off the bus feeling top notch, despite elbows to the ribs, a complete lack of clean, unstinky seating, and an aforementioned mucus incident. Sure, it was Tuesday, but it was a good Tuesday. Market Street was alive, bums were polite, my pants were clean. The sun was shining, the flowers were in bloom, the birds were...
...well, the birds were shitting on me.
I was half-way to the office and suddenly, my hand was wet. And discolored. And disgusting. I looked up and, if pigeons could smile, that pigeon smiled, flapped it's bubonic plagued wings, and flew away, doubtlessly to crap on other unsuspecting bystanders.
What's traumatizing is that I'm in Birdmonster and I got shat on by a bird-monster. In the hierarchy of urban fowl, the pigeon is the most despicable, most diseased, stupidest, and lowest ranking member. In other words, the most monstrous. The crow and seagull are next in line: both a little grungy, but weirdly majestic in their own way, while the sparrow, well, everyone loves sparrows. (And just to clarify, no, we did not get our name from pigeons; Birdmonster is actually Peter's Dad's maiden name**) Now, shit happens, pun intended, but I'm disturbed by the scatological congruity: the fact that, semantically speaking, I crapped on myself (although I'm actually proud I know so many fecal synonyms). If a dove would've been the culprit, then: perfect; an angelic bird dropping droppings on a monstrous one. But this? Perturbing.
We've got practice tonight & I'm using the above event to read into it. Our practice will be the shit. Or it will be shitty. I just don't know anymore. The only thing I'm sure of is that I haven't washed my hands so many times before noon in my entire life, so, if you want to smell the Ivory-est paws you've ever smelled, you should stop on by.
*Somehow, screaming Australian men in school boy uniforms is really soothing at 8 a.m. Why? I'm not sure. We have our scientists hard at work on this.
**Apologies to Peter for plagiarizing his joke. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, plagiarism is putting roofies in your drink.