Was on the bus today, listening to Pinback, trying to tilt my head into the A/C. The 177 is fine, the 100 is hot and metal. All these buses are the same age. At some point all of them must have all been (relatively) new. I find that a very strange universe. Now they’re stripped down to metal and diesel, running on hustle and the sheer improbability that is Sri Lankan traffic. Lakshmi sits up front, a stream of coins coming from her hand. The olden conductor takes my 10 and gives me some coins I can’t do anything with. I have a phone in my left pocket and and iPod in the right – the metal scratches both of them. I wedge them between the seat and the wall and try not to look suspicious. Nobody respectable takes the bus here. In rush hour they’re verily hellish, but they run all the time and cost like 22 for the A/C from B to C. Still uncomfortable. Arrive at meetings sopping wet and angry. If you drive you just show up angry.
McDonald’s is full so I sit on the bench with Ronald. All I can think about is fucking money. There’s money from Taiwan and money from Virginia and money down the street. It’s not even my money. I actually sold ads for other magazines this month. Now all the old clients are calling me and I just kill time reading Slate and thinking about all the shit I should be doing. Downloaded the entire Cake discography and it’s extra kosher. It’s fucking hot out here. Go inside and order the McRice, sit down and chew my chicken. This is as close as I’ve come to an office. Bangalore comes in and tells me about his column. It looks good. He believes in the Singularity, which is peas in a pod. Banga sounds nice. He says there’s less WiFi than Colombo which me confuse. Apparently the talent is thick as something thick, and that I would like to see. I tell him I’m late and take my leave. Go walk around and get lost for an hour.