Welcome To The Bus Show

Food donor identified!

2005-05-04T00:57:00.000-07:00

I found out about the dude who leaves the food and Jesus pennies at the bus stop. I saw him leave food there. On purpose. He's a big old grizzled dude. The kind of guy you don't want to look too close at, with his leathern skin, his gray shaggy beard, his straw cowboy hat and wraparound shades. Intimidating. He wears a large green duffel bag on his back and carries a black shoulder bag as well. He walks with an aluminum cane. Lately, instead of tuna and crackers, his MO seems to be Vienna Sausages and travel packs of Kleenex.

I wanted to thank him for the time I ate the food he left, but at first I was intimidated. Then one day on my way to the bus stop, I saw him flying a cardboard sign at an intersection. Rather than the usual "'Nam vet. Anything Helps," his cardboard sign said he was giving away poems. He gave me one, which I will now include for your spiritual enlightenment.

Side One: Important background reading

The children who gre up during World War I fought in World War II; the children who grew up in WWII went to Korea and Viet Nam; the children who grew up during Viet Nam nineteen years later went to Desert Storm; Desert Storm's children went to Iraqi Freedom. If the scenarios continue what war will the next group of children fight in and with what technology? From WWI to Desert Storm, from the bombs of WWI to the 'turn the key, push the button,' IBM ballistic missiles of today, we are the Fig Tree generation.

The Parable of the Fig Tree vs. The Re-Birth of Israel in 1948

The old ancient nation called Israel first lost its statehood when King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, moved upon by the Spirit of God, invaded Israel (Judah) around 586 B.C. (Daniel 1:1). And then Israel laid in bondage under seven different oppressors for 2,548 years. Question: When a nation is conquered for 2,548 years does it become a nation again? The re-birth of this ancient nation is not a coincidental act, but rather a prophetic event

Israel is referred to as the "Fig Tree" man times in the Old Testament: Amos 9:14-15; Deuteronomy 28:1 and 30:1-5; Ezekiel 11:17, 20:41-42, 34:15, 36:24-28, 36:33-38; Hosea 9:10; Joel 1:7; Jeremiah 16:14-15, 23:7-8, 31:30-33, 32:37-38; Isaiah 11:11-12, 14:1-3, 43:5-7, 60:21. So, if the Fig Tree is referred to in the Old Testament as Israel, then the Parable of the Budding Fig Tree found in the New Testament is Israel's re-birth in 1948. In the parable found in Matthew 24:32, Mark 13:28 and Luke 21:29, Jesus speaks about His return, and refers to the generation in a concluding manner. That's prophecy, not speaking of the day or hour of His return. In order for prophecies to be fulfilled for the return of Jesus, that generation (see Matthew, Mark, and Luke), must be in two different scenarios simultaneously: Just like the days of Noah (matt. 24:37) and just like the days of Lot (Luke 17:26-30).

Let's look at Noah's generation From Genesis 6:1, the earth had multiplied exceedingly; a population explosion had occurred. From the time that only eight people exited Noah's Ark to the year 1830, mankind re-populated the earth to one billion people. From 1830 to 1930 the population doubled to two billion, and from 1930 to 1965 the population doubled again to four billion... The generation that saw Israel's re-birth in 1948, the earth has multiplied again -- just as in Noah's generation.

The second scenario, Lot's generation. Sodom and Gomorrah is where Lot lived! Fifty years ago you didn't see XXX 25-cent dirty movies called "Adult Entertainment." Today it's everywhere. We live in these kinds of generations today.

How long is a generation? There are many different time periods or years found in different generations in the Bible: Moses generations was 40 years, Daniels' 70 years, Abraham's generation was 100 years and Noah's generation was 120. We are living in a prophetic time of history; the Fig Tree has budded...

I'm not speaking of the end of the world, but of a changing of governments. For Matthew 5:5 says the meek shall inherit the Earth. But the days that saw the Fig Tree bud in 1948 began the beginning of the last generation. Matt. 24:22 explains that those days will be cut short (the days of that generation) for the sake of the elect.

We are that generation!

Thank you for being compassionate (Matt. 22:8-9). May God bless you!! - Jim Bean

Sorry for the length of that, but I don't think it's fair to quote only the sections that stand out as nonsensical.

Now, here's the poem:

"The Story of the Flags"

By Jim Bean II

A poet from Boston Massachusetts

Yeshua (Jesus) of Nazareth and the prophets said that the generation that saw Israel again become a nation would not pass away before all prophecies are fulfilled. Israel raised her flag again in 1948 after 2,500 years in bondage... In 6,000 years of recorded history, humanity has seen under 300 years of PEACE. I start my poem with "the war to end all was," supposedly World War I.

Flags were raise just half the way.
The bands played soldeirs songs to show our pride
For all who died to keep their country STRONG...
Then 25 years of history would pass and the children who grew up during World War I went off to fight in World War II, all over the earth. And again...
Flags were raised just half the way
Bombs fell like thunder storms
We passed the graves
Saw children pray
That Daddy wasn't one.
Five years of history passes, and a conflict called Korea occurs. But again... Flags were raised just half the way.
This time new jets were sent to kill the Reds,
And show the rest that they were somehow safe.
The next conflict would be the longest yet...
And some would claim we passed the flag,
And closed the door when Vietnam grew strong.
The ones who fought and made it back,
Had lost their only home.
After 19 years of history, Saddam Hussein send an army of pain to a peaceful place called Kuwait.
Minds of fear... Many tears...
Cross the seas to set them free!
Battleships, fully dressed.
Yellow ribbons, some regrets,
Letters stained from far away.
Desert Storm, have you gone away?
Conclusion: Keeping in mind the less than 300 years of peace throughout 6,000 years of recorded history, and realizing how technology has grown over the last 45 years, I ponder the next possible war and start with a question.
Flags were raised just half the way?
The biggest bombs now sit in place
Who knows the day when they will say,
Was there a flag that won?

I know. That shit doesn't even rhyme.

Later that same day, I saw him at the North Lamar Transfer Center, seated atop his enormous duffel bag handing out his poem and explaining it to people, preaching on his latest revelations. One guy he was talking to eventually got up and wandered away to catch his bus, and our mad warrior poet stood up and started shaking his fist in the air and yelling, "Damn the man! Damn the man!"

I'm sure his story is an interesting one, but now I'm REALLY afraid to thank him for the tuna.

Why Does It Smell Like Urine Here?

2005-03-31T15:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when sitting at the bench of the North Lamar Transfer Center one detects an odor too familiar out of its own context.

It's piss.

Usually you only smell it in your own bathroom before flushing, a public restroom that needs a cleaning, or when you go to visit your grandparents at the home.

But you don't really expect it sitting in a crowded public open-air space, such as the bus stop.

The first time I noticed it, it was raining. I hypothesized that certainly no one just whipped it out and peed right there at the bus stop at 8 p.m. on a crowded Friday evening. Surely, the falling rain had just unlocked the odor from the previously sun-dried pavement. The urine days, possibly even weeks, old, deposited there at the bus stop at some odd hour of the early a.m., most likely between the hours of 2 and 4.

But about a week later, the sun was shining bright as I sat on the bench eating my miracle tuna. Pissstench was heavy in the air.

I looked around and saw puddles in each corner of the shelter walls.

Yes, people piss at the bus stop in broad daylight, with other people around.

Like, gross.

The Dream Realized

2005-03-31T15:02:00.000-08:00

Years ago in Montgomery, Alabama, Rosa Parks struck a blow for the civil rights movement by refusing to move to the back of the bus.

Thanks to that simple gesture, whites, blacks, Hispanics, and Asians nationwide can sit wherever they want to on the bus so long as they get to the seat first.

Thus I'm exposed to crazy people of all races.

Like the black girl with a slew of Mylar Easter balloons three weeks too soon, who bobs her head as though to music, though she's wearing no headphones, and who yells, "Bitch!" occasionally for no discernable reason at no one in particular.

Except, you know, she sat at the back of the bus -- by choice. And I sat at the front of the bus -- by choice.

Didn't matter. I could still hear her screaming, "This bus trip is taking too long! We better hurry up or my balloons will be all popped by the time I get there!"

Ah, equality.

The other day at the North Lamar Transfer Center, I made eye contact with an older Hispanic fellow.

"How's it going?" I said.

"Alright. How are you?" he replied.

"Pretty good."

"Tsk," he said, nodding in the direction of a chubby young black man with stick straight hair sitting on the bench. I couldn't help but agree the guy was a little odd-looking.

"Yeah, what's his deal?" I said, in the spirit of weirdo-watching camaraderie.

"He's a fucking faggot!"

And that's when I realized that Martin Luther King's vision, his dream, had been realized. That a white man and a Mexican man could come together in racial harmony in common hatred of the homosexuals. That we now live in an age where we are judged not by the color of our skin, but by which hole we use.

Get a job!

2005-03-24T12:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at the bus stop, I was staring off in the distance, waiting for my transportation to appear on the horizon, when that great practitioner of holding a cardboard sign Whiskey Mike walked up beside me and joined me in my stare. And then he spoke - not so much like he was speaking to me, but more like he was speaking alongside me.

"What gives people the right to drive around this town thinking they're better than a motherfucker?" He asked.

The fact that they don't fuck their mothers? I didn't say aloud.

"I've been standing out here five hours and only bummed three dollars," he said. "Maybe if these uppity fuckers would get a job, they could give me more money."

Wiser words have seldom been spoken.

It's a miracle!

2005-03-20T22:27:00.000-08:00

Do you believe in miracles?

I don't.

But...

OK, so yesterday, I walked down to the bus stop after having eaten my last ramen noodles, with my last 50 cents in pocket, ready to go sell some plasma, so I could get a bus ride back home and buy some more ramen noodles.

It's all about food, you see.

So as I was talking on my cell phone to my friend Tim, who's getting ready to head off to jail for six months, I noticed, atop the trash can at the bus stop an unopened pack of peanut butter crackers, one of those ready-lunch packs of tuna fish and crackers, and what at first appeared to be chocolate coins.

On closer investigation, the coins were not chocolate, but rather plastic tokens, bearing the image of a gingerbread man with a big heart shape on his chest that said, "Jesus Warms My Heart".

What was this? Did someone forget their food while getting on the bus? Did someone set their food down atop the trash can while they went somewhere else to kill time before the bus came? Is some Christian making some sort of weird passive-aggressive attempt at charity toward the poor folks who have to ride the bus? Is it possible that this minor food offering was sent by Jesus himself, with fake money left behind as his calling card?

I also considered that the food, still sealed in all its original wrapping, and not in the trash, but atop the trash container, out in the open, was bait.

At the time, I figured mostly that it was left there and forgotten by someone.

So I wasn't gonna touch it.

Unless, you know, the bus showed up and no one had come along to claim it yet.

Then it was mine.

So I had a little snack at the North Lamar Transfer Center, waiting for the other bus I had to take to get to the lab to sell my plasma. Sitting there, on the bench, I ignored the profound urine stench of my surroundings and feasted upon what I now believe to have been some kind of subliminal proselytizing on behalf of a very sneaky Jesus freak.

Later, while drunk, I also considered that maybe it was an honest-to-goodness miracle. Something in the vein of water-to-wine, fishes and loaves.

But then I realized I don't believe in that stuff.

Whoever set that stuff out there. Thanks. It was tasty.

It's so sad...

2005-03-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

It's so sad some of the people you see on the bus. Like this one lady yesterday. Imagine someone painting up their bulldog to look like a 60-year-old goth hooker, then kicking that dog so many times that it just cowers in fear anytime someone walks by. That's how this one lady looked. With the big sad eyes and hanging jowls, inch-thick application of pancake makeup, and smeared purple lipstick. No one should have to go around looking like that.

What? Too real?

2005-03-12T00:52:00.000-08:00

These two gorgeous girls got on the bus downtown today.

The first one was Latina, I think, because of her smooth dark hair, because of her soft dark skin and because of her orange tank top that said, "Who doesn't like a spicy Latina?" on it. You know, one of those kinda girls.

Her friend: a living Barbie doll. Blonde. Long legs. Huge breasts. Young. Pretty.

This sight alone was enough to attract a passenger boy's attention. But then came the guy with the camera. And then came the guy with the boom mic. And then came the guy with the afro. And then came the lady with the headset.

The sex kittens took their places in one row of sideways reserved-for-the-handicapped seats while the film crew took up the row facing them across the aisle.

Some guy behind me starts sputtering, "Shouldn't they get my permission before they can come on the bus and film me?"

I didn't bother to say, "Shut up, ugly. No one's taking a picture of you. The lens is clearly pointed at those girls, and for good reason. They might start making out with each other any second. If we're lucky."

Instead, I lean forward to the guy in the seat in front of me to say, "What the fuck is going on?"

"I think it's The Real World. They're filming in Austin this season."

"Oh. Are you sure it's not for that one new show, 'Two Hot Chicks On A Bus'?"

He laughed politely and before Barbie could put her soft hand up Spicy Lattie's mini-skirt, the bus came to a stop.

Strangely enough, I don't even think they were talking. They were just, sitting there. While people pointed cameras and microphones at them and a woman in a headset jotted notes.

They were just sitting there when the bus driver stood up from his seat and moved towar the two girls. He said not a word, but his violent hand gestures said it all. "Get your bimbo asses off the goddamned differently-abled seat and sit over there. What the fuck are all these assholes with all this equipment even doing on my bus?"

He then folded the seat against the wall and began tugging free the 300-plus yards of seatbelt required to strap a wheelchair down.

And it without saying: If bimbo asses must vacate the goddamned differently-abled seats, then all those assholes with all that equipment would have to clear the fucking aisle.

So the crew came to the back of the bus. And somebody asked the guy with the boom mic what they were doing.

"A documentary," he stated.

"What's it called?" I asked.

"I can't tell you."

"I think you should call it, 'Two Hot Chicks On A Bus.'"

He laughed politely and departed the bus with the other crew members, following hand signals from the lady with the headset.

"I can't tell you"?

Great, asshole. I won't watch it, then.

In fact, I hope he was with The Real World. And I hope they can't use shit from the bus footage. And, most importantly, I'm glad I got to see a handicapped person disrupt two pretty girls' moment of undeserved glory.

Fuck MTV.