My Next Number Goes Out to the Ladies on the Bus...

I’m sorry to keep dragging you back on to the bus like this, but if you’re going to keep hanging around?

Then I’m going to keep dragging you back. Hey – if I have to ride the bus, so do you.

And if you keep squirming like that? You’re going to get a firm swat.

But not you. I get the feeling that would not be a punishment for you… I saw the look in your eye at the mention of a swatting! Man! I’d never noticed that before, but you’re kind of a pervert, aren’t you?

I’m sorry – what was I blathering on about again?

Oh, yes.

A new lip-syncher has made his way on to the bus, an old-style-pro-wrestler-looking dude in his mid-50s.

You know the kind – shaved head, thick neck, looks like he might have a velvet cape somewhere in his closet?

There he is, fingers a’poppin’, his be-booted foot keeping spastic time with whatever is on his headphones. Seriously, how could anything be in that time signature? I watch his feet, trying to catch the beat. I watch the fingers of his right hand as he plucks at the string of his imaginary bass.

Or could it be an imaginary banjo?

Remember back in the day, when you thought that by the time you reached the age of, oh, 54 or so, that you would acquire some dignity?

Oh, how I wish the woman with the Serious Headphones was here. If I could get both of them in one little cell-phone video, I would risk the disapproving glare of, well, someone, I’m sure.

(Minnesotans are known for their pursed-lip shows of disapproval. Most of us won’t actually say anything, but we’ll openly frown on you! Oh, yes we will!)

Anyway, the lesson I got from this morning’s bus ride?

Today’s message is that you’re never too old to enjoy a hard-rockin’, Live-and-In-Concert, on-the-bus-in-rush-hour fantasy of drivin’ the wimmins wild with your crazy lead-banjo self.

And if you need proof, he’s riding the 17.