Right, that was three hours of doing more or less absolutely nothing. Not bad.

Bit of trivia #<?=rand(0,99)?>: Sobe Adrenaline is cheaper in Madison than Chicago. Along with gas. But the hypnotists are better.

Now that I think of it, this should probably be called ‘Adventures in Public Transit’, rather than whatever it’s titled.

But that aside. I showed up at the Cumberland Greyhound station at 7:30 Saturday morning, as per instructions on the ticket. Be at the stop no later than one hour before scheduled departure. … I now know that to be a nasty trick. The Cumberland station doesn’t even open until eight, and the buses are late anyway.

Hour and a half to Chicago, which isn’t bad. Though, along with the Cumberland Scheme, I think Greyhound plants at least one middle-age-or-older rambling male on each bus. I got to sit next to one. He was older, but a reasonably nice fellow. He just felt the need to talk about his life to this random youngster that took the seat next to him. Also to cough up stuff into a conveniently placed (but otherwise ordinary) grocery bag. His parting comments went something like this:

My father, you know, he had his 59th anniversary in November. I’m from Madison, originally. Well, a long time ago. He died the next day. I went up there, missed the funeral by three hours. And well, it was too cold for this body, I went to the hospital for two weeks.

Then I went back to Texas.

A nice guy. But… heh. Yeah.

That aside, Matthew picked me up at the Milwaukee station upon arrival. And off to the bustling, modern, under-construction UW-Madison campus to see Ben and the rest.

There was this Italian restaurant on State Street (State Street, Goldsworthy!). Za’s, I think? There were no waiters in suits – guests filled out scantron forms, handed them to the cashier, and waited for the order to be filled. Really incredibly efficient; can’t believe I’ve never seen that done before.

And shopping and such. I won’t bore you with details. Though Ben shared the wisdom of the UW Badger Buddy political-correctness-thinger, which included this on the subject of “fags”. Parental warning, and I’m sorry that I’m even including this (which is a lie, yes), but it’s hilarious…

“Fag” – do not say this. It is offensive to homosexuals, though its contemporary meaning has evolved from its original usage. In medieval times, a “fag” referred to a group of homosexuals tied together, “bundled”, and lit on fire for the sole purpose of lighting an unrelated convicted person at the stake, as one might use kindling.

Thus, one might have used the word as follows: “Hast thou lit the fag?” “Nearly – mine peon hast not yet lashed it tightly.” “Hasten thee, the execution is already late!”

Needless to say, this is horribly, horribly wrong… I’ve paraphrased (heh), but that was the gist of it. Again, apologies for including that.

Anyway. Anyway anyway.

Frederick Winters served as entertainment for the evening, reportedly as America’s leading hypnotist. And he was good. One of the fraternities on campus brought in a hypnotist during rush week, but Winters put that act to shame by taking the spotlight off himself and putting it onto his (utterly clueless… heh) volunteers. Rather than clearly defining a situation (“You are a dog. *snigger”), he gave the subjects a loose set of boundaries and let their imaginations fill in the gaps.

Which was cool. There is no sight quite like a hypnotized woman taking the microphone away from the hypnotist, then beat-boxing so her poodle Fifi (who was a guy, yes) could break-dance.

Favorite line came from one of four guys who sang an dramatic operatic rendition of Happy Birthday to someone from the crowd.

Hypnotist: Wow, and how long have you been singing opera?
Guy: Oh, ha, 80 years.
Hypnotist: And how old are you?
Guy (without hesitation): Thirteen!

The trip back was less eventful. Or perhaps not, I guess. Bus stations have some interesting people in them. A black guy, for example, with three kids. Who needed change for a phone call and money for bus fare. His story: the courts had just awarded him custody for his kids after his ex-wife had been incarcerated for crack cocaine use, and he now apparently had to go somewhere. One of the kids threw up shortly after the story.

And another fellow (black again… blasted racial stereotypes) asked me for a phone so he could call someone. And yeah, I let him. One, there were plenty of people in the station – he couldn’t pull anything. I think. Two, he didn’t look dangerous. Not a trustworthy conclusion, I know, but still. Three, I was taller. It helps.

He called his grandmother. Asked her if she was making dinner. What she was making for dinner, and if there would be enough for him. And, by the way, would it be alright if he stayed for three days or so.

sigh

Anyway. Sum point of the trip: I now have sunglasses. And it was great to see Matt/Ben again.

/me grabs a Sobe