reminded me of chekov's story "at sea". remember that one? guys on a ship, i recall the impression that they are underway, passengers, and they take turns looking in through a porthole window. kinda like what story-telling does, right, allow the reader to become a kind of peeping tom. yeah, that's you, dear reader. freekin perpurt. cutting up apples this morning and it came to me...i failed to generate an estimate for some windows i looked at a week ago, give or take. things happen. the other thing i realized is that i hadn't read bazaar as yet. i did read this one, though...in whatever it came out in. a magazine, right? wait. don't tell me...i'll get it.
...
...not playboy i'd'a remembered that. atlantic? no. ummmm. okay. let's ask the audience.
and funny thing, i think this story generated a dream. when does a dream become a nightmare? coulda been da feet. that's what i'm thinkin. in the dream, a much younger stephen king is standing by a bus, answering questions. his hair is being blown by the wind. then. i notice his feet. fred flintstone feet, big gnarly toenails. see, he raised one foot (bringing attention to da feet) and used the toenails of the one to scratch at the side of the other. i went...ugggh...grimaced...and looked away.
cue the soundtrack. bus rider!