I'm easily tricked before noon.

In the early morning I was tricked into getting excited by a false railroading tramp. In my defense, I am never entirely at my best in the mornings, mostly because I never allow enough time to properly wake myself up before I shuffle out of the house. Being anti-breakfast, I used to allow only 15 minutes from my bed to the drivers seat of my damned and unreliable vehicle.

I shudder to acknowledge that my efficiency has decreased chronologically until I now need 30 whole minutes. However, since my beautification routine has gone unaltered I’m pretty sure that I spend that extra 15 minutes either pressing snooze or making sandwiches. My old roommates used to remark that I had a certain “sleep face” for the first hour following getting out of bed that involved swollen eyes and an expression of general distaste. In hindsight, this may have just been a nice way of saying that my head looks weird before I put my glasses on, but I'm digressing.

So anyway, this morning I was sitting at a stoplight on my way to work when a young fellow dashed between the gleaming white mass of my car and the truck in front of me, making his way into the train-yard on the right side of the street. I observed his departing form against the backdrop of the boxcars: flannel shirt, knapsack, and dirty sneaks.

Now I’ll admit that I’m predisposed to thinking about hitching rides in boxcars. Not for myself, obviously, since I’m not into being rattled about and smokin’ tabaccy. But I did recently venture with my quite obliging boyfriend to Jack London’s cabin, and I read The Road (his tract on all things hobo-ing and devious) in preparation.

So I’m watching this kid walk off and I’m thinking to myself, “This guy is certainly about to hop on the underside of this train and see America in some fit of anti-capitalist idealism, getting jailed for vagrancy and joining populist armies all Jack-London-style.”

When I passed him it turned out that he was carrying a gourmet iced coffee beverage with a mighty dollop of whip cream, so I might determined that I was probably mistaken. I’m always disappointed when a possible tramp turns out to be a pointedly disheveled youth.

In other news, today I made a massive commitment to my traitorous car and bought one of those little tape-player-converter things. I know, I know, I’m about 10 years late in electronic trends. But until recently I abstained almost entirely from driving, so I was never particularly concerned with entertaining myself in route. But now I can play my little not-Ipod MP3 thinger to my hearts content.

ALSO. I’m reading Sarah Vowell’s newest book, and I am ashamed to say while it’s good, it’s not nearly sappy enough. I was utterly entranced by her complete obsession with Lincoln in Assassination Vacation, as showcased in her lengthy speculations about how it would feel to cradle the weight of holding Lincoln’s bleeding head as he died.

This newest one is mainly facts with a generous sprinkling of very good zingers. Explanations blaming the uninteresting puritans as the crippling factor in this comparision will be firmly ignored.