I don't have a car. I have never had a car. I have a bus pass, a backpack, a book, and a Walkman with one working earphone, and for three years I have gotten to almost every show in this town that way.

People think that's sad. Here's what they don't know.

On the bus you see everybody. The nurse coming off a double shift with her shoes in her lap. The old man who talks to the driver every night about the Kings. The kid with a skateboard and a trumpet case going who knows where. The lady who crochets. She's made, I swear, four blankets since I started riding the 30. Nobody on the bus is trying to be anything. They're just going somewhere.

That's what a show is supposed to be, too. Not a scene. Not a fashion thing. Just a bunch of people in the same room going somewhere together for forty-five minutes.

And when the show is over and I'm standing at the bus stop at eleven at night with my ears ringing, sometimes somebody from the show is waiting there too, and we don't know each other, and we ride home together talking about the second band, and by the time I get off, I've got a new friend, or at least somebody to nod to at the next one.

You can't get that in a car. In a car you're just in a car.

So yeah. I take the bus. That's why the zine is called this. Now you know.

— jo