It's such a familiar scene. You've had a torturous day at work; you can't believe it's not actually a full moon, because the crazies are out in force, thought at least they provide a diversion from the customers with the IQ of a mitten. The networks were slow, the air conditioning was on the fritz, and you've a splitting headache. After nine hours you finally make your way out of the office with a glazed expression and collapse gratefully into your bus seat, looking only to lose yourself in the pulpy trash escapist novel you've been saving for this purpose until you can get home and tip fermented beverages down your throat. You open it up and have barely read two sentences when a voice interrupts. "Good book?" "I'm sorry?" you say, not sure where the voice is coming from or if it is directed at you. "Is it a good book?" asks the guy seated in front of you. You barely notice what he looks like. You don't care. You've bee