Monday, September 22, 2008

Monday PM

Getting home via bus is a little like trying to fly from the Portland,
ME to San Diego on Southwest. Every bus goes one leg of the route you
want to go, and after 3 or 4 transfers you eventually get there. After
a 30 minute wait the 30 stopped at market, the 45 just before the
Stockton tunnel, the 30 at Union and hopefully a 45 will take me up
the hill and home. Summer seems to be making an encore and it would be
nice to watch the sunset over the Gate.

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Friday, September 19, 2008

Friday AM

The 45 was nowhere to be seen this morning so I am on the 41, staring
in complete fascination and anticipation of horror as a woman applies
a full face of make up complete with eyelash curler and eyebrow
tweezing. The bus driver is anything but smooth with the gas and break
pedals but she carries on like an old pro, not the least bit concerned
she might gouge her eye out with any of her tools. She completes the
task in time for her stop avoiding all incidents with the exception of
an eyeliner smear that was promptly corrected.
The sun is out already and it looks to be a splendid day.

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Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Wednesday PM

Someone has taken the liberty of setting the contents of the trashcan
at the bus stop on fire.

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Wednesday AM

There is a man with a copy of Living Buddhism magazine. The topic of
the month is "What is Happiness?". He alternates reading with a
furrowed brow and making brief phone calls to yell at someone and
glancing anxiously around the bus over the top of his designer shades.
There is absolutely no sun out.

Captain buddha aside I enjoy the serenity of these early morning bus rides.
No pink sacks, no live animals, no spitting swearing or crowded
streets with suicidal homeless wandering out into traffic. Its quite
pleasant.

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Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Tuesday AM

South of market st the bus driver stops at a light that is threatening
to turn yellow. Twice. I have never witnessed this sort of behavior
before from a MUNI employee. Usually they gun the engine horn blaring,
often through red lights neverminding the yellow. The driver is not
the most genial soul I have ever come across so this probably is not
out of concern for our wellbeing, nor is the driver of an advanced age
where such tactics are to be expected. My hypothesis is that this
driver has gotten one too many tickets and has the paranoia; or the
city has installed red light cameras at the aforementioned
intersections that I failed to note.

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Friday, September 12, 2008

Friday AM

This morning resulted in a detour on the 41 to the T to Sunnydale. The 41 was exceptionally dull. The T is usually another story. Sunnydale, unlike the place of a similar sounding name - Sunnyvale, home to the quagmire known as Yahoo! - is in a less savory part of San Francisco and the average morning ride includes a couple of stocking-capped gang members grabbing their crotches, looking a tweaked and commuting to an ass capping party or someother event that requires a team jacket.

A gentleman who, based on his track suit, cap and glasses, is evidently under the impression that he is Sameul L. Jackson hopped up on meth decides that we are going to be friends, possibly even lovers. The dialouge ends with him promising to consider looking into getting a job so he can take me some place real nice. I want to recommend he shut down the lab and invest the money he spends on sudafed in some toothpaste but my contribution to the conversation was simply "Hunh? Oh sorry. I thought you were asking me for directions."


Verizon and Google appear to be in some sort of snit with Google refusing to publish posts.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Tuesday AM

Opting to take the 41 and transfer to MUNI to procure coffee on the
way to work from a place marginally more efficient than the Brick
House. There are seldom any outright crazy people on this bus but the
love child of Patick Bateman and Buffalo Bill is here today. Based on
his leather brief case he probably works in finance or law and he
wears a very well tailored suit and has a pointy nose and cold hard
grey eyes that seem to have no soul behind them. Fairly certain he is
looking for people with good skin to wear as a hat later based on the
way he eyeballs each matron that boards not with a look of lust and
desire but with a critical sizing eye.

The beauty of the 41, aside from its lack of routing through Chinatown
is that there is a constant turnover of people as the bus heads
through downtown. One woman is hunched over looking like she might
puke but really she is trying to have a private conversation on her
phone and she keeps looks around trying to assess if anyone is paying
attention. . One suggestion: if you want to talk on the phone and have
no one hear, the BUS during rush hour probably isn't the best place
for that call.

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Monday, September 8, 2008

Monday AM

The guy swho has chosen me, yes lucky me, as his seatmate smells like
he bathed in a spitoon and then dry rubbed himself with Drum tabacco
for added effect. I must have wandered onto the bus at a nonregulation
time since I recognize no one. This crowd seems mostly caltrain bound
based on the disaffection in everyone's eyes. Oh there might be a
touch of Kodiak menthol in the air. I may vomit.

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Thursday, September 4, 2008

Thursday AM

The iPhone isn't just a shiny toy for dad - its also an excellent chew
toy for junior! Dad, unprepared for removal of saliva from the usb
port, is trying to fashion his tie into an effective absorbing tool.
Schools around the area are back in session this week which means a
slight decline in the average age of the morning commuter as parents
take their kids to the first few days. This novelty wears off rather
quickly as the average age will return to its seasonal norm by
mid-month.

The bus is overflowing, its hot and none of the windows are open. I
would remedy this if I could reach over the cadre of 8 year olds whose
parents have lost interest in ensuring they get to school. Something
is consuming the air with the yeasty smell of a brewery and I cannot
identify which pink sack is the culprit.


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Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Wednesday AM

7:15 AM 41. The last of the financial district stragglers are going to
work which means a lot of suits, copies of the Wall Street Journal and
Tory Burch flats. Tory Burch flats displease me with their large gold
medallion that consumes the entire toe of the shoe. Suspiciously
absent are the girls with the out of control hand bag volume to body
size ratio. I am as guilty as anyone of carrying a purse that can hold
a small Zulu village but never more than one at any given time. Some
of the FiDi girls rocks 2 or 3 simultaneously.

This crowd differs from the standard 45 demographic who typically read
the San Francisco Examiner and includes a minimum of one person who
thinks we all want to listen to crappy house music via their
headphones. Fortunately the token tourist who has no idea where they
want to go is on the bus. The bus driver must either be new or on some
new pills cause she is both helpful and courteous telling everyone to
enjoy the weather. MUNI transfer time.

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Monday, September 1, 2008

Monday PM

The BART between the East Bay and the city used to be a part of my
weekly ritual. I was used to the drone of the tracks and the carpeted
seats and floor, signs indicative of the belief that the feet and buns
of Bay Area residents are too good for plastic. The late night BART
police making the rounds at West Oakland in search of delinquents and
the loser stoner with the skateboard that would wander car to car
swearing he just needed one more dollar to make his fare. Few people
make eye contact and many rest drooling on the glass. One guy gave me
a nice hunk of kind once. Someone is always wearing too much leather
on a hot day and someone else is always too ambitious in their plans
to relocate an art installation via public transit.

I almost miss my connection at West Oakland. This is the tipping
point. The scene goes from urban to ghetto and vice versa depending on
if you are going east or west. A mall security guard who also is
employed at the guitar center is discussing the benefits of bike
helmets with a local cyclist who probably participates in critical
mass. Stupid activists. The guard likes to procure musical instruments
on the cheap for his friends but he doesn't tell the guitar center -
apparently they think he is a one man band.

There is a disproportionate number of dreadlocks on the BART. Burning
Man refugees come home perhaps. I am actively trying to avoid eye
contact with the cycling girl - the security guard has left and she is
looking for someone to discuss battery powered headlights with.

Off to catch a bus

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