Your place to share stories on and off the bus.
It’s almost poignant. Definitely peaceful. And practically a perfect Christmas message.
Then you learn that an army of buses came to sleep in the lot at Stockton and North Point at 6:30 on a Tuesday evening, and, in keeping with the emotions and thoughts that Muni typically leaves us with, you wonder, WTF?
… and to all a good night.
I boarded an articulated 14-Mission last week, and purely for shits and giggles, I chose to sit in the accordion section. One of the two-seaters was open, so I figured, why not?
Immediately across from me was a man of indeterminate age and mental ability. He could very well have been 32 and mentally retarded or 54 and blitzed off his rocker. One thing was for sure — he wasn’t like the rest of us.
But he was relatively clean. The warning sign for me was his incessant chewing of the cud, a systematic gyrating forward and backward of his lips and jaws.
After my initial curiosity and observation, I let my eyes wander. But they were drawn back in an instant when I noticed something emerging from the man’s nose. It didn’t quite look like snot or mucous (what’s the difference, anyway?), but more like spittle. It fell in a clean line over and down his top lip toward his mouth, stopping just about at that line where lips meet face.
Until the store in Pier 39 of the same name (Only in San Francisco) starts selling Eau de Urine parfum and employs a yelling, angry schizophrenic mascot, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit on their choice moniker.
Favorite thing overheard on the 49 last night:
“I’m just doing this until I get into in clown school in January.”
If you’re wondering, “this” is living in a work-here-and-get-free-room-and-board hotels off Van Ness. (I thought those were whorehouses?)
Anyway, many in SF (and in many major city) seem to be in a state of flux. I’m only doing this until I get into grad school. I’m working as a barista because I got laid off. I had a high-stress job, now I’m working on my writing and taking it easy. But I wonder how many other people around the world hear “clown school” in relation to a career on their ride home.
Maybe that Only in San Francisco store can start selling clown attire for the budding painted-person-entertainment industry.
-Tara
Rode a 49 down Mission the other day for the first time in a month or so, and I noticed that the stretch between 16th and Cesar Chavez has actually gotten worse. It’s like kids have been out there with pickaxes, tearin’ shit up.
Perhaps the Obama administration’s infrastructure-stimulus plan can start right here in the heart of the Mission. I am now officially unemployed, and would love to get all Habitat for Humanity, only on road repair. Sign me up!
So I boarded a 49-Van Ness the other evening, with Gida, my 12-pound Boston Terrier, stowed safely in her bag. I paid my double-fare, per SFMTA regulations, and kindly asked the driver for an extra transfer. One “for my dog,” I said.
“Huh,” he answered, incredulous and condescending.
“Can I get a transfer for my dog? She’s in this bag.” I said, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“You don’t need that,” he said, as if I were new to this routine. Clearly, it was the other way around.
“Well, I’ve been asked several times for a transfer for her. I’m paying fare for her.”
At which point he begrudgingly handed me the transfer.
So, I refer this driver (and you, dog-owning Muni rider) to SFMTA’s rules concerning traveling with pets:
Maybe, since I’m now unemployed, I can get some side work schooling Muni operators on their agency’s rules.
Time for another incredulous installment of “is this you?”
I could smell your whiskey as soon as you stepped on the bus, you referred to the Latino driver using the ever-condescending “amigo!” and you sit like an asshole. I know the bus wasn’t full, but that’s no excuse.
Jackass.