Your place to share stories on and off the bus.
SFist reports on a suspicious missing element on March Fast Passes. The fare increases will be coupled by a hike in the price of the monthly passes beginning in July.
(oh, and when will all you prominent bloggers stop all-capping Muni, eh? it’s not, and never has been, an acronym. the persnickety copy editor in me is talking to you, Greg and Brock. — Jeff)
Former Oakland Tribune reporter Bill Brand has succombed to injuries sustained in a February 8 accident. Brand was hit by the N-Judah near Second and King Streets.
Many of us here at Muni Diaries, in addition to advocating safety in and around Muni vehicles, are journalists or former journalists. We send heartfelt condolences to Brand’s family and friends.
Please be careful out there.
carleighamalin from Twitter (you know her here as CAK) tweeted us the other day to ask the following:
Is it rude to FB friend someone you see on MUNI daily but dont want to actually converse with because I’m a.m. antisocial w/ ipod
We dusted off the ol’ Muni Diaries Magic 8-Ball to arrive at the following:
Facebook users tend to fall into two broad categories: Those who friend (yes, a verb, deal with it) liberally, and those who exercise restraint, thereby limiting themselves to, you know, “friends” who are people they know.
As with other internet traditions, there’s no cut-and-dried, black-and-white answer here. On the one hand, who knows what could come out of this friending, should it occur? On the other, not doing anything surely wouldn’t inhibit the possibility of, oh, say, talking to this someone in person, on the bus, if the opportunity presented itself.
And there’s always that remote possibility that your someone could be reading this right now, and know exactly who you are. And there you’ll have it.
Verdict: Go with your gut.
Why the quotes, Muni?
Meanwhile, check out this awesome “blog” about “unnecessary” quotation marks.
Photo by Bhautik Joshi
The first Muni Diaries pub crawl was a success! Despite some of us forgetting what time the festivities began *points at self*, a nice little group of us met up first at Lucky 13, surrounding a table covered in happy-hour pints, Goldfish crackers, popcorn and Muni Diaries buttons.
From there, we NextBus’d a 22, which we thought we were boarding. The marquis on the bus that pulled up read, “S.F. Muni,” and the driver asked everyone who boarded where they wanted to go. If their desired stop was along the route to (presumably) the Potrero yard, they were allowed gratis entry. Those of us ready to fork over fare lucked out, thanks to this exceedingly generous driver.
From there, we swung over to Dalva, where we happened to bump into Greg from N-Judah Chronicles on his way out. We convinced Greg and his brother to stick around, and they did. We picked up a couple more crawlers at Dalva (which, for the record, is an iPhone 3G and EDGE dead zone, thus the Twitter drop off last night), then proceeded to Mission to await a 14 or 49.
So I’m riding the 6, heading outbound, up Haight Street when i hear this woman having a conversation. She’s young, well-dressed and wearing a pair of dark dark sunglasses. And at first she’s just talking to herself, quietly, saying things like, “I know who you are, I know who you are.” She’s repeating it over and over, rocking from side to side while doing so.
I notice peeps are starting to look around, trying to figure out who she’s talking to, maybe it’s them, maybe it’s herself, it’s tough to say because of those dark glasses. It’s then that the bus makes a stop at Divisadero and a few passengers get on. This guy in a blue button up and navy pants sits in the open seat next to the woman. I see everybody kind of look around at each other, knowing this guy just stepped on a land mine.
The bus driver closes the door and with one big jerk the bus chugs up the hill.
“I know who you are, I know who you are. ” The woman starts rocking again, but this time she turns the guy in the blue shirt and says, “Quit looking at me.” The guy looks puzzled. “What,” he says. “Quit looking at me, you think you know me? I know who you are, I know who you are,” she says.
Then the woman shifts in her seat and starts screaming at the top of her lungs, “Visual Rapist! Visual Rapist! Stop looking at me Visual Rapists!”