tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2447955730414867312024-02-18T19:35:33.766-08:00LA MTA DiaryI ride the buses and trains of the MTA in Los Angeles most days. These are some of the interesting people and places I come into contact with. I hope you find them and some of the occasional transit news I post interesting too.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-92205709469203040972016-10-26T13:39:00.000-07:002016-10-26T13:44:29.220-07:00Off The RailsSaw the trailer for this movie and thought people who might come by this here blog would be interested.<br />
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http://www.offtherailsmovie.com<br />
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From the website:<br />
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<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 26px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">OFF THE RAILS</em> tells the remarkable true story of Darius McCollum, a man with Asperger’s syndrome whose overwhelming love of transit has landed him in jail 32 times for impersonating New York City bus drivers and subway conductors and driving their routes.</div>
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As a boy in Queens, NY, Darius found sanctuary from school bullies in the subway. There he befriended transit workers who taught him to drive trains. By age 8, he memorized the entire subway system. At 15, he drove a packed train 8 stops by himself, making all the stops and announcements.</div>
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Over the next three decades, Darius commandeered hundreds of trains and buses, staying en route and on schedule, without ever getting paid. He attended transit worker union meetings, lobbying for better pay and working conditions for a union he didn’t belong to.</div>
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Although Darius has never damaged any property or hurt anyone in his decades of service, he has spent 23 years in maximum security prison. Darius’ recidivism embodies the criminal justice system’s failure to channel the passions of a harmless, mentally challenged man into a productive career and purposeful life.</div>
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humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-20519071959415288622013-11-12T08:43:00.000-08:002013-11-12T08:43:17.628-08:00fear and loathing of transitioncustody battles make grown men weep, send sensible kids into screaming fits and thrashes emotions around like a pack of wild dogs with still-kicking, live prey in its grip. judges assigned to the impossible task of neutrality often lean towards the mother under the often faulty assumption that each parent holds the childrens' best interests at heart. even with such leanings, only a truly disastrous father is kept away completely. when the parents really do have the kids' best interest in mind and only have problems with one another, the judge may order some sort of trickery, asking each parent to ask each child individually which parent they'd choose. at a young enough, tender enough age, what choice does the child have but to lie and tell each parent she or he is the preferred one? when each parent reports back the conflicting answers, joint custody is awarded, at least in my particular case.<br />
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joint custody has its benefits. there is no feeling of abandonment, relationships continue on relatively uninterrupted and, with no access to weekday friends on the weekend, sibling rivalry intensifies. the most awkward aspect of this weekday-with-mom-weekend-with-dad arrangement is friday. before the kids can drive, the transfer of them has to be arranged. since the parents clearly do not want to see each other, more clever methods of transfer had to be devised. for me, it was saxophone lessons friday after school. i'd hop on the bus after school to go downtown for my lesson and my dad would pick me up when i was done, no risk of even accidental parental face time, all under the guise of nurturing my love for the worst saxophone music in the world, school band music.<br />
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lugging my instrument from my locker to the bus stop was embarrassing enough, but enough school books, school supplies and some clothes for the weekend would be stuffed into a too-small duffle, strapped to some part of my body like an army pack, smacking my saxophone case with every other step. i know at least some school kids laughed at me, but that was nothing compared to the five blocks i'd have to trudge downtown from the bus stop to my saxophone teacher's apartment. nicely dressed strangers on break or perhaps even leaving their cushy office jobs stared at me, wondering not how on earth parents could let their child wander around alone, but how could this husky-pantsed child endure such weight. was this some sort of corporal punishment all chinese inflicted on their kids? did you know they take their shoes off right when they get in the door too? and have you tried the orange chicken at chang's? under the weight of all those weekly stares, for the first time in my life, i preferred the homeless to the homed. at least they understood both the need and feeling of a human playing the role of pack mule.<br />
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though there were probably reasons besides the embarrassment of the trip to lessons, i eventually gave up the saxophone. however, the need to transfer from mom's to dad's did not stop. my trips downtown on the bus continued. some friday afternoons were spent in the library, soaking up chess books and science fiction while pretending to understand what quarks were. other fridays i'd be in the $2 matinee wondering how in the hell rambo could be in the movie <i>rhinestone</i>. and yet other fridays, my dad would check me in to the nebraska department of revenue building, where text-only computer baseball surrounded by stacks of very wide green and white striped printer paper would occupy me for a couple of hours before a trip to the ice cream stand and the drive to my dad's.<br />
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on one of these bus trips downtown, i even made friends. one of my sister's classmates saw us and came over to talk to her. we ended up on the high school magazine for a year before being regular attendees of shows on the local music scene together and me helping him with his fish tank cleaning business. eventually, i was his best man, an honor i would have returned if not for the drive-through nature of my wedding.<br />
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eventually, these bus rides ended. my dad met an untimely death just after my 13th birthday and jaunts downtown to hang out with the sophistication of both big money and downtrodden lincoln, nebraska had to wait until i could drive. by then, i was playing the bass, thinking my musical talent only needed long hair and hobo clothes to be cultivated and that the college kids would be more appreciative of such things than my highschoolmates. i only ended up playing one gig and in a town where coaching football is a qualification for federal office, my counterculture appearance only made others repeatedly mistake me for a woman or pawnee indian. after two fine years of driving displacing bus-riding, it was off to the east coast for college, where there were only my own two feet and the t.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-72636800234460625882013-03-14T09:00:00.000-07:002013-03-14T09:00:01.460-07:00fear and loathing of vegetable oili wasn't alone in my desire to withhold money from the oil
companies. most who had taken up the cause of the boycott, even those of us who converted to public transportation for commuting, would still drive occasionally. by the middle of the decade following 9/11, people had
re-discovered that the diesel engine was actually meant to run
on peanut oil and modern diesels could do so again with only minor modifications. soon, every fucker with a trust fund and a trucker
hat who had heard the letters d i y and whose time wasn't already taken by some other conscience project was in the market for a converted diesel. i got swept up in the vegetable oil
revolution and got me one, sans trucker hat.<br />
<br />
while the satisfaction from outsmugging every prius driver i saw with "still runs on gas, asshole" was great, free fuel
was the real objective, that grand notion that you could go from l.a.
to s.f. on what kfc threw out last night*. securing this free oil required dealing with sleazy restaurant managers, assessing the quality
of the received product, ensuring that rules skirted are not exposed
and all manner of other activity similar to buying drugs in an
unfamiliar city. but even after finding and laying claim to an oil source, turf wars could ensue.<br />
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the vegetable oil revolution had
taken such firm footing in silver lake, heart of hipsterville, that presumably precious land was housed a used car lot dealing in converted
vehicles. once acquired, these cars had to be fed; and owners competed for
feed. in these weird vegetable oil contests, attrition was usually the winning strategy. as the weak and undetermined falter in their attempts at
refining and otherwise have their spoiled temperaments bored, they eventually give up. this was verified with glee in
craigslistings reading "wvo system for free" accompanied with a
location too close to the restaurant not to be the vanquished. unfortunately, this was also the first sign that the diy vegetable oil revolution would be short-lived, as any movement counting on the attention span of combatants so easily thwarted can only be doomed.<br />
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even for the victors of such battles, things were not easy. making the weekly pick-up rounds was invigorating at first, a sense of purpose satisfied. as with any responsibility, it eventually became grating and tiresome, especially when your wife has a weekly date with lonely kitchen staff because the hours available for pick-up were during my day job's work hours. even if i could take my mind off any potential misbehavior there, perfecting the refining process took many iterations, each one painfully accompanied by a call to aaa and a trip to the mechanic. and if even that wasn't enough, a garage full of hoses, pumps and weird interconnected containers full of weird liquid was easily mistaken for a potentially explosive reaction from a distance. the parallels with illicit drugs in unfamiliar places continued.<br />
<br />
when gas
reached $4.25/gal again, my suppliers were no longer content with the
free oil-hauling service i was providing. others were offering cash. solar panels and electric cars were now
cheap enough so i traded vegetables in for the sun. others also
abandoned the vegetable oil revolution. trucker hats gave way to spandex jeans
and energy independence got lost in talks of occupying something
or other. though diy vegetable oil may be dying because it's just too hard for its idealistic practitioners, biodiesel, especially in places like brazil, will carry their flag into the future.<br />
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so long, old friend. and thanks for the memories.<br />
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* -- something i actually managed to do once, albeit not with stuff from kfc. that shit'll fuck up your engine if you don't have serious chemicals to treat it with.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-20921755184175861452012-11-15T01:38:00.000-08:002012-11-15T01:38:17.250-08:00free transit?here's an interesting article on a couple of <a href="http://www.theatlanticcities.com/jobs-and-economy/2012/10/what-really-happens-when-city-makes-its-transit-system-free/3708/#">experiments in free mass transit</a>. i have absolutely no delusions that such a thing could work for los angeles. but that it works at all anywhere gets the brain-wheels turning, don't it?humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-84235374561316912702012-10-30T09:25:00.000-07:002012-10-30T09:25:51.804-07:00fear and loathing in the driver's seatthe endless loop of a municipal bus driver's route is enough to drive one mad. this sisyphean task is almost interesting the first few times, but the eventual redundancy of the route, meaningless "good morning"s and countless explanations of the fare structure pounds the senses so dull, it makes an opium-den look perky. add the occasional raving, psychopath's behavior and the frequent raging, sociopath's driving that surrounds a typical bus driver and little room is left for sanity. as if the cultural hostility towards the bus weren't enough, the anti-transportation folks exhibit street-level hostility when they drive, honking when the bus makes a stop, cutting it off when it tries to merge back in and passing with dangerous speed and expeditious intent nullified by a red light or the stop sign at the next intersection.<br />
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coping with all this hostility is primarily achieved by taking the occasional power trip. when people don't give a handicapped person a seat, the bus driver pulls over. when passengers don't stand far enough behind the yellow line, the driver stops again. this one negotiating lever is all it takes to go from being the shithead driving that hulking tank that's in everyone's way to god. the peer pressure that coerces the sober into drug use can not compare to the rage an entire bus can bring down on someone who holds up the already slow and stop-filled trip. bus drivers have little in their repertoire other than this to whip pesky bus riders into shape. luckily, its use is rarely needed.<br />
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another primary coping mechanism is commiserating with riders. thanks to the "unnecessary conversation with driver is prohibited" sign, i always worry that the weaving in and out of rush hour traffic takes too much concentration and discussion of which toys a particular rider is buying for his child for the party in the park their entire extended family of 60 is coming to will cause an accident. as yet, no such misfortune has happened while i've been riding. the only time i've had to get off a bus and wait for a replacement to show up was when the wheelchair lift strained too hard to lift an obese rider and prevented the door from shutting.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-15548952861740529342012-10-26T09:18:00.000-07:002012-10-26T09:18:09.834-07:00fear and loathing of greedit was the early 80s. unadulterated greed was sweeping the country in unprecedented fashion and those who weren't good at it were being dispatched into unemployment, poverty and homelessness with ruthless efficiency. urban cores all throughout the country were decimated by job losses brought on by ever-cheaper offshore labor. those good at being greedy celebrated and flaunted their status, snorting enough cocaine to keep the cartels' armories better stocked than the colombian government's. this drug-addicted wealthy class and an otherwise idle lower class busying themselves supplying the wealthy addicts combined for more violence than the u.s. had seen on its own soil since the civil war. amazingly, the violence was contained almost exclusively to the suppliers.<br />
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the initial currency for the costs of this class warfare appeared to be inner-city, lower class lives. it became clear later that the economic experiments being conducted here had spread all throughout the globe and infected all facets of life. the iran-contra scandal displayed the immense international reach of this purest greed ever conceived, a gigantic machine chewing whole countries up and spitting them out with a smile on its face and a wink in its eye. sons were selling out fathers and brothers, even mothers and sisters to get in on the fancy clothes, hard charging parties and sheer euphoria of seeing some number on a slip of paper from the broker get ever larger, convinced the consequences were inconsequential.<br />
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as a child in his formative years, i couldn't get over just how uninteresting it all appeared. how did so much money lead to so little taste? the clothes, the yachts, the hair, the golf courses, the jewelry, interviews with robin leach, it all screamed of an early retirement gone wrong, one of imaginations so starved in the pursuit of wealth that inspiration for how to spend newfound idle time came only from elderly grandparents. i had no interest in any of this, a life polished so clean that feathered pubic hair sounded plausible next to ass bleaching.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every Time I Tried to Windmill</td></tr>
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while most kids were rebelling against their parents, i was busy rebelling against all these fuckers who idolized "dynasty." i would collect junk from construction sites, piling them in a box in the garage, treasuring them for some eventual use my genius would uncover. i would skateboard through tunnels my friends told me were storm drains, without being able to shake the feeling they might have been for sewage. i thought breakdancing and graffiti were the most mind-blowing art forms ever created, my injury-addled attempts cementing the rock steady crew's place in my hero pantheon. and while it was obvious the "dynasty" lovers had no moral code, none of them declared their atheism as proudly as i did. i'm sure the irony of a chinese boy virtually practicing communism while growing up in a family moved to nebraska to escape it wasn't lost on everyone. in this drive to find the most despised things, i found them in the usual places greed detested, places of government -- libraries, parks, schools, streets and, of course, public transportation.<br />
<br />la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-50077337264577780232012-10-23T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-23T09:00:00.197-07:00fear and loathing of divorceit was lincoln public schools's 1985 winter break. already disadvantaged by poor english and being of color in snow white nebraska, my mother was spending this normally festive time alone. in one of many common but strange twists divorce proceedings take, the parent that "wins" joint custody weekdays, already relegated to most of the responsibility and little of the fun of child-rearing, gives up holidays. so there i was, in my father's tan/gold ford station wagon, making the seemingly endless journey to his brother's and my five cousins' house in texas, cutting through kansas and oklahoma too fast to stop and look for twisters, but not so fast dwight eisenhower's memorial would be passed up.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cornhusker Lone Star Express, my dad's 1976 Ford Gran Torino wagon</td></tr>
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despite being alone in a cold house, i'm certain my mother had the thermostat set to 60F or lower. one other cruel twist of divorce proceedings is that the honor of monthly mortgage payments is considered an asset. while my mother could live in the house and technically owned it, the salary of a single mother whose only previous work in english was managing a restaurant simply could not sustain the expense of it. we eventually moved out, but not before every trick in the book was employed in an attempt to hang on. while slightly uncomfortable, stretching a dollar became kind of a fun game, one that led my mother to actually use the city bus stop in front of our house that my father had only spoke of using.<br />
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we later found out much of the time we thought my mom was alone, she had actually hopped on a greyhound bus and gone to visit her brother and his family in the chicago area. though she wanted to keep it a secret, she underestimated just how deeply every aspect of her life could be infected by inquisitive children. when we'd call on the weekends, there was no answer. if we had forgotten something and went home to get it, she was not there. once, i asked about greyhound when a commercial came on during a football game. my mom simply knew too much. whether out of necessity or admiration, i would follow in her footsteps years later.<br />
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no one thinks twice about a college kid hopping a bus to get home for holidays or occasional weekend visits. students are poor and young folks are always up for an adventure. on those trips, covering four states in just a few hours as can only be done in new england, i came to understand why people thought it odd my mom had taken such buses voluntarily and so often. the stations in new haven, bridgeport and numerous villages and towns in between looked like they were recently converted homeless shelters. looking at such places certainly conjured imaginary danger in every dark corner. only seasoned riders realized the subterfuge.<br />
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beggars, homeless, vagrants, transients and scum have no business harassing bus riders. forcefully repossessing a rider's ticket to white plains was hardly worth the risk of jail time. wallets and purses usually hold little money and bus riders are always collected in packs, scattering once a trip is over, but well aware that defense of each other was imperative to survival. also, it's no secret that many riders are graduates of the hard knock life themselves, too hardened to be afraid and too savvy to fall for tricks.<br />
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despite having navigated this web of danger numerous times on the east coast, i bought into car culture when i moved to l.a. public transportation, the story goes, gets you nowhere you want to go and even when it does, does so slowly. it's difficult to reconcile this with equally horrific tales of traffic. was l.a. packed so dense people simply couldn't move? had smog fried everyone's brains? or were people just so charismatic and magnetic, no one ever wanted to move away from others quickly?<br />
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answering none of these questions, i purchased a bmw. the acceleration was excellent. the handling exquisite. really shallow women in the bad parts of town flocked to it. and after a year of driving the damn thing, i no longer cared. like every other vehicle i ever dared call my own, it needed to be fed, groomed, cared for, registered, insured and housed.<br />
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somewhere between those long rides in my dad's station wagon, my mom' frugality and frequent greyhounding and my own experience owning a car, i really had a very difficult time seeing what all the fuss was about over driving. every freedom it affords comes with shackles of a different variety. each second saved, another spent wondering what the fucker in front of you means by leaving their left blinker on. every relationship nurtured in private leaving ten public sociological observations unmade. driving has its place, but i'll be damned if i fall for its entrapment blindly.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-14795123799969029452012-10-19T09:30:00.000-07:002012-10-19T09:30:01.264-07:00fear and loathing of downtownskid row and the homeless are a small part of the collection of scum that frequents downtown. though dangerous and projecting an unpleasant presence at times, they are avoidable and predictable. the really insidious scum occupy the bank buildings, institutes of government, and law and insurance offices. they greet you with a smile, peddling services they call "essential" while using scraps of paper and computer transactions to suck the life out of people. they dress well and are expert at putting people at ease, making sure they promote just the right level of fear first, lest the innocent bunnies not know what kind of deadly risks they're taking. outside their offices, this courtesy tends not to be exercised so carefully. after all, what's in it for them? being courteous to a client might land a contract. taking up two seats on a train or feigning a handicap merely reinforces a mutual contempt with the locals.<br />
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despite all this, downtown is the best melting pot los angeles has to offer. the wolf-in-sheep's-clothing act is one everyone is happy to play. the benefits are just too good. there's so little risk and so much money, so little guilt and so much free time, so little responsibility and so much power. anyone with an education can play, the rules written by the players so the sooner you get in, the more rules you get to write. how can anyone resist? this unbridled show of greed allows downtown to stand in stark contrast to the rest of los angeles.<br />
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the county of los angeles is a grand paradox. by almost every measure, diversity is very high, people from all over the world collecting here to seek out dreams. yet by almost every measure, los angeles is heavily segregated, huge racial majorities the norm in neighborhoods all over town. watching the legions push off to their battle stations from these disparate places everyday, coalescing into this army of greed, is a grim reminder of predator and prey. by its labyrinth of rules, the predators paralyze, neutralize and pacify their prey, promising to bring order to a chaos of their own creation, pushers in every sense, like arms dealers inciting war in some backwater banana republic to create demand for their product. but like lions and tigers and leopards, predators are a necessary part of the landscape. how else to weed out the weak? how else would this train i'm writing from get built? and how else do you keep a restless population occupied when basic needs, food and housing, only demand a quarter of them work? with too much free time, people revert to their animal states, a healthy occasional exercise; but when guns, knives and hundreds of horses under a hood are so readily available, it's not long before prolonged reversions turn into true chaos.<br />
<br />
of late, the sanitizing forces of the gold line have begun invading downtown. dog-walking, posh pubs, art galleries and the general stench of trust fund backed lifestyles, failed creative projects and all, are everywhere. it's like the kids from the privileged parts of the west side grew up and needed a change of scenery, volunteering as refugees. they didn't realize being a refugee is uncomfortable, so they took their cool and convinced developers to provide them with new fortresses where moats made of concierge desks, paid armed security and gated underground parking keep the unwanteds out until they're needed as extras. they also didn't realize the food and entertainment were a bit different, so they convinced the city to build them new playgrounds where concrete and advertising made sure others wouldn't linger while the chosen were resting in their loft-fortresses. slowly, surely, they are realizing they didn't want a change of scenery at all, but somewhere their parents were too afraid to go so they could be left alone.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-27607639843636436992012-10-16T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-16T09:00:02.121-07:00fear and loathing of the gold lineeven more than the religious zealots and people responsible for transit tv, the bus riders' union (bru) has my full contempt. they happily oppose trains and even non-traditional buses like the orange line. in doing so, they've used the once-sharp charge of racism so much that it's now dulled to the point of being completely ignored. they even toss discretionary riders aside if it means any money spent on anything other than buses. buses are universally regarded as the worst category of an otherwise worthy service. they're endured out of necessity, a sacrifice of imagination, a plague on already-rageworthy traffic. yet the bru worships this beast, always pushing expansion of its domain. i say "fine!" but only if every bru officer is forced to utilize every expansion of bus service they push for two months, one before the change and one after, get them out of their suv's so they can see what they're really doing to the world. unfortunately, bru's successful lawsuit against the mta didn't include this in the settlement, though a straitjacket was put around train projects for over a decade.<br />
<br />
a year or two before this straitjacket's removal date, the mta started stretching its legs. almost every pipe dream that anyone with a black leather jacket had come up with in the past twenty years was in the planning stage. one that actually got pushed through while the straitjacket was being worn was the gold line. i settled in near one of the stations and rode this fairy-tale line everywhere i could.<br />
<br />
it was absurd. the trains were so clean. the stations displayed flea-market-quality art like it was a goddamn museum. the ticket machines actually worked and even took credit cards. signs with shadow boxes and childish pictographs imitated the internet. after riding the damn thing for a few weeks, i felt so sanitized, i was sure disease was imminent. after all, immune systems need exercise. all that hand sanitizer and visor-as-welding-mask activity just lowers defenses for exposure that such petty measures only delay. luckily, while away from the gold line, i surrounded myself with enough scum to keep my immune system on its toes.<br />
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<br />
some malcontent locals would complain that the quality of the train wasn't high enough. if i'm ever in a room with one of them, my opening argument would be "IT'S TOO DAMN CLEAN, YOU FUCKER! WE'RE GONNA MANUFACTURE A GODDMAN SUPERBUG THAT'LL MAKE US ALL DROOL BLOOD. are you a FUCKING VAMPIRE? goddammit! WHERE'S MY ETHER!?" when i imagine this debate, that's my closing argument too, that is, if i still haven't found my ether.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-12584639407738282192012-10-12T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-12T09:00:08.283-07:00fear and loathing of the blue linewhen evening rush hour hits the blue line, the commuters are greeted by a tijuana convenience store. the parasites come out to feed on weary office workers whose natural defenses have been worn down by a day of staring at computer screens and scheming to do the absolute minimum required. in this state, there is an insatiable urge for miniature, crunchy, turd-shaped cornstuff covered in toxic-colored orange powder. it's only through fear of not knowing where these phosphorescent orange turds come from that keeps me from such temptation. did they fall off a truck? stolen? baked at home and fraudulently packaged? one could never be sure.<br />
<br />
another side effect of this weakened state is a heightened sense of guilt. no matter how much fun avoiding responsibility can be, the very act of it strips away the survival instinct. beggars read this on the riders' faces like an open book and demand penance. even the blind man knows pulling one of his plastic eyes out of his skull makes the riders realize just how easy they have it. hapless children bring even more hapless puppies on board to exact their toll. and the least imaginative just utter, "spare some change?" something everyone knows everyone else can do, but no one wants to, sparking a game of chicken driven by guilt. in a strange twist, the weakened who fork over the change scorn the strong.<br />
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<br />
the most successful of these professional riders are the musicians. they provide a service, whether you like it or not. the accordion player transports people to gay paree. the folk guitarist sells the free-love lifestyle that everyone wants, but only hippies dare live. and the family with their guitar and bucket percussion provide the actual acid trip, turning "come together" into something even a crackhead could love.<br />
<br />
when the sun goes down, another transformation takes place on the blue line. in place of the plain folk too scared to dare the sheriff's into checking them for fare are mobs of youth too bored and too poor to do anything but. despite being loud and appearing to have no particular destination, these youths are no more dangerous than the day crowd. though possessing overwhelming numbers, their interest in mating exceeds that of mischief, much like their san fernando valley counterparts. lucky for me, my age and complete lack of youth-cool keeps me off their radar. there's nothing quite as unpleasant as warding off unwanted advances from what may as well be another species. to me, the words "jeezy," "gaga," "young" and "lady" used in the same sentence must refer to lewd acts gone terribly wrong. while i'm sure this happens often amongst these youths, it's clear that's not what they were talking about.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-24925798531575061992012-10-09T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-09T09:00:02.780-07:00fear and loathing of teenagersriding a bus in l.a. in the mid-afternoon is a pedophile's dream come true. there are so many teens trying to get impregnated, even the most outlandish fetishist could be satisfied, but particularly ones with a preference for big, olive-complected girls. rather than hire their own bus drivers who may give in to the temptation of barely pubescent girls, lausd lets the whole bus-riding public loose on them instead. hell, they even encourage it with student discounts.<br />
<br />
the wanton display of flesh is something you'll get in any hot climate, but it reaches a frenzy if hollywood producers are in the mix. the promise of fame pulls helpless girls in from all over the world, but nowhere does that drumbeat pulse quite as incessantly as in the san fernando valley, close enough to hollywood that dreams look real, but far enough that shattered ones, littering every motel and production office, aren't in plain sight. that a conveyor belt of fresh meat from the midwest primed for hollywood's predation makes journeying to the san fernando valley unnecessary for producers deters these girls not. they are seeking attention and will not fail.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSLrVH7NDvtRrXUivfy1meNaFryqPS1RSx0xskANQnpmMyiqo25ZnUSUdSinxLYFO3Nq-Gvtj_oHApFs5s4-Q1HNh7hWKI-3eTTc9ITgEDuXWiGfPAY2k-tqxshSAaR92LyulAMKw8K0/s1600/premature-despair.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSLrVH7NDvtRrXUivfy1meNaFryqPS1RSx0xskANQnpmMyiqo25ZnUSUdSinxLYFO3Nq-Gvtj_oHApFs5s4-Q1HNh7hWKI-3eTTc9ITgEDuXWiGfPAY2k-tqxshSAaR92LyulAMKw8K0/s400/premature-despair.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
on occasion, when i got to leave work early, i bore witness to this insanity. somehow, all the single moms with screaming babies and years of premature despair written on their faces didn't act as a deterrent. in fact, it just emboldened the boys, the complete absence of fathers assuring them no one would hold them accountable to any of their own eventual spawn. though i no longer understood the specific language, it was clear that the mini-skirts, hot pants and bare midriffs were just the first step in daily mating rituals, ones in which the politeness and civility of dinner and a movie were punished by more base instincts requiring just 5 minutes and some privacy.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-4292954203642635892012-10-05T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-05T09:00:01.254-07:00fear and loathing of public transportationdespite the tales of problematic and damaged gene pools running amok on the trains, it turned out to be nothing like the carnage of driving on the west side of town. it was so comfy, riders could practically stretch out and no one ever honked trying to get around you. compared to the crowded masses i'd stood amongst on the east coast, the trains in l.a. felt like pure luxury. even though my woman complained that it took twice as long, i held steady. this little piece of nirvana had convinced me that the place where scientology and pentacostolism were born might have something to offer the world after all.<br />
<br />
after the novelty of arriving to work without the urge to bark insanity at my coworkers wore off, i had periods of occasional doubt about my decision, like the skinny, tall white guy with the three foot afro. the sight of a 6'6" walking, licorice-flavored lollipop even made the sober people double-take. and then there was the black woman who had no business dressing like a poor impersonation of the supremes in broad daylight that accosted me in korean. i hadn't had acid in years, but that certainly brought the feeling back. seeing these freaks was actually rather comforting, knowing i wouldn't be singled out by law enforcement or other profilers for harassment. no, the true test of my train-riding resolve arrived in two other forms.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE9Iau9oaBFp9wNpUwitS7T60oazO93SwLQDuM0yDaEKg16caB71ozRPrwfE5eGNsKDSPsSerE557Xj7uSQFjctULB0Fx5VVhRZOFN8AtNWEIz0KeqGDUotRjt9-IqQ_68bRSzHb6nl0/s1600/afro-lollipop.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE9Iau9oaBFp9wNpUwitS7T60oazO93SwLQDuM0yDaEKg16caB71ozRPrwfE5eGNsKDSPsSerE557Xj7uSQFjctULB0Fx5VVhRZOFN8AtNWEIz0KeqGDUotRjt9-IqQ_68bRSzHb6nl0/s640/afro-lollipop.png" width="412" /></a></div>
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<br />
religious zealots love a place where lots of people congregate. bullhorns make sure everyone can hear you while no one can understand a word. an entire stack of literature can be unloaded along with one's proselytitic guilt in mere minutes. such efficiency made socializing with fellow proselytizers difficult, so was avoided like birth control. when intercepting decent passers-by got boring, the preaching would board the train. nothing makes me quite as uneasy as being around recent converts, still so low in the pecking order that they're forced into situations where repeated rejection was inevitable. negative feedback leads to backsliding, which leads to hijacking and armed robbery. occasionally, naive commuters challenge the zealots. this is a recipe for pure entertainment. two sides totally indignant and emboldened by each others' complete blindness shouting with illogic that no one can follow. it's almost as good as presidential election coverage.<br />
<br />
another test of my train-riding resolve came when they installed tv's on the buses. as if my naps weren't being interrupted enough by the preachers, the bus itself had to blare video at me. i learned who rihanna was. i found out that bus riders love bruce willis more than tracy morgan. i also realized that multiple choice trivia is remarkably challenging for children who can't read. they preferred the pictures of galaxies and nebula, but preferred dancing to telemundo even more. i was really starting to feel a kinship with people and it was driving me crazy. tv's were being used in place of parenting at home and were reinforcing their pacifying role amongst the adults here on the bus. i would occasionally imagine myself arguing at the top of my lungs with the tv just to give all the kind folks something real to be enamored by, but i had seen intolerance of such activity from a model minority before and didn't want to enter that scene.<br />
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as the weeks wore on, the volume kept drifting downward. even a pacified underclass can kindly ask to have nap time restored. more text-based programming was introduced, stuff that didn't need audio.<br />
<br />
having experienced and conquered these two particular early tests of my bus-riding resolve, i settled in to a routine. after a little trial and error, routes that didn't take quite as long were found; and i perfected the gentle art of bumming rides familiar to all carless people surrounded by cars.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-1981260514590371932012-10-02T09:00:00.000-07:002012-10-02T09:01:23.795-07:00fear and loathing of 9/11it was early 2002. the country was scared shitless from 9/11 and doing it's best not to let on. but it was useless. any wild animal could tell our bouts of anger and bravado were nothing more than anxiety and insecurity. in a frenzy of erecting even higher walls in the police state, senseless fear was battered into every corner of the country. it was obvious the terrorists had won. while the president was telling us they hated us for our freedoms, he was summarily taking them away. a flight was now a bigger hassle than visiting an inmate and being of middle eastern descent was criminalized. they finally figured out a bunch of saudis did it. then they figured out oil money was instrumental in funding the whole affair. that's when i decided to stop buying gasoline.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis41luTQ3vaR8TeOSsYlawxo0QSTbHv2mlb4AD4WByfO5ekIVZFIBnQmVb3VhlOoOXfbAba08oFUgQNAQniYMNXk1erlqWSKgFXzZ7NTTDChS_wBBABDFQKUNePcY_NbEg3CkfKXJx_TE/s1600/evil-gas-smile.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis41luTQ3vaR8TeOSsYlawxo0QSTbHv2mlb4AD4WByfO5ekIVZFIBnQmVb3VhlOoOXfbAba08oFUgQNAQniYMNXk1erlqWSKgFXzZ7NTTDChS_wBBABDFQKUNePcY_NbEg3CkfKXJx_TE/s400/evil-gas-smile.tif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(easter egg when embiggened)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
i couldn't follow through on this decision overnight, of course. living in the county where richard nixon was revered and an airport was named after a cowboy actor meant public transportation was just barely sufficient for the help to get to and from santa ana in service of wealthy living. to bike, i would have had to take highways and endure stares of condescension from the suv's. the scorn car culture heaps on bicyclists is shrugged off easily enough, but the constant threat of road rage that i knew the locals were capable of made biking impossible. it would have been like trying to survive thunderdome with nothing more than your bare hands.<br />
<br />
fate dealt me a lucky hand in my aspiring boycott. my employer was getting hit hard by the exodus of money from the tech industry. part of its parachute was jettisoning me into unemployment. i didn't provide enough lift apparently, as the place crashed a few months later, not that i cared anymore. i decided to try my fate in the big city of angels. my apartment was close to a train station and so was my new job. well, there was a bus ride involved, but there's nothing tamer than the populace of the san fernando valley. even the scum here was predictable and easy to fight off with kind words. usually, "have you taken your meds?" was enough to stop a hostile approach in its tracks.<br />
<br />
and so my metro patronage began.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-45475222857844024832012-10-02T08:00:00.000-07:002012-10-02T08:00:02.496-07:00fear and loathing introit saddens me to report that after ten years of riding and well over 100,000 miles logged on the mta, i will no longer be patronizing this fair city's wonderful public transportation system. i have all the same excuses every other discretionary-turned-non rider has. time, personal situation, means, etc, though the real clincher is the availability of cheap solar panels and electric cars. i may return to public transportation some day because even a guilt-free drive can be an unpleasant one. nonetheless, i've been holding back some writing. this coming month will feature this writing, work i hope will punctuate this here blog perfectly. whether this becomes true or not, i think you'll find the work a change of pace, hopefully both interesting and worthwhile.la mta diaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11618529285321587238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-37934202117694708692012-09-28T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-28T09:00:02.052-07:00feeding and breedingin the animal kingdom, almost all activities can be traced back to the need to feed or breed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xjdK6B_BaX9UyxfJvb2hrZmZFf-i1F6k9MwzoihCvNe9JXq6TBDITP0DdTc1tRhviepcUvDEVBNfXA87JZXwhgwOIep-XI11WIjURk7PongqWRXvFHFv22CoiQg0fgvK_9FlVs9GvBE/s1600/feeding-and-breeding.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xjdK6B_BaX9UyxfJvb2hrZmZFf-i1F6k9MwzoihCvNe9JXq6TBDITP0DdTc1tRhviepcUvDEVBNfXA87JZXwhgwOIep-XI11WIjURk7PongqWRXvFHFv22CoiQg0fgvK_9FlVs9GvBE/s400/feeding-and-breeding.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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on the left and right here, you've got your feeding activities. in the middle there, looks like plenty of both.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-90029314669766678462012-09-25T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-25T09:00:01.915-07:00etiquette, pt 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgscrTzI1MGThjaqclRaAdVAo4gafRYCH-4MmBYxVHYy4TdvBWmEPzp3FkAPB8LMwgRt7Lk9weu42LLWUhLPhR_20PNwqON81o3_F96Zi7VkuISdTBWby3SvGjfAGGUB11oqo7XrEH6A/s1600/etiquette.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgscrTzI1MGThjaqclRaAdVAo4gafRYCH-4MmBYxVHYy4TdvBWmEPzp3FkAPB8LMwgRt7Lk9weu42LLWUhLPhR_20PNwqON81o3_F96Zi7VkuISdTBWby3SvGjfAGGUB11oqo7XrEH6A/s640/etiquette.png" width="480" /></a></div>
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what's noteworthy here?<br />
<ol>
<li>"priority seating for seniors and disabled" sign</li>
<li>no matter how professional you may look otherwise, white backpack straps make you look like a kid again -- a very old kid</li>
<li>empty, non-priority seating on the right</li>
</ol>
<div>
what you might not know:</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>strappy here was standing. who knows what prompted him to sit.</li>
<li>the train was pretty empty, so no one was actually being inconvenienced. still, it bothers me.</li>
</ol>
</div>
humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-56081432617127019242012-09-21T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-21T09:00:02.139-07:00batmani've never argued against being prepared. that's how you avoid icy stares from your fellow rider when you board, know the fare and have it ready so we don't all have to wait for you. and, for crying out loud, have some idea where you're going. if you're a tourist who doesn't know the language or are stupefyingly inebriated, you have an excuse. the rest of us shouldn't have to play 20 questions with the driver before we know whether we should be boarding or not.<br />
<br />
that said, the person below and his batbelt full of gadgets is taking preparation a bit far, don't you think?<br />
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first of all, batman never took a bus, at least not while suited up for action. second of all, what exactly is he prepared for? i was tempted to create some sort of crisis just to find out. "EVERYBODY FREEEEEZZE! THIS IS A ROBBERY!!!" except that everyone knows buses are only used for hostage situations, never armed robbery. my guess is the crisis needed to fully exploit his preparedness would be a flat tire on a bike.<br />
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i just hope this isn't the response of home security employee after their car broke down.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-18167860716913901162012-09-18T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-18T09:00:04.076-07:00blind yelleri settle into my seat, journal open, pen in hand, ready to splash my insight of public transportation onto the page. in the background, "have a great day!" arrives at my ears at the next stop. sometimes riders know each other. who am i to begrudge them their friendly farewells? <br />
<br />
i continue trying to put brain to paper. "have a lovely day, metro riders!" comes bellowing out at the next stop. i hadn't heard such enthusiasm on the bus since an entire family found out their earned income credit check was finally coming through. some riders mumble thanks as they step off. i look up to see this.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9t5K5HURV-Mjn5lJZ-JioY0DWK5uR84qVEEkZWA68scInfxVw6P-IwlwnMCNB70NrziSNL7lD5NmgVOO_3H6HYVe3FNnO3Hr1Qt9maAjIZJNkznchgy37o4n15eZH_65uUJTPL3zl0Q/s1600/blind-yeller.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9t5K5HURV-Mjn5lJZ-JioY0DWK5uR84qVEEkZWA68scInfxVw6P-IwlwnMCNB70NrziSNL7lD5NmgVOO_3H6HYVe3FNnO3Hr1Qt9maAjIZJNkznchgy37o4n15eZH_65uUJTPL3zl0Q/s400/blind-yeller.png" width="300" /></a></div>
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at the next stop, he gets up. before he gets off the bus, he turns and faces the riders for one final "everyone, have a great day! don't forget to thank your driver." he turns to the driver. "you have a beautiful day. thank you." who's more sick, him for being a (literally) blind optimist or the rest of us for thinking "GODDAMN, that's too much sunshine. now wonder you're blind!"humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-76879684552389315962012-09-17T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-17T09:54:10.358-07:00facebook page createdhi, everyone. this is a promotional post to let you all know that a facebook page has been created for this blog. if simply "like"ing individual posts isn't enough for you or if using the rss feed or visiting the site regularly makes you tired, click on the "like" button off in the right sidebar or visit <a href="http://www.facebook.com/LaMtaDiary">LaMtaDiary</a> and click on "like." notifications of blog entries will appear on your wall or timeline or whatever it is they're calling it these days.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-18537431452087426562012-09-14T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-14T09:00:05.764-07:00a man of god<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUFIw144xw_pfmdKRe9EPD8O1UeGqTgvfdG2CHtQdJWLD5M1NYgwP5Fn49KsRPC1Nx0T1OgLYfkNMM4QchKtWDjVpAYwlwkwdPz5XR0NYqc2vMD5cCkIWXjU50dHBVkilJMkLJMWzRac/s1600/man-of-god.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUFIw144xw_pfmdKRe9EPD8O1UeGqTgvfdG2CHtQdJWLD5M1NYgwP5Fn49KsRPC1Nx0T1OgLYfkNMM4QchKtWDjVpAYwlwkwdPz5XR0NYqc2vMD5cCkIWXjU50dHBVkilJMkLJMWzRac/s400/man-of-god.png" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
i'm not joking. it's not even that warm and shirtless here tried to sell me on jesus. i did thank jesus that this man had a bag. who knows what other goods i would have been forced to look at if he didn't?humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-8498684614768800492012-09-11T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-11T09:17:41.582-07:00bikers over ridersalright, bikers, it's gettin harder and harder for us pedestrian passengers of public transit to take your presence kindly. you take up at least three bodies' worth of standing room when you don't act stupid. this is something metro, in their infinite wisdom, has decided to formalize.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAr-ArMS3DORWDnpo_PDjTwlsM7B075H6MXvcFx7U5W6xWJOMP_GCUZevLVEhMBOCKQsArt1wSHXZMGEounDcFdRDI64V_w3rLgFDUvYNVTQ27wT0NoDcV-PtE5S2libNU4tDFSazW6Ew/s1600/bike-area.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAr-ArMS3DORWDnpo_PDjTwlsM7B075H6MXvcFx7U5W6xWJOMP_GCUZevLVEhMBOCKQsArt1wSHXZMGEounDcFdRDI64V_w3rLgFDUvYNVTQ27wT0NoDcV-PtE5S2libNU4tDFSazW6Ew/s320/bike-area.png" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">seats removed for bikes, strollers and large luggage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
that's right. two rows of seats and a handicapped seat have been removed from a whole lotta trains because there are so many more of you bikers than when gas was only $3.50/gal. on some trains, it's a full three rows, six seats. congratulations for makin more of the rest of us tired riders stand in your honor. half the time, you bikers even rub salt in the wound, taking a seat while leaving your bike to fall over on someone.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoPiapk02Cl5gL8gKDQdcqFKXJcdDtVaihJbjmINjrGmxlGGD_A_zIwyl-F7PRRn00o6U0kRgbDsMlA-sjATi2NATVx36HDyj9YZBwpUhbaO2xcxgqKWvlDlEa76jGkP_7ropFB7BBgo/s1600/sitting-biker.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoPiapk02Cl5gL8gKDQdcqFKXJcdDtVaihJbjmINjrGmxlGGD_A_zIwyl-F7PRRn00o6U0kRgbDsMlA-sjATi2NATVx36HDyj9YZBwpUhbaO2xcxgqKWvlDlEa76jGkP_7ropFB7BBgo/s320/sitting-biker.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">someone sitting across the doorway from his bike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
but, no, that's enough, is it? instead of making use of the sanctioned spaces, you gotta crowd the doorways of the trains makin it a serious project for the rest of us to get on or off. and for your inconsideration, what penance do you pay? why, yall get off first, to, y'know, make room.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXrM098AZkC22X-_5RUt3WmydXF8vThRUUsdBYTSDS5IAW_U1VeTqTZpG41sQZPgiXbLGb-oHDxEROI0Jsig32G8ard6CY7bHo5Df6VeHwjklQrXgNecVg9KL4uuVw1SBQf4uGS8znw4/s1600/doorway-bikes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXrM098AZkC22X-_5RUt3WmydXF8vThRUUsdBYTSDS5IAW_U1VeTqTZpG41sQZPgiXbLGb-oHDxEROI0Jsig32G8ard6CY7bHo5Df6VeHwjklQrXgNecVg9KL4uuVw1SBQf4uGS8znw4/s320/doorway-bikes.png" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">two bikes in the doorway</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and if that ain't enough, there's been a serious spike in the number of yall crowdin your way onto an already crowded train and only riding a stop or two. why you wasting time? it's hard to find two, even three, consecutive train stations in the county far enough apart that you can't ride faster than it is to wait for the train.<br />
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so, enough of my ranting, what's to be done about this?<br />
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the best i can come up with is hopin this <a href="http://la.streetsblog.org/2012/01/18/county-wide-bike-share-metro-committee-says-yes-we-can/">bike share thing</a> works out and expands dramatically. maybe if there are bikes everywhere, no one'll feel the need to bring em on the train. the logistics of this are questionable, but it's one tiny glimmer of hope since it's become clear relying on bikers' general considerate nature is failing.<br />
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now, if bike sharing don't work and the legions of bikers continue to have enough bad apples causing me to voice my grief, i might just have to advocate for a bike ban. no one wants that, do they?humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-84303148517342617852012-09-07T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-07T09:00:00.853-07:00lollipop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-CEe-pvFeffFPWRILwbmL6Dfxi8i7uSGMsiNiOpEgn_XmVodXzpqXan3fnIW9KGdmxq85KiiaBLCSTuGc5qeJhl33Ex1JazqGWjXUnIroSM8jLiBS5qVqmIuAFOtQXPEeFIb6W708WI/s1600/lollipop.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-CEe-pvFeffFPWRILwbmL6Dfxi8i7uSGMsiNiOpEgn_XmVodXzpqXan3fnIW9KGdmxq85KiiaBLCSTuGc5qeJhl33Ex1JazqGWjXUnIroSM8jLiBS5qVqmIuAFOtQXPEeFIb6W708WI/s320/lollipop.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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i wasn't quite sure what was going on here at first. of course, it looks like an adult or large child is sucking on a lollipop, but only ravers do that in public and even then only when they're raving. with no glowsticks to be seen, it looked like someone with childish tendencies.<br />
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upon closer inspection, however, i think that's some sort of quit-smoking device. the thing inside the plastic tube looked a bit like a cigarette and i have heard that for some people, smoking is just a habit that can be replaced with other habits like sucking on a cigarette-looking thing encased in a plastic tube so it looks like a lollipop.<br />
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of course a more clever person would use the plastic tube as a mechanism for holding the smoke so they could go right on smoking in non-smoking settings, much like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gl4qtMaZu1M">kumar's smokeless bong</a>. of course, there's always the problem of exhalation, though i guess nothing an even more clever person couldn't work around.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-65809539338585897232012-09-04T09:00:00.000-07:002012-09-04T09:00:10.930-07:00bob marley in the house (not literally of course)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYVD9JvQB_JJgf3WpG6VCbv755_CGXR1LDch4gtIC7xk0zLRm18g0rqDw1mVRNH30OonYF3hZopTUsLYxkUSM0iwI8cr7JoM2XvppdfuBrSHU8cbJuzHzPcCXSM01vCWZ5oUI9vsEKRA/s1600/dread-locks.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYVD9JvQB_JJgf3WpG6VCbv755_CGXR1LDch4gtIC7xk0zLRm18g0rqDw1mVRNH30OonYF3hZopTUsLYxkUSM0iwI8cr7JoM2XvppdfuBrSHU8cbJuzHzPcCXSM01vCWZ5oUI9vsEKRA/s400/dread-locks.png" width="300" /></a></div>
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sometimes it's hard to know if people go out of their way to become living stereotypes or if it just comes naturally. i'm sure i'm guilty of living a cliche when looked through the right lens, but some people live their cliches when looked through just about every lens.<br />
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i invite you to take a look at the above picture and take a wild guess at what the dude smelled like. at first, you might be tempted to say "urine" because he looks homeless, but it don't take but a day or two of being homeless to make one realize a paper bag is no way to carry one's possessions. even at the height of summer, moisture forms overnight and damp paper gives way to ripped bag before the sun comes up. also, the homeless tend not to wear such light-colored pants and when they do, they tend not to stay that clean.<br />
<br />
well if your train detective and profiling skills haven't led you to a reasonable answer yet, it comes as no surprise to the rest of us that this guy smelled like reefer -- dread-locks, bob marley t and burnout blanket being pretty dead giveaways. now i'm not gonna go around accusing anyone of anything. who knows? maybe he was just in the room and maybe he <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bktd_Pi4YJw">didn't inhale.</a> but that'd be an awful shame.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-16463546747716171712012-08-31T09:00:00.000-07:002012-08-31T09:00:09.543-07:00another invisible man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZrWiBSVn4twaH2bCBSAG0WSX-6iulCEAtVXNDMYHzB-QoKtV4podRPwgmpiPkRnvaHrABv-AmYFYmwiqNUFkzlMV_1MfC7JpviFDKOe4XsOqPUgpimjxJQj1AlyRvkNsdy3OBD7fDtU/s1600/invisible-man.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZrWiBSVn4twaH2bCBSAG0WSX-6iulCEAtVXNDMYHzB-QoKtV4podRPwgmpiPkRnvaHrABv-AmYFYmwiqNUFkzlMV_1MfC7JpviFDKOe4XsOqPUgpimjxJQj1AlyRvkNsdy3OBD7fDtU/s400/invisible-man.png" width="287" /></a></div>
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oh, elusive sleep, how i covet thee.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-244795573041486731.post-50806468607155514412012-08-28T09:00:00.000-07:002012-08-28T09:00:00.632-07:00shamelessthe elevator door opens to a family that looks a little like the family from the showtime tv show "shameless." they're not nearly as attractive, of course, because they aren't on tv, but there's a certain resemblance. it looks like two grandparents and four grandkids, one young adult, two pre-teens and a baby.<br />
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"where are we goin'?" the first one out, one of the preteens, asks.<br />
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"right here," says the young adult, pointing to the platform.<br />
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"oh my god, there is snot coming out of my nose," the first one exclaims, not more than six inches from me.<br />
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"yeah?" grandpa asks. "you should see the drool running down your sister's back," he quips as grandma rolls his wheelchair into place. the other pre-teen is holding the baby up on her shoulder.<br />
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"ewwww," the first one intones.<br />
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"that's not drool," the young adult notices as she wipes the dripping substance from the baby's nose.humanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749206506492186954noreply@blogger.com0