tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91356997553355918322024-02-18T21:26:13.047-08:00The Mighty 6Observations about TriMet bus line 6--Northeast Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. to downtown Portland--and other routes.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-70865094172271834132009-01-12T12:37:00.001-08:002009-01-12T12:47:53.600-08:00'We are not third-graders'<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Mary</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">So in September or so I'm aboard the 54 on my way to work and following my usual routine: knitting to avoid eye contact with my fellow passengers while simultaneously eavesdropping to make sure crazy people aren't getting too close. As a TriMet strategy, it's pretty much infallible.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Today some lady sits nearby and angrily dials her cell phone, muttering that she's had enough, by God, and TriMet's gonna hear from her. I stare at my knitting and listen, wondering what's bugging her about the bus. A rude driver? A late bus? Scary fellow passengers?</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It turns out the be that last one. She's had it, she tells the TriMet employee on the line. The bus is just getting too dangerous to ride. Her fellow passengers are torturing her, and she's afraid.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">What are they doing? She'll tell you what they're doing -- they're pointing devices at her that cause her great pain.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"I just don't understand it," she sputters into the phone. "I mean, we are not third-graders! Why are they acting like this?"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Do third-graders normally use torture devices? I wonder, knitting faster. I always knew kids were evil.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"I just don't understand how they get away with it," the lady says. God only knows how the hapless TriMet employee responds, because the lady gets more agitated. "No, I can't describe the devices! If I knew what they looked like, I wouldn't sit near them!"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Exactly what kind of training do the TriMet phone people get? I wonder. Are they trained to deal with this? How much would you have to pay me to deal with this? I can't count that high.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The TriMet person, to his or her everlasting credit, does not try to dissuade the lady from her delusion -- she works with her. "Well, I've tried telling them to stop!" the lady cries. "Why do you think I'm calling you? I've exhausted all my other options! Why are they getting away with this? We are not third-graders!"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">WTF is it with third-graders? I wonder. If you wanted to fixate on evil kids, wouldn't you pick seventh-graders?</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Even I know middle-schoolers aren't human, for Chrissakes. If she doesn't know what the devices look like, will she see me and think they look like knitting needles? Could I use my needles to defend myself? What if I have to stab her? Will blood come out of this yarn?</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Mercifully, I never find out, because Crazy Lady leaves the bus, still complaining bitterly to the TriMet worker, who you gotta figure is frantically signaling his coworkers for help by now.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">This is why I don't answer the phone at work. And lately, I avoid third-graders, too.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-42239630943486647612008-12-29T11:18:00.001-08:002008-12-29T12:36:59.184-08:00Snow-go mojo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9paVfyQFV7VZ7birrQ2mkF_nhyphenhyphenbI4EUkM21zYhgpHszL4IA3yJxqZlpzxA-hoIyn9LB5ZQ6lcjWce6z55wM20ECgJ_ddtNCDRZZ2imPe4cCyE-v0xiy2gZMsZlDevDyFfurgA4fuekwsO/s1600-h/SNOWROAD.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 340px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9paVfyQFV7VZ7birrQ2mkF_nhyphenhyphenbI4EUkM21zYhgpHszL4IA3yJxqZlpzxA-hoIyn9LB5ZQ6lcjWce6z55wM20ECgJ_ddtNCDRZZ2imPe4cCyE-v0xiy2gZMsZlDevDyFfurgA4fuekwsO/s400/SNOWROAD.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285306490826726562" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By Jim</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Momentum is important," the driver says as he gives the No. 44 some pedal to get up a hill as we head downtown on Sunday afternoon. I understand, having just crunch-crunch-clomp-clomped half a mile up a hill to get to my bus stop, my boots sinking six inches into the snow with each step. My personal momentum is gone but TriMet keeps delivering. I tip my ski cap to its mighty drivers and mechanics.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Leaving work at 10 p.m., I run out of the building, boogieing down Broadway. I see a bus making the turn from Clay south toward PSU. I run after it, waving. Yeah, baby, it's No. 44. Great timing! The driver stops. I'm saved. It's his last run of the night. "I've been working 14 days straight," he says, "and this is my 14th hour today."</span></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR7I5gefWgvaXFhxOYBYSwXyAxyl0movc4ozbUf29PtuokaOWyMXHb7htYLK2_eMrOII3pQwEFrCTgweFBeFuohC02EwIYoLV6U1ZLuFcoluIbfK51TMHkXL3KwqWl3-Uocf9S_o2uPI0/s1600-h/BIG+WHEEL.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR7I5gefWgvaXFhxOYBYSwXyAxyl0movc4ozbUf29PtuokaOWyMXHb7htYLK2_eMrOII3pQwEFrCTgweFBeFuohC02EwIYoLV6U1ZLuFcoluIbfK51TMHkXL3KwqWl3-Uocf9S_o2uPI0/s320/BIG+WHEEL.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285297436724722770" /></a></p><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When I think about the arctic blast of 2008, I'll remember my bus rides. I'll miss the chains a little. Before the snow piled up everywhere, the chains gave the bus a chattering Magic Fingers vibe on bare asphalt. </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At 10:27, when we get to the end of the truncated line -- Barbur Transit Center, not PCC -- about 20 passengers head for home. The driver says to us, "Be careful out there. And thanks for the job security."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Same to you, TriMet -- thanks for the get-to-my-job security.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Christmas, it's a different story. We head downtown for a holiday-spirited night out. The 44 isn't even running, so we'll have to walk farther and catch the 12. We trudge a mile and a half through the snow, to the Barbur Boulevard and Capitol Highway stop. I call Transit Tracker. The message is ominous: The line "may be in service but without predicted arrival. . . . Due to snow and ice conditions, we are not able to report any arrivals at your stop." I confirm that empirically.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And yet we soon see a 12 on the other side of Barbur, headed south to King City. Ten minutes go by, and there's another 12, headed south to Sherwood. Twelve minutes go by and a third 12 rolls on, headed south to King City.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally, in the distance, we see a bus heading north. But this bus says "DROP-OFF ONLY." I've never seen that before. The bus stops right next to five cold, tired would-be passengers at the red light but doesn't open its door. I knock on the window. The driver points backwards -- that's TriMet middle-finger-speak for, "There's another bus coming along behind me." The light turns green and she rolls off, leaving us in the freezing cold.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another bus comes after a while, and it's a 12. We ask the driver what's up with Miss Drop-Off-Only. "She's late and she's trying to make up time, so she's not picking up any passengers," he says.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That makes absolutely no sense. EVERY SINGLE BUS OUT THERE IS LATE! WHO CARES IF SHE'S ON TIME? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? JESUS! JESUS CHRIST! How do you NOT pick up five freezing travelers on Christmas day when you're stopped right next to them at a red light?</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, whatever, at least we are on the No. 12 now. But this one is making a loud, hideous noise. TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A passenger says to the driver, "You've got a loose chain."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He says, "I know. It's been that way all day. I'm really going to miss that noise when I get home."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now I've changed my mind. If I get home, I won't miss the chains.</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR7I5gefWgvaXFhxOYBYSwXyAxyl0movc4ozbUf29PtuokaOWyMXHb7htYLK2_eMrOII3pQwEFrCTgweFBeFuohC02EwIYoLV6U1ZLuFcoluIbfK51TMHkXL3KwqWl3-Uocf9S_o2uPI0/s1600-h/BIG+WHEEL.jpg"><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"></span></p></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-60755624606220847632008-12-24T11:24:00.001-08:002008-12-24T11:29:04.306-08:00New blog catchphrase<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Mary</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The place: 3rd and Madison</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The time: Saturday night, the middle of the snowstorm from hell</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The scene: A small herd of angry, cold people, some of whom have been waiting more than an hour for the 54 or the 56. Huddled together like a group of pissy penguins, stamping our feet, we take turns dialing TriMet and tracking our bus and its lack of progress. Finally, headlights pierce the swirling flakes as a squad of buses moves down 3rd. We perk up immediately. Surely one of them is a 56 or a 54!</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">But it's not to be. Instead, the buses turn out to be 9s and 6s. NOTHING but 9s and 6s. Out of six buses, how can they ALL be 9s and 6s? It's all the more galling because they're not even FULL! As the last 6 rolls smugly past, carrying maybe four people, one intrepid soul takes action: he seizes handfuls of snow, starts lobbing snowballs at the bus, and in a voice hoarse with cold and hatred, screams what we're all thinking: "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">FUCK THE SIX!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">FUCK THE SIX! </span></i></b><u><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">FUCK THE SIX!!</span></i></b></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Well, hell. It needed to be said.</span></span></div><div><br /></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-51229412162329732672008-12-06T20:47:00.003-08:002008-12-06T20:52:54.033-08:0012-packs on the 19<p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Angela</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Two dudes ready to party get on the No. 19 bound for Southeast, one carrying two 12-packs of Bud; the other, two 12's of Natty Light. They aren't on long and we haven't even pulled away before Dude 1 starts carrying on, loudly, about nothing in particular. It's really not that annoying, and kind of funny after a long night at work, but apparently the driver was being nice in the first place in letting them on with the beer. He waves them off, tells them to walk it off; they apologize and won't budge. He waves them off again and threatens the cops. As they're stepping off, Dude 2 says, "Do you want ME to drive?" And just like that, they're gone.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-27281315624873214272008-12-06T20:47:00.001-08:002008-12-06T20:57:50.079-08:00Jingle what?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Jake</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-size:18px;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My nanny told me today that on her bus a woman in a wheelchair started singing "Jingle Bells" and encouraged the rest of the bus to sing along. My nanny, who is Nepali, didn't know the words and couldn't sing along even though she wanted to. However, the only person who did sing was a Chinese man, who apparently didn't know the song past "Jingle all the way." Nobody else on the bus felt the call of the season. I probably wouldn't have sung either, which I find incredibly sad. Years of Christmas specials have taught us that the highest joy of the season is communal caroling, and yet I have never seen, nor participated in, any sort of fun-loving group sing-along.</span></div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-45688620597576412972008-12-06T20:46:00.001-08:002008-12-06T20:54:07.991-08:00A mighty wind<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">By Jim<br /></span></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the 35th Avenue stop in Multnomah Village, an energetic, clipboard- equipped alternative-energy solicitor said, "Do you have a few minutes to punch global warming in the face?" Yes, I thought, that's why I'm standing here waiting for the bus.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-36092460106751637612008-11-09T17:49:00.001-08:002008-11-09T17:51:39.653-08:00Coins of the realm<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Jim</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A rider got on the King City-bound No. 12 late Friday night, and while fumbling to put her change in the fare box, dropped most of it. The coins landed with a loud, high-pitched tinkle, maybe a buck fifty bouncing around the floor of the bus. A passenger in the front turned to the man next to him and said, "Trickle-down economics." They both laughed, apparently in a good mood over the election results.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-87538424793113311472008-11-07T11:07:00.001-08:002008-11-07T11:26:52.241-08:00Thank you, TriMet<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Jake</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It's the little extra efforts that make riding TriMet so special. About a year ago they tore up my bus stop and threw away the bench. But they gave me a "Temporary stop" a half-block away marked by a laminated paper taped to a utility pole. So on Tuesday, I was standing at the "temporary" stop, counting the buses going the other way and wondering when one would show up going my way. Finally, I see one, but it does not appear to be slowing. I wave. It blows on past even though I can see it is nearly empty. Now I am going to be late for work waiting for the next one. But the kind driver was thoughtful enough to point over her shoulder as she raced by me standing in the rain. I looked up the street and, sure enough, my old stop now had a sign sticking out of it. No shelter, not even a bench, but it did have a new sign and some fresh concrete. Apparently it had opened THE DAY BEFORE. Obviously, there was no way the driver could have stopped for a frequent rider waving from a stop that had been in place for a year.</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-14212015298832351202008-10-30T00:14:00.001-07:002008-10-30T00:18:35.430-07:00They had his back<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Bob</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Crowded late-night bus. People standing in the aisle. Weary man gets on the No. 12 Barbur in downtown to head home. Long shift at work. Needs to relax and pop open a beer. Got to get through the ride first. And to do that, a seat would be nice. To sit. To nod off for a while. Perchance to dream.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There, way in back. It could be an open seat. Squeeze through the standees. Stumble up the steps to the rear area. Why, it is an open seat.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">About a dozen pairs of eyes seemingly stare through him as he approaches. Starts to sit. Suddenly . . .</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Hey, old guy. There's gum all over that seat." Two teenage girls chirp out the warning from just behind him.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He looks closely at the seat. They're right. Nice kids. Could've let him sit in that mess and just laughed.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Standing isn't so bad. That High Life is getting closer by the minute. And they had his back.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-39370701518108298832008-10-23T10:46:00.001-07:002008-10-23T10:58:01.465-07:00Actions, not words<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Bob</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The twenty-something woman had been talking loudly to the person next to her, and anyone else in the vicinity of the front of the bus, since the No. 44 had pulled out of Multnomah Village and headed up the hill toward the PCC Sylvania campus. Her chatter, illustrated by constant arm movements, became background noise for most of the riders on a crisp, clear fall day.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When the bus reached the entrance to the campus and stopped to let off several people, she exited first. As she began to cross the traffic lane that leads down into the heart of the PCC campus, she turned her head to her right and, waving her arms again, began to make a point to one of her former seat mates. At just that moment, coming from her left and building up speed, chugged the bus that she had just left.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"My ex-boyfriend always says that I should take care of myself first," the talkative woman proclaimed. Fortunately for her, a fellow traveler grabbed one of her arms and tugged her back onto the sidewalk just before the bus passed.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, apparently, ex-boyfriends have sound advice.</span></p></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-17700532044800652732008-10-19T00:41:00.001-07:002008-10-19T00:52:58.153-07:00No-fool zone<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">By Amy</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Another reason why Big Mama bus driver is an exceptional person:</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">ADDLED MALE PASSENGER TO BIG MAMA: Good afternoon, sir.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">BIG MAMA (without the slightest pause): I ain't no sir, sir. I'm a ma'am.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">COMMENTARY: I appreciate a woman who says her mind. She didn't get angry, and she didn't ignore the mistake--as I probably would--out of apathy or to spare that man's embarrassment. Another fool learns a lesson to pay a little more heed to the human beings around him.</span></p></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-66000622520127421512008-10-03T10:39:00.001-07:002008-10-03T10:43:24.352-07:00Canned scam<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jim</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm waiting for the No. 44 out of Portland Community College when a clean-cut guy walks up to the bus stop. "Are you paying or do you have a pass?" he asks.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">"I've got a pass. The fare is two bucks now." </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">He replies with his real question: "Can you spare 80 cents so I can get on the bus?"</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">I wish I could say: "Here's a hundred dollars so you can get on your feet." </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">But he's wearing a nice knit sweater and hip jeans -- he's dressed better than I am. It always strikes me as a market-research failure when guys in decent clothing ask grizzled, white-bearded, backpack-toting, down-and-out me for a handout. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Plus his timing is bad. Just 30 minutes ago, I was on the phone with Chase </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Mastercard</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">. For the second time this year, the fraud squad is calling to tell me my credit card number -- </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">XXXX</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">XXXX</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">XXXX</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">-4308, if you'd like to be one of the many people with access to it -- has been stolen.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> This time the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">scammers</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> tried to buy $237 worth of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">anime</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> videos from an online outfit in Florida. Chase denied the charge, much to their, uh, credit. Apparently their digital oracle knows I would never spend more than $150 at one time on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">anime</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> videos.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Last time, the thieves succeeded in getting an $80 advance from a bank in Thailand. Now my credit card is canceled again. Since I have the card in my wallet, I'm guessing the number was taken at a Portland retail establishment. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Mr. Cable-Knit Sweater gets my quick answer: "Sorry." He turns and walks away -- away from downtown. If he wants to get on the No. 44 -- which is heading downtown -- shouldn't he be walking north, not south?</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">So I saved 80 cents. You see, there are people who need the money more than Sweater Man does, people like Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Wachovia</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> Bank, Bear </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Stearns</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. I'll be giving those big Wall Street players $2,300 next week. They dress a lot better than I do, too, but when they ask for money they don't walk away.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Tahoma; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px"><span style="font: 13.0px Tahoma"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-55368721599498431922008-09-30T09:33:00.001-07:002008-09-30T09:45:58.628-07:00Machines say the funniest things<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Bob</span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The newer TriMet buses have an automated system that calls out the approaching stops. It's supposed to be helpful, and probably is to newbies, but to most riders it's annoying background noise. But it gave one rider a laugh on an otherwise dull late-night run.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As the No. 12 approached the YMCA on Barbur, the monotone recording of a male voice rang out: "YMCA -- Southwest Hooker Street."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Immediately, a thirtysomething woman chirped to the dozing half-full bus: "Hooker Street! Here? No, way. They should use that on 82nd or Sandy. Now those are hooker streets."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Badda-bing.</span></p></div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-73187294256840776692008-09-28T15:05:00.001-07:002008-09-28T15:18:35.532-07:00Breathe, stupid, breathe!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Amy</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">A tweaker guy takes a long, final drag of his cigarette, and is about to climb aboard the crowded No. 6, but then Big Mama Bus Driver stops him.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">BIG MAMA: You make sure you blow your smoke out before you step in here.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">TWEAKER: What? What do you mean?</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">BIG MAMA: You know what I mean. Nobody wants to breathe that mess.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">COMMENTARY: It's a sad reflection on our country when someone has to be told to leave his smoke outside. It's even sadder when he takes offense and argues with the driver over it. What in his life has brought this man to this point? What would his own mother say? This reminds me of that old Warner Brothers cartoon <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSSfk7T9DPo"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">"Dough Ray Me-ow"</span></a> in which the cat is so stupid that he forgets to draw breath: The parrot has to slap him and shout "Breathe, stupid, breathe! You forgot to breathe again."</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-58714828253916230472008-09-25T12:38:00.001-07:002008-09-25T12:40:41.017-07:00PSA<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jim</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One passenger to another on the late-night No. 12 to King City: "You should stay in school. Look at me. I went to Chico State for two semesters, and then I dropped out. Now I have to grow weed for a living."</span><br /></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-79680960565348690952008-09-23T11:37:00.001-07:002008-09-23T11:42:36.967-07:00Looks like muskrat love<p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jim</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The first odd thing I notice as I take a seat up front on the 10:36 p.m. No. 12 is a handtruck holding a cat carrier, with one end cut out of it. The second odd thing is the owner of the handtruck, wearing a battered leather cowboy hat laced with rawhide around the outer edge of the brim. Hatman is holding -- up against his face -- a white rat with an eight-inch-long tail. More than holding. Stroking. Incessantly stroking. And kissing. As in fur to lips.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After a while, he begins to talk to the rat, soft murmurings. If my lip-reading is correct, he's saying "I love you." The stroking and kissing continue from the Portland State University stop to 4900 SW Barbur, where Hatman pulls the get-me-outta-here cord. He stands, opens his leather jacket, places the rat inside on his left shoulder, then closes the jacket. Hatman wheels the handtruck off the bus and is gone.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Maybe the rat is a service animal, though it's difficult to know who is serving whom. Another possibility: the 4900 SW Barbur stop is where a grocery store employee feeds the rats with leftovers from work. Maybe it's a playdate. Or maybe rats are the new cats. Trendy people ride TriMet, too.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-36278576722799778752008-09-20T12:46:00.001-07:002008-09-20T13:18:03.893-07:00Blue notes<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jeremy</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The kids always know what's going down in this magic metropolis, and with school back in session, my commute on the Blue Line MAX is again filled with kids spitting the truth.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For instance, just yesterday, I learned from a pack of three bros standing nearby that:</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Devon said you can get headphones at The Dollar Tree, but you totally can't. It's total bullshit.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Sex Pistols aren't bad; they're just old.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Beaverton Transit Center is called the BTC. To assert your street cred, you have to say it over and over and over.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thanks, kids!</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-30043537576973586452008-09-19T00:43:00.001-07:002008-09-19T00:48:23.243-07:00Fashion in transit<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jake</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Today was fashion day on my bus.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There was the old guy with heavily tattooed arms, including a monkey wrench on his triceps, who was wearing suspenders made to look like tape measures.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There was the elderly lady, with white hair and glasses, mobility and weight issues, wearing a Megadeth T-shirt.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But my favorite was the large man in grungy laborer clothes. He was sweaty and smelly and dirty and wearing a bright yellow, rolled-up headband that Olivia Newton-John would have been proud of.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sometimes it seems to me that the people on my bus are a testament to life's consequences for questionable decisions about personal appearance.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-25336002136683266612008-09-16T10:09:00.001-07:002008-09-16T10:15:27.226-07:00The moth<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Bob</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The air inside the bus was warm and stifling, even though many of the windows were opened. The No. 12 lumbered along Barbur on its way from downtown on a late summer night. About 20 riders dozed, listened to headphones or texted.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And then it appeared. A moth, brown in color and about the size of a matchbook, fluttered its way from the back of the bus toward the front. The moth darted to the ceiling and then descended, dancing along the tops of the riders' heads. A few people noticed, but most sat unaware, listening to tunes or concentrating on cell screens.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">When the moth reached the front of the bus, it turned and made its way back. And upon reaching the rear, it again turned and headed forward. It was doing meandering laps, like a stoned version of Michael Phelps with wings.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">A few riders began to pay attention, especially when it would descend to eye level. The moth seemingly would toy with some people, flapping its wings and circling their heads, forcing them to shake it off.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">One guy's dodging motions got the best of him and his head struck the head of the young man sitting next to him. "What the ... ," the surprised neighbor blurted out. Then they both laughed, as did several people sitting behind them.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">For about five minutes, the wandering moth entertained about a dozen people in the back of the No. 12. The moth continued its laps before an audience that now and then yelled out encouragement and warnings.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> "Look out, there," a woman said when the moth closed in on an oblivious rider in the front. "Go, baby, go," said another passenger as the moth picked up speed on its return trip to the rear.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Then, while midway along a lap toward the front of the bus, the moth suddenly darted toward an open window and flew out into the darkness.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And the riders returned to their headphones and cells.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-49874055810168165302008-09-13T17:14:00.001-07:002008-09-16T22:57:17.624-07:00Duel<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Bob</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Sometimes the journey home gets more interesting once a rider leaves the bus.</span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">On a hot Friday night, the last No. 12 from downtown was mostly full. A pretty lively crowd of the mostly sober, the less sober and the mostly drunk headed toward the burbs. It was talkative bunch. The booze and the beer and whatever else had put even the headphone-wearers into a gabby mood. Good times.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">One rider departed at 53rd Avenue, a desolate stop on Barbur notable only for the strip club there, the Big Bang. After the bus moved on, the traveler crossed Barbur and headed up the hill on 53rd. Walking steadily, he dodged a couple of cars along the sharp curve at Pomona and continued up 53rd toward Capitol, several blocks away. The unlit street is paved here, and at nearly 1 a.m., only a few houses had lights on.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The traveler heard a vehicle coming up behind him, a rarity that time of night on 53rd. He was walking on the left side of the street, and as the SUV passed him, it slowed somewhat, and he could hear voices and music and smell cigarette smoke from the open windows. The SUV proceeded to the intersection with Capitol, crossed under the sole streetlight and continued up 53rd, which at that point turns to gravel.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The traveler was following some distance behind. He saw the SUV's brake lights come on and watched it stop at the next block, Buddington. The traveler's usual route kept him on 53rd until Buddington, where he would take a left, but something about the halted SUV set off inner alarms. So he took a left on Capitol and headed up the hill to 51st, where he would take a right and head toward Coronado.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The stretch of 51st between Capitol and Coronado, several blocks long, is also unpaved and dark -- no streetlights. It was quiet and the traveler could hear the scratchy sound of rocks beneath his feet with every step. He walked in the middle of the narrow road. As he neared the intersection of 51st and Buddington, he looked down the hill to his right, expecting to see the SUV at the bottom, where he had last seen it a few minutes before. But suddenly he was blinded by headlights. The SUV had climbed Buddington, apparently with its lights off, and was almost at the intersection with 51st.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Startled, the traveler increased his pace and moved to the left edge of 51st. The SUV accelerated toward him, spraying gravel as it gained speed. The traveler started to jog and made his way to the nearest lawn as the rocks splattered behind him. He climbed a small incline until he was about six feet into the home's lawn. The SUV kept coming and swerved to avoid a boulder that marked the edge of the property.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The traveler, fully alarmed, started to run toward Coronado and the nearest streetlight. He stayed off the road and ran through the lawns of several houses. The SUV followed, directly to his right. Its spinning tires sprayed gravel toward him. The traveler's heart was pounding and he was almost out of breath. As he sprinted, he looked over at the SUV, whose headlights were bobbing as it bounced over potholes in the rutted road.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The SUV's engine was roaring and the gravel was flying. Then, it abruptly came to a halt. The traveler kept running, cut behind a small fir tree and, staying on the lawns, headed up Coronado. He could hear the SUV's engine being gunned. Glancing behind him, he saw that it was stuck, maybe high-centered on something at the road's edge.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The exhausted traveler slowed to a walk and climbed the hill on Coronado. He still had a long stretch to go on the trip home, but the pursuit had ended. He was looking forward to a beer.</span></p></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-36678738295989607312008-09-10T11:01:00.001-07:002008-09-10T11:09:49.961-07:00Immunity<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Jim<br /></span></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> I am stuck hanging onto a strap in the middle of a conversation at the front of the standing-room-only No. 12. Cells are passed back and forth to show photos; parties are discussed; girlfriends shift liquidly onto and off of laps. The multimedia mash-up goes on for nearly 15 minutes as we roll south through the neon night of Barbur Boulevard.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">As we near the Transit Center, the driver turns and says forcefully: "Will the young man in the white sweatshirt please quit using the F-word."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Strangely, I have not heard the F-word, and I am standing right next to the guy, who is sitting to my left. But he doesn't protest; he just slouches in the seat a little more. Apparently the profanity has not registered with me. What is the sound of one F-word clapping if it falls in the forest and nobody's "there" to notice?</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-44176505222280224372008-09-05T10:34:00.001-07:002008-09-05T10:43:21.261-07:00Riddle of the roof<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">By Jim<br /></span></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Waiting for the microwave to char my pitiful leftovers, I stroll to the second-floor window of our company cafeteria and gaze down on the street, hoping to spy that transcendent transit talisman, the Mighty 6. No sighting. But before the dinner dinger goes off, the No. 58 rolls by.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">On its roof is an advertisement: "KXL 750 AM -- We're On It."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">On the ROOF of the bus! Huh? I wonder how much that advertising costs. I wonder who sees it. I think about a bus on its side in a ditch, with diesel fuel pooling around it, a sparking engine, and flames illuminating that radio station ad, now in the lots-of-eyeballs, Our-Top-Story-Tonight position.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Why would you put an advertisement on top of a bus? I'll be thinking about that on my ride home tonight.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-71631980790114774322008-09-04T10:39:00.001-07:002008-09-05T10:45:06.922-07:00Blessed are the bus drivers<!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">By Amy</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I was waiting for the bus at night in the South Park Blocks, in the glow of an old-fashioned streetlamp. The earliest traces of autumn rode in on the wind, seeping through my summer clothes and chilling me to the core—the warm, sunny afternoon had tricked me into leaving my sweater at home. Pacing back and forth with my arms crossed, I tried to stay warm.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My bus appeared, at least seven minutes late. At least I thought it was my bus, but its sign said CENTER GARAGE instead of the line number and the destination. As it came closer, I recognized the scowling brunette behind the wheel as the usual bus driver at this time on the route. </span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She saw me on the curb, and shook her head no while making a slicing gesture at her neck with her hand, like a mechanic signaling to another to cut the ignition, or a bartender telling a drunk no more, you are cut off. Then she blasted right past me.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Now, you have to understand, my previous experiences with this driver have not exactly been pleasant. But they haven't been so unpleasant that I'd go out of my way to report her to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TriMet</span> in hopes that she loses her job—it's not that serious. But I do have a few minor complaints.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">For one, I don't like the way she drives. She brakes too hard and too late, as if red lights were annoying afterthought instead of a crucial means of controlling traffic. If I'm sitting, I brace myself to keep from shattering my kneecaps on the seat ahead, or if I'm standing, I have a death grip on the pole to stay upright.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And another thing: either <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TriMet</span> has assigned her a bus with no shock absorbers, or she manages to roll over every single bump and pothole possible on the road. When I used to work on a Forest Service fire crew, we'd tell our co-workers with this driving habit to pay attention to where they're going and "stop hammering our kidneys."</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She also annoys the hell out of me by speaking at a volume that only a woman who has mothered at least three children can achieve—the telltale shout used for herding kids. She sounds like Ethel Merman, had the legendary Broadway singer been a drill sergeant. For example:</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">To a driver who nearly T-boned us:</span> "Can't you see the sign says yield YOU STUPID IDIOT." </span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">To a bicyclist</span>: "I told you FIVE TIMES to turn your bike the other way on the rack. WHY DIDN'T YOU LISTEN TO ME THE FIRST TIME?"</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">To a hippie girl boarding the bus:</span> "Sweetheart, if you stand back in the darkness like that I CAN'T SEE YOU." (To which the girl replied: "I'm not your sweetheart.")</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">On the other hand, she deserves props for not holding a grudge. One night, after I had rung the bell, she drove past my stop, which I confess is nearly completely hidden by trees. "HEY, THAT'S MY STOP!" I shouted, completely overreacting, but maybe subconsciously mimicking her trademark yell. The following night, although her bus was noisy and crowded with teenagers, she went out of her way to shout "GOOD NIGHT, DEAR," to me as I exited the back door, no trace of sarcasm in her voice at all.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">On a different night, a homeless man boarded. As he balanced a halfway-smoked, snuffed-out cigarette on his bottom lip, he proceeded to search his pockets one by one for his transfer. He checked his jacket pockets; his shirt pocket; the front, back and leg pockets of his cargo pants, and then he moved on to the half-dozen or so bags he was carrying. The driver set the emergency brake and waited with her arms crossed in back of her head, as though she were sunning herself in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Cabo</span>, while he dug through his belongings. I seethed in my seat. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Why doesn't she kick him off?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">This fool is just pretending to have a transfer. He's trying to break her down so he can get a free ride.</span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> After no forward motion for five minutes, which in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">TriMet</span> time is 20 minutes, the man shouted "Aha!" and had held up the tiny slip of paper for her to see. </span></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">So if she could be so nice to Sir Many Pockets, why did she leave me shivering and alone in the Park Blocks? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">What a stone-cold bitch. </span></i></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I flipped open my cell phone and called the transit tracker. The mechanized white male voice on the other end told me the next bus would arrive in 26 minutes. I cursed the voice and hung up. During the wait time, I marched down to the Safeway and bought a half-gallon of milk and a six-pack of beer.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">When I left the store, my bus was just pulling up. I boarded. A burly young man was driving. I told him my regular driver failed to stop for me earlier. "What gives?" I asked.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"She had a customer-caused accident," he said. "I'm a fill-in driver."</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I thought about possible scenarios. After so many near-misses with merging cars, did she finally get in a wreck? Did a fight break out on the bus? Did it involve guns? Did the stress become too much for her and she just up and quit?</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"You could say she was in a hurry to change her uniform," the driver said.</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"You mean someone vomited on her?"</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"Yep," he said. "That's one of the risks you take with this job. Especially tonight, with the holiday weekend just starting. Lots of crazies out there."</span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Vomited on by a stranger. She didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. She was just trying to drive a bus, for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chrissakes</span>. Make some money to pay her bills, like everybody else. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if someone on the bus barfed on me, or if someone leaned over my cubicle wall at work and let it fly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I felt ashamed that I was so quick to make her the target of my anger. Who really was the impatient person here, the one quick to judge? In my heart of hearts, I knew the answer: I was the true bitch of the bus.<br /></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">P.S. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><a href="http://saints.sqpn.com/saintc05.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">St. Christopher</span></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">, the patron saint of bus drivers, please keep our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">TriMet</span> operators safe.</span></div> <!--EndFragment-->Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-67529170529040389612008-08-31T19:05:00.000-07:002008-08-31T19:17:10.549-07:00HazMet<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Jim</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The first warning comes from two rows in back of me. "We've got to stop! It's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">biohazard</span>!"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Huh? It's my bus pal Jackie, whom I see occasionally on the southbound No. 12 late at night, leaving downtown. We've just passed the Capitol Highway Safeway. She sounds the alarm again: "We've got to get a new bus. It's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">biohazard</span>."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Other riders stare at Jackie, then begin to look around, the first wave of panic, like a herd of wildebeests beginning to sense that lions are nearby. Attention turns toward the front of the bus, to a silent, still fellow with black hair, his head hung low.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He has just finished vomiting.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The bus slows. Riders cover their faces with garments as if they are air filters certified by the Centers for Disease Control. But the smell spreads quickly, a potent, bad blend of . . . fermented muskrat and spoiled deviled eggs? . . . of a garage freezer that lost power three months ago and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">greasepit</span> in a Portland food cart? This odor is surely not of the living world.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The No. 12 pulls to the curb and stops. Riders begin to move away from the contaminated man, who, strangely, just sits there blankly, surrounded by his own filth. Even Rosa Parks would have given up her seat and moved to the back of the bus.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Really, it's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">biohazard</span>," Jackie reminds everybody, authoritatively.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The driver opens both sets of doors. A few people leave. I join them, bailing out the back. I think of my co-worker Bob. At exactly 10:30 p.m. I said to him, "Let's go, man."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Naw</span>, you go ahead," he said. "I've got a few things to do. I'm catching the 11:05."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"OK." And I jetted out of the building. I do whatever it takes to catch the next bus, including running until I erupt in a coughing fit.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now, standing outside on the sidewalk next to our stranded toxin wagon, I look south down <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Barbur</span>. At least in this section, there is a sidewalk. I move to the open front door of the bus and say to the driver, "Are we staying here?"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Yes. We're going to have to get another bus."</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Excellent news. Wonderful. I figure I am about three or four miles from home; I could walk it in an hour. So I start trudging, giving a mental, obscenity-laced shout-out to Bio Boy and fate.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I've walked for about 15 minutes when I hear the unmistakable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">TriMet</span> diesel engine that is hard-wired into my bus-catching DNA. It's the No. 12, up and running again. In the blackness, it hurls by me. Why doesn't the driver stop? Doesn't he know it's me, with my huge backpack and beat-down, Friday-night-after-work demeanor? He saw me walk away. Did I insult him by giving up on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">TriMet</span>?</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I walk for another 10 minutes and reach the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Barbur</span> Transit Center--and there is the No. 12. There are all the passengers, milling about. There is Bio Boy, sitting on the ground against a wall, head down, unmoving.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But there are no men in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">hazmat</span> suits, no ambulances, no fire trucks. Just the quiet, blacked-out, empty hulk of our bus. I find my friend Jackie, the Paul Revere of puke, and get the details. Another bus is coming to meet us at the transit center. This happened to her once before, which is why she knows the drill, knows that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">TriMet</span> considers vomit a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">biohazard</span>.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In just a few minutes, the substitute bus arrives, coming all the way from the Rose Quarter to rescue us. We all board, except for Bio Boy, and continue off into the night. If fate is kind, we have not been exposed to plague germs.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9135699755335591832.post-22794467119233303882008-08-30T12:23:00.001-07:002008-08-30T12:33:41.765-07:00Applied physics<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By Bob</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The No. 54 was making its way toward downtown on a weekday afternoon. The bus, one of TriMet's newer models, was about half full.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">As the bus left the Swan Mart stop on Barbur Boulevard, a thirtysomething guy sitting in the back pulled the cord. The next stop was the last one on Barbur before the bus would turn onto Naito Parkway. The man rose to make his way to the rear door. He was carrying a large sack. He reached the landing at the rear door and waited.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The bus approached his stop, but didn't slow and instead roared past. He yelled to the driver, "Hey, hey, what about my stop?" The driver acknowledged him with a wave and pulled the bus over with a lurch at the auto lot just before Naito. The driver hit the brakes and the thirtysomething man, apparently caught unaware and holding only his sack and not a pole, fell hard into the landing's wall, bounced back into the rear wall and hit the deck. His sack went with him.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"What the ...," he cried. No answer from the driver. His fellow passengers just stared. The upended man slowly got to his feet, cursed again, then grabbed his sack and pushed open the rear door. Shaken, he unsteadily made his way down the sidewalk.</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Often on the No. 54, a departing rider will say "Thanks" as he or she leaves the bus. Kind of a Portland thing. There was no "Thanks" this time.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00685463333264165740noreply@blogger.com0