I think I'm starting to sound really super repetative b/c pretty much all I want to write about is riding the damn bus. But I can't help if the most bizarre and strangely entertaining bits of my life take place b/t the hours of 7:45-8:15am and 6-6:30pm M-F (oh, 2-3ish on Fridays), can I? I can't.
So last Fri the bus is off the hook! It's mobbed. I can barely board the 71 there are so many f'in people. All the tourists in their shorts freezing their asses off, reading their maps, the punks with their sullen faces, and the drunks. And me. There is no room to stand...and oddly...one seat left empty. I'm all, "um, does anyone want that?" They don't, so I graciously take it, b/c hey, there are way too many people on the bus to leave a seat open. There is nowhere to even stand!
So I sit. And then the dude to my right starts babbling to a group of three teenaged girls standing in front of us. I guess he works at some cafeteria where they go to school and after eavesdropping made this connection and started to bug them with this question and that comment. Eventually he goes silent. Then, someone pokes me. Him.
"Did you know...that...the transit authority...(he talks VERY slowly)...now has GPS tracking...on all their buses?" Me: "No, I didn't, that's very interesting." Him: "Yes! They do...It's great....You can see when buses...are going to arrive...It's very useful....You should definitely use it." Me: "Yes! That sounds very fantastic! I should use it." Quiet.
Poke.
"So yes...the buses...they all have GPS tracking. Will save you a lot of time. You should try it."
Me: "Oh yes! I will. Thanks." I turn my head left and turn up my volume.
Poke.
"Excuse me....You just touched me."
(oh really fuck face?? you just touched me too. like 8 million times. you poked me.) "Oh, really, did I? Sorry."
Poke.
"Usually, when you touch someone, you say I'm sorry or something."
Me: "Umm, yes, I did say I'm sorry." Him: "Oh? Did you? I guess I didn't hear you." Silence.
Poke.
"You just...you just went like...this (demonstrate the brushing motion for me)."
Me, exasperated, but still calm. "Oh wow. I guess my stop is coming up. I better get up now."
Which is a complete lie b/c my stop is 5 stops and over 5 min away, but for the sake of sanity, I had to move.
Anyway, the moral of this story is this: if a solitary seat is open, and the bus is filled to the gills, chances are, it's open for a reason. So, don't sit in it. The. End.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Turning point.
I think I'm starting to get mean. All the crazies, all the irritating masses that populate my bus lines? Still funny, but now, at times, less funny and more f'in annoying.
I grabbed drinks down by the Embarcadero post-work tonight, so I boarded my line pretty much at its starting point, hence, it was totally 100% empty save for me. Three stops later, it was still pretty empty - like well over 20 open seats. This dude of course beelines for the seat directly next to me and sits as close to me as possible, practically leaning on me.
I was waiting for him to ask to hold my hand like the airplane dude. Didn't happen.
But he did just talk and talk and talk. He wanted to kick it. In Oakland. He wanted to take me to breakfast...at Burger King. He wanted to grab a drink. He found out that I was from LA. He asked if I was a Blood or a Crip. He told me that he was the real OG. And on. And on. When I refused to give him my number, he pulled the race card. I told him actually it had nothing to do w/ the fact that he was black, but that I really just didn't want to kick it with him. I didn't tell him that I prefer that the men I date have a full set of teeth and don't reek solidly of cigarette smoke and dress in head to toe black velvet. But hey, that's just me.
Mind you, I had like a 30 min bus ride left when this dude sat down next to me. That is a long ass time. At some point, I just absolutely really didn't want to talk to this guy at all. So, I turned the volume on my iPod up to nearly full volume and turned my head to look out the window. And then I just started to completely ignore the guy. He continued talking for a good three minutes before he finally shut the f up.
And that, for me, was a turning point. I sometimes feel like a magnet for these weirdos up here, and damn it, I am not doing it anymore. I will not discuss your AIDs with you, I will not let you breath your putrid into my face as you invite me to Burger King, and no, for the f'in 50th time, I do NOT have $0.50 for you.
So there you go. The end.
I grabbed drinks down by the Embarcadero post-work tonight, so I boarded my line pretty much at its starting point, hence, it was totally 100% empty save for me. Three stops later, it was still pretty empty - like well over 20 open seats. This dude of course beelines for the seat directly next to me and sits as close to me as possible, practically leaning on me.
I was waiting for him to ask to hold my hand like the airplane dude. Didn't happen.
But he did just talk and talk and talk. He wanted to kick it. In Oakland. He wanted to take me to breakfast...at Burger King. He wanted to grab a drink. He found out that I was from LA. He asked if I was a Blood or a Crip. He told me that he was the real OG. And on. And on. When I refused to give him my number, he pulled the race card. I told him actually it had nothing to do w/ the fact that he was black, but that I really just didn't want to kick it with him. I didn't tell him that I prefer that the men I date have a full set of teeth and don't reek solidly of cigarette smoke and dress in head to toe black velvet. But hey, that's just me.
Mind you, I had like a 30 min bus ride left when this dude sat down next to me. That is a long ass time. At some point, I just absolutely really didn't want to talk to this guy at all. So, I turned the volume on my iPod up to nearly full volume and turned my head to look out the window. And then I just started to completely ignore the guy. He continued talking for a good three minutes before he finally shut the f up.
And that, for me, was a turning point. I sometimes feel like a magnet for these weirdos up here, and damn it, I am not doing it anymore. I will not discuss your AIDs with you, I will not let you breath your putrid into my face as you invite me to Burger King, and no, for the f'in 50th time, I do NOT have $0.50 for you.
So there you go. The end.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Tomorrow is my birthday.
Again, I repeat, tomorrow, Aug 21st, is my birthday. I'll be 27. 27 is one of my fav numbers. As such, this is a really big deal.
In this world, there are two types of people: 1) Those who like to quietly downplay their birthdays and refuse to take any kind of spotlight for themselves; and 2) Those who do quite the opposite. I, in case you hadn't yet guessed it, am in camp #2.
There is no other day during the year where it's virtually a holiday for you. No one else shares it. Except for like 20 thousand million other people but hey, chances are you only know like 1 or 2 of them, and who cares, it's your day, that is what really matters. So then, if you feel inclined to wish me a happy birthday, I'm not going to blush shyly and mumble something like "umm...thanks...you didn't have to say anything." Nope, not me. In fact, I won't be embarrassed if you choose to send a big ass bouquet of flowers to the office, either. I am guessing that is not going to happen...but hey, like I said, 27, fav/lucky number, you never know.
I am going to see Avenue Q tomo, btw. I am most excited. Do you know what that is about? I think it's something like muppets having sex. Or like, Sesame Street meets Rent. Something like that. Either way, I always think of being drunk in Vegas and disgustingly excited w/ Doempke over the fuzzy cabs they designed to promote the show. V. neat.
Ok then, something in my house is beeping and it's freaking me out. Time to go hunt down the source. Tomo is my bday. The end.
In this world, there are two types of people: 1) Those who like to quietly downplay their birthdays and refuse to take any kind of spotlight for themselves; and 2) Those who do quite the opposite. I, in case you hadn't yet guessed it, am in camp #2.
There is no other day during the year where it's virtually a holiday for you. No one else shares it. Except for like 20 thousand million other people but hey, chances are you only know like 1 or 2 of them, and who cares, it's your day, that is what really matters. So then, if you feel inclined to wish me a happy birthday, I'm not going to blush shyly and mumble something like "umm...thanks...you didn't have to say anything." Nope, not me. In fact, I won't be embarrassed if you choose to send a big ass bouquet of flowers to the office, either. I am guessing that is not going to happen...but hey, like I said, 27, fav/lucky number, you never know.
I am going to see Avenue Q tomo, btw. I am most excited. Do you know what that is about? I think it's something like muppets having sex. Or like, Sesame Street meets Rent. Something like that. Either way, I always think of being drunk in Vegas and disgustingly excited w/ Doempke over the fuzzy cabs they designed to promote the show. V. neat.
Ok then, something in my house is beeping and it's freaking me out. Time to go hunt down the source. Tomo is my bday. The end.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Floor 17, demystified.
Stu is constantly ragging on me to start wearing more practical shoes. I of course refuse, shoes aren't worth wearing if they're practical. Pain and beauty go hand in hand. I think that after a little incident I had today I might need to rethink it. I pretty much was walking off the bus and then just, fell. Totally twisted my ankle. Went down. On my knees. And I know that the bus driver didn't like me b/c I was talking on my cell when I got on and tried to hand her money b/c the box was broken and she was all "just keep your money, you're on your cell so of course you ain't thinkin' or payin' no attention." So I know that I went down like a retard on the sidewalk she was totally laughing at me. I don't blame her. I would've laughed at me too. But, anyway, since writing this, I've reconsidered again - I think I'll keep wearing ridiculous shoes.
Anyway. So today I was introduced to the 17th floor. Had a meeting there. I walked up to this dinky little conference room that already had 10 people in it and no more chairs for myself and my boss (who is back after his 2.5 weeks of being gone, in my first, 2.5 weeks), so we had to get another chair.
This floor: the carpet is brown, the chairs are orange, and it clearly has not been renovated since 1971. As for who works there? I have no idea. I mean, they work at my company, but what do they DO? As far as I could tell, Floor 17 is where they tuck away everyone that they don't want anyone to see. How can I be delicate about this? This is hearkening back to my summer intern days at B&D, when I was told that it'd be unlucky to sit on floor 1 b/c floor 2 is where customer service sits and you KNOW those customer service folks, they eat all the donuts and are all chubby and might someday...well...you know. Anyway, that is what my colleagues would say. Hey then! I think I just figured it out! Floor 17 must be customer service.
Anyway, so, I was looking for a chair, right? Half the offices were empty, and locked. So we couldn't get in to access the chairs. So we go off to other cubes, and I find a chair in this one cube, and I drag it into the conference room. But then like 3 min into the meeting, this v. angry looking receptionist is all banging on the door, and she's all, "Umm, you can't take that chair! someone sits in that cube!" And we're all, "really???" Because honestly, if I sat in that particular cube from which said chair emanated, I would cry every day. And then, I would quit. It was the saddest, most depressing piece of corporate real estate in the world. Shitty desk, view of nothing but walls, shitty chair, no decorations, sad looking old decks. And someone sits there!!!! Tear :(
Furthermore, Floor 17, is stifling hot. I was in the meeting, wearing a very cozy cashmere wrap-py sweater over a very skimpy tank top, and I'm starting to overheat. First a little bit of heat in the legs. Then a heated torso. Then I have to pull my hair up and off my neck. Then a flush creeps into my face. And then I think a hint of perspiration on my lip. I look at my watch. 9:30. Meeting ends at 10:30. Shit. 10:40. I'm virtually dying. So I take the plunge and just take off the sweater. Office appropriateness, be damned. Get some f'in AC in that shit!
So folks, there you have it, Floor 17. The myth dispelled. And speaking of numbers w/ the number 7 in them, yours truly turns 27 next week, just in case you wanted to mark your calendar. All forms of salutations, greetings, best wishes, and of course, presies, accepted.
Anyway. So today I was introduced to the 17th floor. Had a meeting there. I walked up to this dinky little conference room that already had 10 people in it and no more chairs for myself and my boss (who is back after his 2.5 weeks of being gone, in my first, 2.5 weeks), so we had to get another chair.
This floor: the carpet is brown, the chairs are orange, and it clearly has not been renovated since 1971. As for who works there? I have no idea. I mean, they work at my company, but what do they DO? As far as I could tell, Floor 17 is where they tuck away everyone that they don't want anyone to see. How can I be delicate about this? This is hearkening back to my summer intern days at B&D, when I was told that it'd be unlucky to sit on floor 1 b/c floor 2 is where customer service sits and you KNOW those customer service folks, they eat all the donuts and are all chubby and might someday...well...you know. Anyway, that is what my colleagues would say. Hey then! I think I just figured it out! Floor 17 must be customer service.
Anyway, so, I was looking for a chair, right? Half the offices were empty, and locked. So we couldn't get in to access the chairs. So we go off to other cubes, and I find a chair in this one cube, and I drag it into the conference room. But then like 3 min into the meeting, this v. angry looking receptionist is all banging on the door, and she's all, "Umm, you can't take that chair! someone sits in that cube!" And we're all, "really???" Because honestly, if I sat in that particular cube from which said chair emanated, I would cry every day. And then, I would quit. It was the saddest, most depressing piece of corporate real estate in the world. Shitty desk, view of nothing but walls, shitty chair, no decorations, sad looking old decks. And someone sits there!!!! Tear :(
Furthermore, Floor 17, is stifling hot. I was in the meeting, wearing a very cozy cashmere wrap-py sweater over a very skimpy tank top, and I'm starting to overheat. First a little bit of heat in the legs. Then a heated torso. Then I have to pull my hair up and off my neck. Then a flush creeps into my face. And then I think a hint of perspiration on my lip. I look at my watch. 9:30. Meeting ends at 10:30. Shit. 10:40. I'm virtually dying. So I take the plunge and just take off the sweater. Office appropriateness, be damned. Get some f'in AC in that shit!
So folks, there you have it, Floor 17. The myth dispelled. And speaking of numbers w/ the number 7 in them, yours truly turns 27 next week, just in case you wanted to mark your calendar. All forms of salutations, greetings, best wishes, and of course, presies, accepted.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Useless teen factoids.
Since my life is not mostly composed of working, I'll be transitioning back to last summer where I ramble aimlessly, frequently, about work-related thingies. So I'm reading this deck about getting people to eat more meals as a family, at home, more often, and it has these stats that tie together frequency of meals eaten together with teen behaviors. I find it rather interesting, b/c, I'm a huge dork:
--45% of kids who eat only 0-2 meals/week get As and Bs in school vs. 57% of kids who eat 5-7
--51% of kids 0-2 would go to parents w/ a problem v. 72% of 5-7 kids
--Only 30% of 5-7 kids claim to drink the alchy v. 52% of 0-2 kids
--Only 14% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke cigs v. 34% of 0-2 kids
--Only 12% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke the week v. 35% of 0-2 kids
My kids will be eating 7 meals a week with me in my household. Then I'll lock them up in the house to listen to classical music and do homework.
--45% of kids who eat only 0-2 meals/week get As and Bs in school vs. 57% of kids who eat 5-7
--51% of kids 0-2 would go to parents w/ a problem v. 72% of 5-7 kids
--Only 30% of 5-7 kids claim to drink the alchy v. 52% of 0-2 kids
--Only 14% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke cigs v. 34% of 0-2 kids
--Only 12% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke the week v. 35% of 0-2 kids
My kids will be eating 7 meals a week with me in my household. Then I'll lock them up in the house to listen to classical music and do homework.
Monday, August 13, 2007
A study in contrasts.
On Saturday night, I was standing out on what I still refer to as "my" balcony in SanMon, although, it really is no longer "mine," with Ritu. She shivered and noted how cold out it was. Meanwhile I was still marveling over the fact that it was nighttime, and I was outside in a sundress and sandals, and was not cold in the least. I kind of wanted to punch her at that point, knowing that back in SF it was likely 45 degrees out and I would've been wearing jeans likely paired with my puffy black North Face parka despite the fact that it's Aug, b/c it's just that cold here.
LA v. SF: a study in contrasts. Whereas the individuals populating Cobras and Mats on Friday night were trendily dressed, and good-looking (including Kristin Cavallari who I'm mostly sure was sitting at the table behind us), an SF restaurant would've been filled with kind of ill-dressed people, and umm, not attractive, people. But granted, they would've had actually functioning brains in their heads and real, paying, steady jobs. So, it's a trade-off.
LA: sunny. SF: foggy. LA: warm. SF: f'in cold. LA: flaky. SF: sensible. LA homeless: sleep drowsily under the palm trees along Ocean blvd. SF homeless: rant noisily until they disturb the bus driver enough to put the 71 out of service. LA restaurants: generally over-hyped and over-priced. SF restaurants: ridiculously good and nearly under-priced. My old LA neighborhood: lovely and suburban, preppy and sleepy. My new SF neighborhood: eclectic and colorful, and umm, kind of scary to walk by yourself in after dark. I know it's wrong, but over-piecing and under-grooming kind of set off my alarms.
I alternated my state of mind throughout the weekend. On Friday night when I skipped out of the airport and into the balmy air, I totally missed LA. Then on Saturday, when it took us 45 min to get to the Rosecrantz exit and we actually had to turn back around without ever making it to the beach, and I kind of wanted to kill myself, I sighed relief that I don't live their anymore. When I was strolling down Montana past all the sane, safe people on my way to Khiel's, I missed LA. When I was sitting at NailSpaLane watching all the men that came in to get waxed or pedi'ed, I chuckled and was happy I'd left it behind. When I first got to Les Deux and surveyed the outrageousness of everyone around me, I was like, "wow, this is so entertaining. I miss these weirdos." After a couple hours of watching countless bleach blonds wearing bandaids gyrate drunkenly and drape themselves over the bouncers to gain VIP access, I was happy to be gone.
So it was like that. It reminds me that there really is no perfect place to live. I've had this chat w/ Aly many times. You can live in SF or LA West coast where everything seems more interesting and fabulous, and a "cold" day in the winter (even in the North) is 45 degrees...and maybe when you're 43 you can afford a one bedroom house for $1.5M. Or you can you can be 26 and living in a 5 bedroom custom-built home on a 1 acre that cost <$5K, and be surrounded by Olive Gardens, bad shopping, and Christian Values.
Conundrum, right? I'll close by saying this, and it's completely unrelated to anything. Don't fly Virgin America yet. The planes kick ass, but they clearly don't know how to operate domestically yet. Oh, and if you were curious, no, no hand-holding for me on my most recent voyage. So that's good. Okie dokie, the end.
LA v. SF: a study in contrasts. Whereas the individuals populating Cobras and Mats on Friday night were trendily dressed, and good-looking (including Kristin Cavallari who I'm mostly sure was sitting at the table behind us), an SF restaurant would've been filled with kind of ill-dressed people, and umm, not attractive, people. But granted, they would've had actually functioning brains in their heads and real, paying, steady jobs. So, it's a trade-off.
LA: sunny. SF: foggy. LA: warm. SF: f'in cold. LA: flaky. SF: sensible. LA homeless: sleep drowsily under the palm trees along Ocean blvd. SF homeless: rant noisily until they disturb the bus driver enough to put the 71 out of service. LA restaurants: generally over-hyped and over-priced. SF restaurants: ridiculously good and nearly under-priced. My old LA neighborhood: lovely and suburban, preppy and sleepy. My new SF neighborhood: eclectic and colorful, and umm, kind of scary to walk by yourself in after dark. I know it's wrong, but over-piecing and under-grooming kind of set off my alarms.
I alternated my state of mind throughout the weekend. On Friday night when I skipped out of the airport and into the balmy air, I totally missed LA. Then on Saturday, when it took us 45 min to get to the Rosecrantz exit and we actually had to turn back around without ever making it to the beach, and I kind of wanted to kill myself, I sighed relief that I don't live their anymore. When I was strolling down Montana past all the sane, safe people on my way to Khiel's, I missed LA. When I was sitting at NailSpaLane watching all the men that came in to get waxed or pedi'ed, I chuckled and was happy I'd left it behind. When I first got to Les Deux and surveyed the outrageousness of everyone around me, I was like, "wow, this is so entertaining. I miss these weirdos." After a couple hours of watching countless bleach blonds wearing bandaids gyrate drunkenly and drape themselves over the bouncers to gain VIP access, I was happy to be gone.
So it was like that. It reminds me that there really is no perfect place to live. I've had this chat w/ Aly many times. You can live in SF or LA West coast where everything seems more interesting and fabulous, and a "cold" day in the winter (even in the North) is 45 degrees...and maybe when you're 43 you can afford a one bedroom house for $1.5M. Or you can you can be 26 and living in a 5 bedroom custom-built home on a 1 acre that cost <$5K, and be surrounded by Olive Gardens, bad shopping, and Christian Values.
Conundrum, right? I'll close by saying this, and it's completely unrelated to anything. Don't fly Virgin America yet. The planes kick ass, but they clearly don't know how to operate domestically yet. Oh, and if you were curious, no, no hand-holding for me on my most recent voyage. So that's good. Okie dokie, the end.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Head to toe fav color, just like a 5 year old.
So, in the summer months we have 1/2 day Fridays. AND we get to wear jeans. Wonders never cease. But seriously, leaving work at 12:30 in my jeans and Pumas did rather rule.
After a lunch w/ a bunch of peers that talked mostly about stuff that made little to no sense to me, I arrived home. I'm now changed for yoga and about to head out.
I just had to say though, in getting dressed, I:
--Put on my favorite yoga pants, which have a stripe of green around the hips.
--Put on my fav yoga top, which is, green.
--Filled my water bottle, which is GREEN...
--And placed it into a GREEN bag from work that says "green works" on it.
I'm now going to grab my yoga mat (blue!), and my yogitoes towel...which is...green. I thought I might look pretty freak-ish, but then I remember where it is that I live.
Happy weekends!
After a lunch w/ a bunch of peers that talked mostly about stuff that made little to no sense to me, I arrived home. I'm now changed for yoga and about to head out.
I just had to say though, in getting dressed, I:
--Put on my favorite yoga pants, which have a stripe of green around the hips.
--Put on my fav yoga top, which is, green.
--Filled my water bottle, which is GREEN...
--And placed it into a GREEN bag from work that says "green works" on it.
I'm now going to grab my yoga mat (blue!), and my yogitoes towel...which is...green. I thought I might look pretty freak-ish, but then I remember where it is that I live.
Happy weekends!
Thursday, August 02, 2007
No shortage of crazies here.
I started work, so I have, of course, much to report on that front. I remember those crazy days when I was just a little intern last summer, and I started off every morning quite methodically: heat my milk in the little work kitchen, add my coffee, make my little English muffin...then check my email for a bit...then blog...and about 40 min after arriving at work, start...doing work.
Not so much anymore. I am not even a week old as an employee...and I have not a second of spare time. Not a second.
But, umm, work is great - aside from their tremendous stinginess with the office supplies which is putting me in the anger-inspiring situation of making an Office Depot trip to buy my OWN supplies (seriously, i can't even get a damn collection of pens and some f'in push pins).
I can't even talk about work b/c I'm still fully fixated on the public transportation experiences that I have pretty much daily. Funny, b/c just one day after I wrote an entry about the buses, I actually got kicked off a bus. Well it went out of service. There was a crazy dude in the front playing his harmonica and a crazy dude in the back talking shit to some young chicks and making them run their mouths about "yo mama" which escalated into a screaming match, and then the bus driver pulled over and told us if we didn't quiet down she was going to take the bus out of service. And they didn't shut up. So, we got all kicked off. That really happened.
Yesterday morning I happened to sit next to a guy who told me, in no particular order, about:
--The battle of Baryshonokov (spelling is wrong, I know) v. other ballerinas who are clearly 10 times better
--His own life as a ballerina
--His 16-year long bout with AIDS. Of course, he didn't have the disease until they administered him drugs. It was the treatment that gave him AIDS.
--And...how he cured himself of AIDS through a cleansing diet.
--And...how he wants to go on Oprah to tell his story.
--And finally, about some dude on the album he was carrying around who was a: "black guy who dresses up like a white guy who imitates black guys"
I then got hit on while filling my Bart card by some dude who insisted on my number b/c he just really wanted to take me out to dinner. I think he might also have been crazy.
Today, on my commute home, there was a self-proclaimed "Prophet" on my bus. He was trying to turn people off the bus. He was furious at the crowding on the bus. He hated "the White problem," the "Asian Problem," and hated "having all the sick people and the gay people and all them other people on this here bus mixing their space" into his space. He hated each and every one of us on that bus. He was miserable. I said a small prayer when he got off. I laughed, too, when he flicked us off through the window after exiting. Twice as great considering he told us "I wouldn't swear, I'm a Christian man." Gesturing "f u" is so Christian, don't you think?
Anyway. It's after 10, and it's nearing my new bed time, as I have to drag myself out of bed at the unGodly hour of 6:45am every day now. So, I'm going to bed.
Not so much anymore. I am not even a week old as an employee...and I have not a second of spare time. Not a second.
But, umm, work is great - aside from their tremendous stinginess with the office supplies which is putting me in the anger-inspiring situation of making an Office Depot trip to buy my OWN supplies (seriously, i can't even get a damn collection of pens and some f'in push pins).
I can't even talk about work b/c I'm still fully fixated on the public transportation experiences that I have pretty much daily. Funny, b/c just one day after I wrote an entry about the buses, I actually got kicked off a bus. Well it went out of service. There was a crazy dude in the front playing his harmonica and a crazy dude in the back talking shit to some young chicks and making them run their mouths about "yo mama" which escalated into a screaming match, and then the bus driver pulled over and told us if we didn't quiet down she was going to take the bus out of service. And they didn't shut up. So, we got all kicked off. That really happened.
Yesterday morning I happened to sit next to a guy who told me, in no particular order, about:
--The battle of Baryshonokov (spelling is wrong, I know) v. other ballerinas who are clearly 10 times better
--His own life as a ballerina
--His 16-year long bout with AIDS. Of course, he didn't have the disease until they administered him drugs. It was the treatment that gave him AIDS.
--And...how he cured himself of AIDS through a cleansing diet.
--And...how he wants to go on Oprah to tell his story.
--And finally, about some dude on the album he was carrying around who was a: "black guy who dresses up like a white guy who imitates black guys"
I then got hit on while filling my Bart card by some dude who insisted on my number b/c he just really wanted to take me out to dinner. I think he might also have been crazy.
Today, on my commute home, there was a self-proclaimed "Prophet" on my bus. He was trying to turn people off the bus. He was furious at the crowding on the bus. He hated "the White problem," the "Asian Problem," and hated "having all the sick people and the gay people and all them other people on this here bus mixing their space" into his space. He hated each and every one of us on that bus. He was miserable. I said a small prayer when he got off. I laughed, too, when he flicked us off through the window after exiting. Twice as great considering he told us "I wouldn't swear, I'm a Christian man." Gesturing "f u" is so Christian, don't you think?
Anyway. It's after 10, and it's nearing my new bed time, as I have to drag myself out of bed at the unGodly hour of 6:45am every day now. So, I'm going to bed.
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