Actually I do have a story. I almost had to say something this time. I never say anything on the bus. Someone could be on fire and I wouldn't say anything. But these three guys get on, teenagers, and they're making all of this noise and ruckus. And one of them gets up to pull the cord to stop and the other goes, "What?! You think you're fuckin' Obama leadin' this group? This isn't even our stop." And I was like, "Really? Are we already using Obama in the negative?"
-a.y.v.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, 7:05 p.m., Haight Fillmore - 16th Guerrero
It would be nothing short of alarming if you put kittens in a box and they each went to a corner, stared at the wall, not engaging with one another. No butt smelling, no meowing, not even any eye contact. But this is the 22Fillmore and the name of the game is avoidance through subtle mechanisms of defense. Humans, with all the cerebral fortitude in the world, which we use to ignore one another.
Mechanisms
1. The hoodie. A hood up on the bus is like having your own room. It is a car to a teenager who owns nothing in the world. It is "my dance space." It is impenetrable. No one can come into your hoodie.
2. The sunglasses. Last night at 7:10 p.m. a pregnant woman boarded the bus at Church and Market wearing sunglasses. She kept her sunglasses on, although technically night and also indoors. In 1956, this meant that you had a shiner. In 2009, on the 22, it means, "Who me? Oh, I'm not actually here. I'm invisible."
3. The iPod. Practically a necessity for sanity some days on the 22. The drunk across from me is yelling, maybe yelling at me, but I wouldn't know. From my standpoint, it just looks like he is singing along to The Dirtbomb's Here Comes That Sound Again. No sir, he won't get a reaction out of me. I can't heeeeaaaar you. I look around and almost everyone is a part of the white ear bud army. Eyes glazed over singing or crying or screaming inside. We are all at our own concerts. Perhaps, we all love music. But, perhaps, we all hate each other.
Mechanisms
1. The hoodie. A hood up on the bus is like having your own room. It is a car to a teenager who owns nothing in the world. It is "my dance space." It is impenetrable. No one can come into your hoodie.
2. The sunglasses. Last night at 7:10 p.m. a pregnant woman boarded the bus at Church and Market wearing sunglasses. She kept her sunglasses on, although technically night and also indoors. In 1956, this meant that you had a shiner. In 2009, on the 22, it means, "Who me? Oh, I'm not actually here. I'm invisible."
3. The iPod. Practically a necessity for sanity some days on the 22. The drunk across from me is yelling, maybe yelling at me, but I wouldn't know. From my standpoint, it just looks like he is singing along to The Dirtbomb's Here Comes That Sound Again. No sir, he won't get a reaction out of me. I can't heeeeaaaar you. I look around and almost everyone is a part of the white ear bud army. Eyes glazed over singing or crying or screaming inside. We are all at our own concerts. Perhaps, we all love music. But, perhaps, we all hate each other.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Late night, bus stop bums
Late one night, I was waiting for the 22 Fillmore bus in San Francisco, and an aggressive crackster started begging for change, escalating as he ranted: "I need a dime! A quarter! Fifty cents! A dollar, I need a dollar!" "I don't have any change, damn it!" I swore at him. Thing was, I had on a pair of Levis that I loved and washed frequently, and it was exactly at this moment that the thin cloth of the front pockets gave out, cascading coins onto the sidewalk. I tell this story because Steve Powers' graphic-arts book illustrates such tales—street hassles in which one hustler is outwitted by another, much as an immovable object will sometimes overcome irresistible force. "You can't win if I don't lose" reads one of Powers' captions.
-Richard von Busack of Metro Newspapers
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Saturday, 8:05 a.m., Haight Fillmore - Union Fillmore
Every Saturday morning when I get on the 22 I am reminded of just how hard the working class works. Each double seat is filled with a Hispanic man, with his hood up. The man against the window is leaning his head, his face is smashed into the glass, and the man next to him is asleep on his shoulder. It is admirable, miserable and adorable all at once.
It is quiet. The fog is heavy and we, the Saturday workers, begin our journeys towards our invisible destinations of little consequence.
We sit in the back row.
A couple also boards and sits to our left. They beam with post-coital hipster glow. And in a sour morning mood I can't help but think, "You better use condoms."
The man in front of us sits alone and he takes out his phone.
And he pierces the air with -
"BAOOOOOO-WOOOOOOOOOW BAO-WOW-Wow-WOW BAAAAAOOOOOO-WOOOOOOOW BAO-WOW-Wow-WOW Ba-Bao-ner-ner-ner-NOW"
It's Sleepwalk by Santo & Johnny, the ballad from La Bamba.
He lies his grey-hoodied head back and let's whatever memory he seeks pour into him as he closes his eyes.
The T-Mobile Nokia emits just enough sound to play the song at the perfect diner level.
No one is speaking. We all look out the windows, where we can see nothing through the fog, but memories of lost loves or days spent with our brothers under weeping willows.
For a moment, we are not on the 22 at Geary and Fillmore with sirens going to give a shot of adrenaline to someone at Turk and Jones. We are each held by nostalgia and dripping, perhaps, just one tear of gratitude while listening to what I now know as chulo emo.
Fade.
And I'm so mediaized that I can here La Bamba's "Riiiiiiiitchie!" as if someone has said it.
The MP3 cuts to Ice Cube's Today Is A Good Day.
Almost all of us know the words.
We bob our head and exchange smiles. Some cannot resist bumping their hands, and why would they?
Even the couple, with bed head, wreaking of dollar PBR's, and I look at each other and I think, "I love you, you crazy kids."
I don't know about them, but we had a good day.
It is quiet. The fog is heavy and we, the Saturday workers, begin our journeys towards our invisible destinations of little consequence.
We sit in the back row.
A couple also boards and sits to our left. They beam with post-coital hipster glow. And in a sour morning mood I can't help but think, "You better use condoms."
The man in front of us sits alone and he takes out his phone.
And he pierces the air with -
"BAOOOOOO-WOOOOOOOOOW BAO-WOW-Wow-WOW BAAAAAOOOOOO-WOOOOOOOW BAO-WOW-Wow-WOW Ba-Bao-ner-ner-ner-NOW"
It's Sleepwalk by Santo & Johnny, the ballad from La Bamba.
He lies his grey-hoodied head back and let's whatever memory he seeks pour into him as he closes his eyes.
The T-Mobile Nokia emits just enough sound to play the song at the perfect diner level.
No one is speaking. We all look out the windows, where we can see nothing through the fog, but memories of lost loves or days spent with our brothers under weeping willows.
For a moment, we are not on the 22 at Geary and Fillmore with sirens going to give a shot of adrenaline to someone at Turk and Jones. We are each held by nostalgia and dripping, perhaps, just one tear of gratitude while listening to what I now know as chulo emo.
Fade.
And I'm so mediaized that I can here La Bamba's "Riiiiiiiitchie!" as if someone has said it.
The MP3 cuts to Ice Cube's Today Is A Good Day.
Almost all of us know the words.
We bob our head and exchange smiles. Some cannot resist bumping their hands, and why would they?
Even the couple, with bed head, wreaking of dollar PBR's, and I look at each other and I think, "I love you, you crazy kids."
I don't know about them, but we had a good day.
Friday, 7 p.m., Haight Fillmore - 16th Valencia
You see the bus coming toward you and it's just a black mass like a two ton black brick on wheels. There's no light shining through and you know it's packed - packed worse than sardines, more like one of those surprise snakes in a can. And as it sort of stumbles to the stop like a drunken sumo-wrestler, the door opens and vomits out two or three thousand people.
But, there is still no where to stand. I get on and I don't pay because I can't even get to the driver. People are crammed tight so I have to stand on the stairs. Many are in front of the sacred yellow line and we all keep throwing glances to the driver for spacial approval.
The bus begins to move and there's nothing to hold on to so the two strangers next to me and I get to second base.
And then...the roar.
It comes from the back and sounds like someone is roasting two hundred hyenas.
It goes something like.... ASFFFFEQPOHFEENSDVOEW BOYFRIEND MOTHERFUCKERAFGSBDAAAFASFas IPod QWDASNFwd qweiodasseqf Fuck YOu Bitch MotherFuqa qwwwfrqnniggeriofhaf Sit on Me Awedapushed me iwfdhasv WHatchoo Lookin at Bitch aSQEWFEFGsv Ipod alihqwf FAt aSS lknfiohewefd Get Off Me asfnnewiofhefwndiqwnd bITCH Q:WEFNwefw Mine mine mine!
We throw one another glances. Smirks. It is almost impressive how loud it is.
There is an elderly woman totally intrigued by the chaos. She's moving left and right on the stairs next to me trying to get a peep at who or what could possibly be causing so much noise.
"What in God's name is going on back there?" she asks wrinkling a brow full of lines from a thousand such similar inquiries.
And then the driver chimes in.
"I'll tell you what it is. It's a fuckin' show. They are on display right now. You think they do this at home?! You think they do this in front of their parents?! Mmm-mm. Nah-uh. But because it's nice and warm in here and they have a captive audience, they have to show off, like a bunch of fucking ignorant bastards disrupting everyone's ride. But if no one was payin' attention, they would shut the hell up! I'm supposed to be their papa? Naw-uh. Nobody cares about those kids and I'm tellin' ya, neither do I."
And then...silence.
And the bus driver says, "Aw shit, did I have the speaker on?"
But, there is still no where to stand. I get on and I don't pay because I can't even get to the driver. People are crammed tight so I have to stand on the stairs. Many are in front of the sacred yellow line and we all keep throwing glances to the driver for spacial approval.
The bus begins to move and there's nothing to hold on to so the two strangers next to me and I get to second base.
And then...the roar.
It comes from the back and sounds like someone is roasting two hundred hyenas.
It goes something like.... ASFFFFEQPOHFEENSDVOEW BOYFRIEND MOTHERFUCKERAFGSBDAAAFASFas IPod QWDASNFwd qweiodasseqf Fuck YOu Bitch MotherFuqa qwwwfrqnniggeriofhaf Sit on Me Awedapushed me iwfdhasv WHatchoo Lookin at Bitch aSQEWFEFGsv Ipod alihqwf FAt aSS lknfiohewefd Get Off Me asfnnewiofhefwndiqwnd bITCH Q:WEFNwefw Mine mine mine!
We throw one another glances. Smirks. It is almost impressive how loud it is.
There is an elderly woman totally intrigued by the chaos. She's moving left and right on the stairs next to me trying to get a peep at who or what could possibly be causing so much noise.
"What in God's name is going on back there?" she asks wrinkling a brow full of lines from a thousand such similar inquiries.
And then the driver chimes in.
"I'll tell you what it is. It's a fuckin' show. They are on display right now. You think they do this at home?! You think they do this in front of their parents?! Mmm-mm. Nah-uh. But because it's nice and warm in here and they have a captive audience, they have to show off, like a bunch of fucking ignorant bastards disrupting everyone's ride. But if no one was payin' attention, they would shut the hell up! I'm supposed to be their papa? Naw-uh. Nobody cares about those kids and I'm tellin' ya, neither do I."
And then...silence.
And the bus driver says, "Aw shit, did I have the speaker on?"
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