What's an hour and a half of your life when it's MUNI?

What with the last two weeks including finding the contents of my classroom piled haphazardly in a hallway except for MIA hula hoops and radio, having doctors use phrases like "life threatening condition" in my vicinity, being shot up with the same drugs used in chemotherapy, discovering that everything I ever eat is liberally laced with the one vitamin I must currently avoid, and (worst of all) being thrust from the languid hammock of summer vacation to the ice bath water of a 40+ hour work week in which I am expected both to clean mouse poop and to arrive on time, at the same time every day, five days in a row - for all foreseeable future weeks - to stand in front of blinky, expectant youth, you'd think that the universe would say to itself, "Self! Let's give S a break 'til September 1 at least.... if only to lull her and her temporarily-Burner-free-neighborhood into a false sense of joy and complacency."

You'd think. Well, at least that was what I was thinking [Ed.'s note: See dictionary definition to "optimist" or "unrealistic"] when I boarded the Outbound J train at Market early this morning. Especially when I saw the Spare the Air Ride Free signs. But, as the Ray Troll illustrated t-shirts of self-described realists (pessimists) will attest, my Sugar Child, there is just No Free Lunch.

Got it?

So I must have relinquished my Ray Troll shirt too long ago because I am peacefully enjoying apple sauce (one of the only items available to my body) when the MUNI driver stops at the far dead ending of Church street and says, "Last stop. Everyone off."

But it is scrumptiously balmy outside, especially for being Sucka Free 8 a.m. rather than, say, noon in Bombay during the summer, so I cheerily exit the train to await the next one. After some time an accordion bus labeled SHUTTLE careens into the bus stop. OK. So it doesn't say J. Is that such a bad sign? I mean, the driver is wearing a brown polyester MUNI jacket. No fear - can't a sister have a little faith?

We poke our hopeful, various heads in the swung door gap, asking, "Er... is this the J? Do you go to Balboa BART Station?" The MUNI jacket sporting driver nods his head vigorously, splitting his face open with his joyous grin. "Balboa BART, Balboa BART, yes, yes." When his face and hair don't actually roll off from all the nodding, on we pile. The doors clamp closed.

We get to the end of Church, where it meets 30th Street. This constitutes a whole 50 feet at most.

Driver calls back, "Balboa BART, right or left? Right or left?" (splitty happy smile)

Passengers: Er, left. Left.

Fellow: That is confidence building.

Driver: Good. All is good. Not to worry! I have never driven this route! (Chestier Cat grin)

Passengers: Right on San Jose, in two blocks.

Lady: Do you leave off on Randall and Mission?

Driver: Hmmmmmmmm

Passengers: No! San Jose, San Jose!

New Lady standing on entrance stairs at Dolores: Do you go to Glen Park BART Station?

Driver: Hmmmmmmmm (slightly worried smile)

Driver exits seat and stands, feet apart, hands on hips, in the aisle. Swivels to face passengers. Asks: Balboa BART, right? Balboa BART?

Passengers 1-6: Yes, yes. We are very Greek Chorus, really.

New Lady backs off of bus. Doors reseal.

Passengers 8-14: (grumbly mumbles and loud complainy whining)

Me: (grin and laugh, I mean what exactly could possibly go wrong?)

Passengers: Right on San Jose.

Driver: No problem, no problem. I see the tracks. I'll follow them!

While our addled passenger brains attempt to work out how he is going to let people off on the next corner when he is driving in the inner lane that leads to only either a freeway entrance or a train stop on tracks that are no longer on the surface street, the driver shuttles our accordion bus through the San Jose/Randall 4-way-light, beginning-of-freeway-and-separated-MUNI-gravel-tracks intersection. He stops at the train's normal stop. Which would be normal, were he a train. But he isn't. He is a very long bus with a bendy middle. Did I mention that?

Doors open.

The men, every last one of them, pile out.

Angry Elf Fellow: I value my life too much to stay on here.

The women all smile at each other. It is not like we have not been through worse. It's not like he's tried to touch our asses or said some racist, sexist, homophobic bullshit while attempting to secure our phone numbers. I mean, puh-leeze.

I approach the front. And point out the end of cement just past the train stop, the beginning of true gravel train tracks and an approaching MUNI J train that is honking a bit wildly, considering the circumstances (being that we cannot exactly do anything about our situation right then and there).

Driver: Hmmmmmmm (flashy grin continues)

Me: You do realize you cannot drive on these tracks, right?

Driver: No problem. No problem.

Driver leaves his seat again to go outside and assume the hips-hands contemplative position. Grins and squints. Gets back in. The electronic MUNI LADY voice says, "Hold On." And we back up the accordion bus across the 4-way, freeway entrancing, rush hour laden intersection. And maneuver somehow into the far lane freeway entrance lane. There is clapping, Driver honks at the train-driving driver, we ladies wave adieu to the stranded gawking men cluttering the original, now inaccessible train stop, and forward into the future we go.

At which point it seems wise to move to the first seat and give Grinny Driver directions.

Me: You need to be in the other lane.

Driver: (grin) Other Lane?

Me: Yes. Like, nowish.

Driver (grin): No problem. No problem.

Done.

Me: You need to get off at this left exit. I cannot remember if the underpass is tall enough, but I am assuming it is.

Done.

We drive along. Eventually the tracks meet us back on the road and we are in business.

Driver (beaming, blinding, dazzling grin): Tracks!

We pick up more ladies pretty much any time we tell him we want to get off or he sees a place where people appear to be waiting? loitering? on our side of the street. I wonder whether it is ethical to give him wrong directions in order to be dropped off in front of my school. Eventually we gals and our MUNI jacket sporting grinning lunatic driver make it at least alongside Balboa BART.

Like Laughing? Tune in to our Local Politics

Remember that CA Special Election circus of "Gravis" vs. the 129 candidates who could raise the loot to pay their way onto the ballot [including Schwarzenegger, Gary Coleman, the porn star, the guy who hates plumber's crack, and the boy who never won a student government seat in his high school, and oh I could go on]? It really set a precedent for weird, not that we needed it in San Francisco.

But in the interest of keeping things... well.... interesting, San Francisco has somehow retained its ability to head right over the top of sweetly funny. This year it's Chicken John Vs. Ken-Doll Newsom. WHAT?! Celebrity Fight Night? SNL spoof on the WWF? Not yet, it's just your run-of-the-mill mayoral race around here. My favorite was this FULL PAGE ad in last week's Guardian.

Outcome? Though I've seen no indication that his plea fell on anything but deaf Ken Doll ears, Chicken John did come up with the money somehow, meaning he will now be on the ballot. And you thought this fall's reality series lineup would be dull.

But ONE Reason Why Market Street's Safeway Does Not Have a Family Show on TV

1. The Parking Lot.

Walking through on this lovely Friday afternoon, I "enjoyed" a vision through the windowshields of three cars in a neat little row right near the entrance of the Safeway (we're not talking far corner, people).

Car A: Older fellow getting lit, pipe in hand.

Car B: Six younger adults compressed into four seats, attempting simultaneously to inhale the smoke emitting from Car A while mixing alcohol into Pepsi bottles and rapidly throwing the concoction down their gullets.

Car C: Ageless adult shooting up.

All windows down, basking in the lovely sunshined day before they... er... drive somewhere?


And, yes, this is the same seemingly unaware parking lot that somehow manages to tow within two minutes of their arrival anyone parking and running into Sunny Produce for organics and mom and pop shop love. Funny that. Besides, I'm not even going into what was happening in some of the other cars.

Better Red Than Dead in Colorado?

Though we were guideless, the ever-fabulous PQ still expresses her gratitude for such Sage-like Colorado Signage:

Colorado Mountain High

Ah John Denver in Vail. The atmosphere up here? A little thin. So thin that I have witnessed not one, not two, but THREE hummingbirds SIT DOWN and pant quietly, slowing their heartrate, for over a minute. Is this news to anyone besides me? So either I am imagining things, or hummingbirds have legs. Which they use. To sit very still. Quietly. For substantial periods of time. Pretty much until I point and scream, "Seated Hummingbird! Seated Hummingbird!" Weird.

What Do All the Ex-Pat Swissies Do to Celebrate Indie Day?

I know you have all been asking yourselves just this question when you find yourself unexpectedly awake at 3:49 a.m.

Answer: They apparently stuff their trim, fit, muscle-only selves carb-silly at the nearest Swiss bakery.

On August 1st I had yet to learn this. So when I walked out of Avon's Columbine Bakery and into my bro that day, I remarked:

"There's a shitload of very festive Swiss people in that random little bakery. You'd think not so many Swiss people would hang around Vail, since it is like some creepy "Disneyland Swiss Chalet" set. But I swear they are all in there. Weird."
Really, I am guessing every Swiss in the region was there. The place was packed.

Now, as some of you know, in addition to my usual attracting of hovering hummingbirds, I am currently attracting all things Swiss and have consequently become the most recent convert to the League of How Do the French-Swiss Do It? Appreciaters, even if it does irk me that people like Smiley Smiles-a-lot and his countryfolx somehow manage to appear clean and well pressed even when their white clothing has been worn for days, even in the saunas of Colombian jungles. [Note: This is yet another sign demonstrating my non-Swiss origins, as I have a genetic tendency to appear dirty and recently Cuisineart blended/chopped even when I am recently showered and wearing fresh clothing. If you'd like to test yourself, use the ending picture to identify which one's the unshowered suiss wearing a three day old trekked in shirt who looks like they got off an industrial ironing board/steam clean versus who's a recently blended looking double-showered estadounidense? Bet you can't tell.] Oh, tangent, tangent. Where was I? Oh yes, talking to the bro.

And my bro, who is only vaguely listening to my pronouncements and opinions anyways, looks at me and says, "What ARE you yabbling about?" But then the next day he points out this picture and caption in the Vail Daily Newspaper and all is revealed.

Well, happy jour d'indépendance, ya neatniks.

Another picture worth a thousand very telling words: