Bus Report #365
Waited for the 33 last night to get down to the Mission.
The guys sitting behind me smelled as though they had stewed themselves in pot (maybe they had, who knows?).
A couple of slim, skinny-jean-Clark-Kent-glasses-striped-sweater-wearing boyfriends sat up in the front, huddled together on the bench.
I got out at 18th and Valencia and walked up the street. There were a lot of people out for a Sunday, grouped in front of restaurants and bars. I noticed campaign headquarters for Mark Sanchez's supervisory race, looked like there was a party going on.
I turned down 22nd Street and headed over to see the Devilettes at the Make Out Room, a great show, as usual.
The Teacher's Pet was out of commission but it meant more hang out time with her and the friendly ghost.
Caught a cab home afterward. No way I was going to find a bus that late on a Sunday, and I have work today.
This morning the 38 was empty. I was glad, because I had my trusty computer with me (it is sick, needs to see a doctor tonight, poor thing) and I didn't want to get jostled.
The 22 was crowded.
I sat behind the woman who could be a fashion model.
On cue, the recovering addict guy told the guy getting out at Turk, "Don't work too hard today," and then continued talking loudly to the neck tattoo woman for the rest of the ride.
A very, very stinky woman got on at Shotwell and within two minutes the bus smelled like a toilet.
I was glad to get out a couple stops later.
Unrelated to public transit: The author David Foster Wallace died this weekend, apparently of suicide. How very, very sad. If you read Spanish, Alberto Fuguet has a nice reflection on him on his website.
The guys sitting behind me smelled as though they had stewed themselves in pot (maybe they had, who knows?).
A couple of slim, skinny-jean-Clark-Kent-glasses-striped-sweater-wearing boyfriends sat up in the front, huddled together on the bench.
I got out at 18th and Valencia and walked up the street. There were a lot of people out for a Sunday, grouped in front of restaurants and bars. I noticed campaign headquarters for Mark Sanchez's supervisory race, looked like there was a party going on.
I turned down 22nd Street and headed over to see the Devilettes at the Make Out Room, a great show, as usual.
The Teacher's Pet was out of commission but it meant more hang out time with her and the friendly ghost.
Caught a cab home afterward. No way I was going to find a bus that late on a Sunday, and I have work today.
This morning the 38 was empty. I was glad, because I had my trusty computer with me (it is sick, needs to see a doctor tonight, poor thing) and I didn't want to get jostled.
The 22 was crowded.
I sat behind the woman who could be a fashion model.
On cue, the recovering addict guy told the guy getting out at Turk, "Don't work too hard today," and then continued talking loudly to the neck tattoo woman for the rest of the ride.
A very, very stinky woman got on at Shotwell and within two minutes the bus smelled like a toilet.
I was glad to get out a couple stops later.
Unrelated to public transit: The author David Foster Wallace died this weekend, apparently of suicide. How very, very sad. If you read Spanish, Alberto Fuguet has a nice reflection on him on his website.
posted by Rachel at 9:49 AM
2 Comments:
I'm quite surprised (but should I be?) to see how much coverage his death is receiving. While I am incredibly upset he's no longer with us, it pleases me to see his work and professional reputation will have a lasting effect on all of us. I wish I could have taken a class of his at Pomona College.
Unrelated: long time reader, but your comment about DFW moved me to say something.
Thanks for coming out of the shadows, Ginger Talk. I had not heard or seen anything about DFW on the weekend, and was saddened and surprised to read of his death this morning. Its sad he's gone, such a great writer.
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