A Funky Glass, Half Full

In general, I am an optimist.  I can find the best in any situation….well except maybe crevices.  

In the last few weeks, some people may have noticed my terrible mood.  At times, there was no covering it up.  My world seemed pretty funky and not in the George Clinton, Parliament, James Brown kind of way.    I was bored and agitated.  I wanted to go drive to a concert at Hotel Café, like I often used to do, or go see a friend in Silverlake.  I was feeling pretty stifled.  I had an array of tunes to explore but with no mean.

This carless soul was traveling around Funkytown with a sour attitude.  Everything, and I mean, everything was pissing me off.  My patience for the hustle and bustle around me was gone.  Everywhere I went there were people.  After living in NYC for 2 years, it took my experiences in LA to realize why New Yorkers were the way they were.  Go figure.

I got into an elevator at work and someone, from another office, got on it with me.  I was angry at his presence.  My bubble was invaded yet again.  “why do you have to be here”  I thought to myself.   I am not sure if I, uncharacteristically, rolled my eyes or the action was in my mind.

In September, I wrote:

I think public transit is getting to me. Got really irritated by this woman who said "My medication makes the sun so bright for me. I think I need to get a sombrero". Yes lady that's what you need! How about start with a pair of sunglasses.

Every word was real for me in that moment.  Looking back on it, I am not totally proud of my attitude. The bus is a pretty real place.  Why not be real with my thoughts?  I just wasn’t going to say it out loud.

Now, I think I have left the funk to the Masters the way it’s intended.  Sly, George and James: Thanks for letting me barrow your word “funk” even if it wasn’t used in the proper spirit of your music. 

Bubbles Bursting

One of the biggest parts of public transportation is just that – the public.  The insular, mobile habitat with the fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, shoes thrown in the back seat and the hand picked music we created disappears.  This bubble limits interaction to an angry honk or love tap.  When you are on a bus, you no longer have a bubble.  You are boxed in with people you typically wouldn’t interact with.  While standing at the bus stop or walking between destinations, you are forced to be among people – maybe this is one reason New York City has incredible energy.  

On a normal day taking my normal route, I met a middle-aged woman who proves my theory above.  I hear hustle and bustle of plastic bags behind me with erratic footsteps.  Cautious of my surroundings, I casually look.  I am instantly relieved when I see that the person was a mentally handicapped woman.  I no longer felt threatened even though her footsteps speed up with a more urgent pace. 

Few seconds go by, she had caught up to me and says, “We are wearing the same pants!”   Indeed, we both were wearing similar colored pants.  She wore a baggy pair of gray sweat pants and I was in gray leggings.  Her enthusiasm was endearing and contagious.  She was beside herself and could not stop talking about it.  Then, she dramatically stops and says, with her palm in the air, “high five.” 

I obliged.

She continues to talk about how she has never seen anyone walking down the same street has her with matching clothes.  As I tried to change the subject, she would quickly answer my questions and start talking about the matching outfits again. 

After a block or so, she stops and enthusiastically says, “We have matching shirts!!”  Sure enough, we were both wearing a turquoise shirt.

“High Five” 

I oblige, again.

This cycle goes on for another block.  As she frantically runs ahead to the guy walking his dog, I am thinking this interaction is done.  The matching outfits were no longer as interesting as the cute, wired haired dog on the red leash. 

Nope. Not so fast.  She decided this stranger walking his dog needed to know about our matching outfits. 

He awkwardly obliged with a half-cocked smile.

The two of us continued our walk for about 10 more feet.  When she walks quickly ahead of me yelling “Ok all done talking.”

Now it was clear that our brief interaction was done.  I still see her every now and then.  She doesn’t remember me maybe because we haven’t been in matching outfits since. It was a fun interaction while it lasted. 

Something is Brewing....

I am oddly inspired by this heavily, bearded guy sitting behind me with giant head phones. He is holding on to a radio with a very long  antenna.  Looking for a signal. A connection.

I feel a new blog coming on..... 
And to this unique individual holding his antenna high, rock on my friend.

I have had a weekend of good material. Looking forward to putting it in blog form!  See you soon.

Plastic Bags, Instinct, and Being Fly.

People watching is so interesting.   On my way to work the other day, I was so fascinated by this guy I didn’t want to get off the bus.

This man, in all his plastic bag glory, sat on the bus taking up an entire row.  When I say plastic bags, I mean enough that he was sitting on them to compact the bag space.   With shredded bags around his calves and plastic utensils hanging from his mouth like hay, he sat there fumbling through each bag.  After each action, he proceeded to make, what appeared to be, the sign of the cross.  He was very methodical and thorough.  Over and over again I watched his routine.

Then, in an effort to find the answer to the age-old questions of dating, sex and relationships, I kept thinking “How much time would we save if we could see these signs of craziness earlier in the dating world?”   If it is only as easy as spotting the crazy guy on the bus, maybe dating and sex wouldn’t be as complicated.

Although a man that recycle and a possible Catholic wins major points in my book, this man on the bus was clearly not one to pursue. Well, no time was wasted here.  If I was attracted to him, I knew right away he was a bit off.   I think anyone would.

 Why can’t people reveal themselves little quicker?!?

Then again, this man on the bus, and many I have encountered, have no inhibitions and nothing to lose.   I had one guy, wearing a feathered fedora, and a gold lamé t-shirt tell me I was fly.  He then asked me out for coffee at the nearest McDonalds.  Another sore ridden guy, offered to “hook me up” with a free bus ride while covertly flashing me his pass.  As if that didn’t impress me enough, he offered to take me out to a steak dinner. 

I have to admit I was very excited about being called “fly” but didn’t partake in anything other than a gracious “thank you” in both interactions.

So maybe dating is a combination of sincerity and instinct with a dash of vulnerability? …..I don’t know. 

I do know that life has a way of presenting you with some fly situations where you trust your instincts and let things flow like a plastic bag in the wind.   All the while, recycling of course.

Chasing Pavement and a Bus or Two

 I had a little chuckle at myself when I was transferring buses and

took off running after the next arriving bus.  My energy was wasted

because it was the wrong bus at the wrong intersection.   For those of

you who know me, it's a typical mishap.  I thought it was also very

fitting.  My latest quirky sprint is a nice little parallel of my love

life.  Chasing the wrong bus is symbolic of constantly getting

involved with the wrong men.

Okay. Okay. I sort of sound like a bitter hag.  Given my year, I have

a right to be.  But I assure you I am not.    I am actually more open

than I have ever been.  We all have stories of passion, love and

heartbreak.   Details are irrelevant.  Although I have to say, I have

 heard some stories that still blow my mind, don't make sense and never

will.  Including mine.  Then again, what sense does chasing the wrong

bus make?

Really it's all about patterns.  I am programmed to run after any and

all green buses no matter where they go.  It takes getting on the wrong

bus a few times to figure out which bus you're suppose to ride, or to

figure out which stop to wait for the right one.   If you are lucky, you

will only have one all out sprint to figure it out.  I think its time I start 

chasing a blue or yellow or red bus.  See where that takes me.

 Some prefer frogs.  I prefer bus rides.  Hope I find the right bus and

 route soon. I hope, once I am on, the ride is smooth.

Crevices.

Crevices.  It’s a strong word that can have strong consequences.  Its synonym “nook” is too kind of a word for its partner.

They come in all forms and sizes.  The discovery and exploration of them can require some creative positioning.   It can be a sexy, mysterious thing.  But then again, no one is ever turned on by using the word “crevice” when talking dirty.

The crevices on a bus add a new layer of gross possibilities.  I have a serious affliction to them.  I will choose my seat wisely. I prefer the safe, front seats that run along the side of the bus.  You sit facing the aisle.  And the center seat is preferred.  I would rather stand than sit on the inside seat. If for some reason I end up in a less than ideal position, I cannot let my mind or eyes wander toward the crevices.  It won’t happen.  And if it does, it won’t be on the bus.  

And so it begins.....

After a strange and very unlucky series of tow trucks, smoking radiators, $500 red light tickets, a stolen - totaled car and then a car wrecked t-bone style, I am on the bus once again.  

I know the above list sounds like an exaggeration.  It is not.  As I sit on my bed, Carrie Bradshaw style typing away on my computer, I really wish the amount of stories I had about vehicles were indeed about sex.   Although both can be dirty, greasy and dicey situations, cars and public transportation, frankly, aren’t that sexy.  I will spare you the lube job analogy.

I hope you will find my commute stories entertaining.  Although I am on my second round of bussing it, I thought of the title “Virgin Commuter” my first time riding the LA Metro.   Public transportation brings many, many stories.  Stay tuned for the dirty, the gritty and not so sensual world of commuting publicly.  L.A. style.