I have not been able to stop thinking about this place since I went with Tim a few weeks ago. And even though it's disgusting, I almost want one of these.
I have just learned how to link, and I like it.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Drive me to the moon
San Francisco bus drivers are a cranky lot. I think it's because they work in a state of constant uncertainty, or at least that's how I feel when I see the 1BX steaming down California St. You never know quite what's going to happen when you jump on board--will you nearly hit a jaywalking pedestrian; will the thingies that attach the bus to the overhead power cables fall off, leaving you stuck on the side of the road until the driver can reattach them; will a drunk cuddle up next to you and slump against your side in an uncomfortably intimate way? Such adventures to be had. The mood of my morning is often determined by whether I get a seat on the bus or not. It's not the standing itself I mind, it's the queasy whoosh of barelling down steep SF streets without something solid to brace against. If I have a seat, I can read my book and enjoy the rollercoaster ride; if I'm standing, I need both hands to hold on. And still I am thrown into the folk on either side of me. I don't know how the immaculate blowdry women with the stilettos and manicures manage to cling on.
For the most part, the general public is pretty polite to the drivers, but they don't always get the same courtesy in return. This morning, the machine you feed your dollar bills into seized up. A young woman stood and waited for her bill to go through. Nothing happened. "It dudn't sing and dance-h," snapped the bus driver. I would have rolled my eyes at him and huffed, but she delivered a sweet "Thank you" and moved down the aisle. Last night, I ended up on Snippety Snipe's bus. He is my least favorite driver for so many reasons: he speeds in a dangerous, not thrilling, way; he is openly hostile towards Asian patrons; he once told me off for pulling the bell strap thing too soon and when I apologized he just kept sniping until I got off; he yells "fuck" whenever he feels like it; he is sleazy. Each time he drops me off I wonder if he is going to speed off before I am all the way down the steps, or shut the door on my handbag.
Still, riding the bus beats the pants off having to drive and find a park.
For the most part, the general public is pretty polite to the drivers, but they don't always get the same courtesy in return. This morning, the machine you feed your dollar bills into seized up. A young woman stood and waited for her bill to go through. Nothing happened. "It dudn't sing and dance-h," snapped the bus driver. I would have rolled my eyes at him and huffed, but she delivered a sweet "Thank you" and moved down the aisle. Last night, I ended up on Snippety Snipe's bus. He is my least favorite driver for so many reasons: he speeds in a dangerous, not thrilling, way; he is openly hostile towards Asian patrons; he once told me off for pulling the bell strap thing too soon and when I apologized he just kept sniping until I got off; he yells "fuck" whenever he feels like it; he is sleazy. Each time he drops me off I wonder if he is going to speed off before I am all the way down the steps, or shut the door on my handbag.
Still, riding the bus beats the pants off having to drive and find a park.
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