Mumbling Madly

By now we have all heard about an unfortunate but hilarious acronym that has been used for a certain Seattle trolley. I work in the very neighborhood that is the topic of so much discussion. Yes, we’re suffering from loud construction, streets being closed, a pipe burst sending gallons of water down Mercer St. (and into local businesses), cyclists were hit by a dump truck, and worst of all: they took away any and all free street parking and replaced it with two hour paid parking (aaarg!). BUT, public transportation, is, well, public transportation and despite how dinky, self-righteous and Paul Allen funded it might be, we need more of it.

Right now it takes about 30 minutes to get to my job by car and less then that returning home (I use I-90 on the way in and I-5 on the way out). In 2009 when the light rail starts I have been told that it will take 24 minutes from my nearby light rail station to downtown; add the 10 minutes it will take to get to the station, and the ten minutes it will take from downtown to work on the trolley and you have a fairly nice 45 minute commute. It currently takes me an hour and fifteen minutes to get to my work in south lake union by bus. (This also doesn’t account for the years off my life; south Seattle’s buses are notorious for on-board drug use, crying schizophrenics, and crime–just ask my sister). I would take a 45 minutes public transported commute over a car ride for obvious reasons: less gas, less pollution, less ‘contributing to the problem.’ Besides, once a month there is the commute from hell where, for whatever reason, the city has imploded and it takes me an hour to get to my job–bridges are backed up, the Battery Street Tunnel is closed, multiple accidents bring the commute to a stop. These are the trips where I put my head on my steering wheel and curse Seattle for its shitty transportation system.

The other issue with the new street car is the obvious change it is lending to the neighborhood. What was once an industrial, largely untapped part of north downtown, is now being made over as a condominium dream. Everywhere you turn parking lots, old buildings, and vacant lots are being ripped up and condos are being built up in their place. There are high end apartments, retirement condo living, and even ‘family’ condos being erected left and right. Sure, this brings in more business, better parks, and new life into a once dilapidated neighborhood. However, there are certain times when old south lake union collides with new south lake union. Example: all summer long I took my 3-6 year old campers to Cascade Park up the street. Cascade Park, once a typical seedy urban park has now been transformed into a kid friendly, plastic coated play structured, grassy knoll play space for many of the nearby pre-schools to visit. It is complete with a pea patch, an open field for sports, and scary restrooms. Every week 8 or so campers would cling to the walking rings and Kevin, my co-teacher, and I would make the trek to the park. We dodged bulldozers, narrowly avoided freshly dug ditches, and shielded the kids from overwhelming construction as we made out way to the park. We wound our way through the pea patch (called the “Magic Garden”) and admired the pumpkins before heading our way out to the park’s fresh lawn. “OK, kids,” I instructed. “Everyone run out and touch those 3 trees at the edge of the park.” The kids took off scrambling toward the trees only to have me realize that there was a bum passed out underneath one of them. Kevin sprinted ahead of the kids and quickly tried to redirect them. He was too late, and many of the kids jumped over the sleeping transient to get to the tree. Another time we were playing a game I made up called “Bubble Masters” (I blow bubbles, the kids try to pop them, after 60 seconds we reconvened and the kids told me how many bubbles they had popped). At some point during the bubble popping I noticed a transient had suddenly joined in on the game. I sent Kevin out to be a ‘bum buffer’-a friendly buffer between the bum and the kids-and the game continued. This may sound overly paranoid, but try putting 8 strangers’ children into your care and take them to a city park–I’m pretty sure you’d be equally concerned about their safety. This is also precedent with some pretty rough park history: Kevin and campers have witnessed a vicious dog fight, prostitution, and a full on brawl between two bums–one of them wielding a large rock.

This all being said, I felt compelled to buy a t-shirt at the local coffee shop that has been profiled in every major newspaper across the country–from CNN to NPR (most recently on Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me as part of the quiz show). The coffee shop isn’t even a shop, but a converted open garage. Customers walk into the garage and order only to stand around in the tiny space or continue on their way. When I arrived there was quite a buzz with people lining up to order shirts, pick up ordered shirts, or buy drinks. One of the owners actually got into a debate with a public transit official who started out by saying, “Do public transit workers get a discount? And by the way, we never called the street car a ‘trolley.” This stirred up a heated debate: “Yes you did,” the t-shirt guy said, “I have multiple articles from local papers referring it to a trolley, even Greg Nickels referred to it as a trolley on the news last night.” The transit worker grumbled but put his name down for a tee.

What ends this story is a case of deep flattery on my part. To order a shirt one had to pay in advance. I promised to return with cash, “I just work up the street, I’ll come back after my shift…here let me write down the name of the business I work at.” The tee shirt guy asked me to (nod, nod, wink, wink) put my phone number down there too. I haven’t been asked for my phone number in over ten years. When I returned he was giddy to see me and after accepting my money actually walked me to my car.  I told him to have a nice day and he said, “Out of curiosity, is that a wedding ring on your finger?” When I confirmed he said, “DAAAMMMIT! Well, I think you’re really cute, tell your husband he is a LUCKY, LUCKY man.” This propelled me to say something silly like, “Thanks, you made my day,” and off I went feeling massively weird, but yes, a bit flattered: the creator of the South Lake Union Trolley t-shirts thinks I’m cute!

Got asked out by a guy who found me as we walked from 23rd back to MLK from bus number 48. He chatted me up the whole six blocks, introduced himself, shook my hand…he told me all about how he’s out here from Yakima, maintaining the flowers that line Lake Washington for work. He’s currently living in a boarding house behind the bus stop on 28th but he’s looking for other housing…long waiting list, though. I assumed he must be talking about assistant housing, and I remember vaguely reccommending the crappy apartment complex on our corner as possible Section 8 housing. As we strolled along, I wondered if maybe I would finally get some street cred walking with this tough looking guy down Cherry St. At some point I worried that he might follow me home, and if he did I decided I would feel confident telling him to beat it. However, when we reached 28th he said, “Listen, would you like to go out sometime?” And I said, lamely, “No, I’m married.” This always comes off sounding sort of arrogant in a way, but it really is the best defense. These types of guys usually have at least some respect for the sanctity marriage…more so than if you just have a boyfriend. Back in the old days I would say, “No, I have a boyfriend” (or back when I worked the restaurant circuit I would simply shrug and say, “novio”). This was sometimes met with a snort, and a “well, who cares, I don’t get jealous.” But, I still felt sort of bad letting this guy down, and I tried to cover it up by saying quickly, “but I’m flattered…have a nice afternoon.” I think it’s the summer that brings this out in people…that sort of need to connect with some random stranger walking down the street.

Today on my daily metro commute I watched a man freak out and tell a random woman who was exiting the bus in a wheelchair to f**k off. I have no idea what started the altercation being that I was solidly plugged into my mp3 player. I just watched the man get really pissed, point his finger in the wheelchair lady’s face, scream obscenities and then storm off. This was in Capitol Hill, across the street from the Olive Way Starbucks, and a group of yuppies near the bus stop watched the spectacle with a mixture of awe and horror. The woman actually started chasing the guy up the hill in her motorized wheelchair, yelling stuff at him, while the rest of the bus looked on. The bus driver, a kindly older woman, hollered out the door, “Don’t chase him! He isn’t worth it!” The lady disappeared into a used book store, presumably to finish off the confrontation, we’ll never know…

What have I been doing during these hellacious days of preparing for the start of school?
1) Watched two videos and endured several hours of info regarding Blood Born Pathogens and Hazardous Waste. (In short: We are no longer aloud to have Simple Green because it is toxic, regardless of what the bottle claims…and never lick blood).
2) Sat through hours and hours of curriculum planning, which I have found to loathe. I can’t wrap my mind around any exciting lesson plans when my classroom is filled to the ceiling with boxes and furniture is scattered throughout the room.
3) The entire school’s staff introduced themselves one by one which resulted in a very long morning.
4) We are currently in the process of visiting each child’s home. This involves driving all over Seattle, getting lost, knocking on stranger’s doors and meeting kids in the privacy of their decadent homes. If we are lucky the parents are kind, the child welcomes us, and food is provided. We are unlucky if the parent is disgruntled, the child hides from us, and the younger sibling is screaming because he doesn’t have a teacher yet.
5) I found myself struggling to put together a puppet theater for my classroom. This was a noble project because my mentor has had the theater in a box for two years untouched because of her dislike of assembly. I put together a bed frame and a few particle board shelves so I assumed I could figure it out. I cheerfully screwed four 2″ nails into the wrong holes before I realized I was supposed to have used 1.5″ nails. Than I noticed I couldn’t undo my work because I had inadvertently stripped the screws. Now the World’s Most Dangerous Puppet Theater is leaning against my classroom wall, precariously balanced on its poorly nailed feet, swaying at the slightest breeze. I felt so bad, I’m coming back on Saturday with Josh armed with a power drill and more screws to undo my damage.
6) I am thrilled that the school feeds us on extra long training days. Why just this afternoon I ingested salmon, asparagus, and potato salad which I wasn’t necessarily hungry for but it was free and I love seafood.
7) To reward our hard work and encourage team building the entire staff went bowling on Tuesday. I was deliriously tired, but when I spotted the funky shoes and was given a special school bowling shirt with my name embroidered on it, I went crazy. During the second game, I was gutter-balling so regularly I started goofing off. While hefting a fifteen pound bowling ball down the lane I hurt my back. Then, instead of cooling off, I hurled a fourteen pounder down the lane before retiring officially due to injury. To top it off I got carsick on the school bus ride back to the school. Bleh.
8) My bus ride is becoming questionable. It’s fine in the morning, fast and efficient, and the six block hike from home to the bus stop and than the additional six blocks from the bus stop to the school seem like a refreshing work out. The ride home is another matter. I do not like waiting for twenty minutes after a nine hour day in 80 degree weather while sitting in a bus shelter that smells like pee. I catch the bus on 50th and 15th right around the corner from a methadone clinic, a soup kitchen, and a food bank…which attracts a sort of rough and tumble clientele. I walked by six handcuffed and sitting on the curb gentlemen of all ages and ethnicities the other day, surrounded by several undercover cops writing out reports on the hoods of their undercover cars. I can only assume it was some terrific drug deal gone wrong…and speaking of drugs a crazy man smoked crack cocaine out of a pipe right in front of me the other day. I was wrong when I thought druggies didn’t get up early, it was a sunny, beautiful morning around 8:30am and I was waiting on the corner of 23rd and Cherry for the #48. I was so shocked by his brazen drug use that I wasn’t even fazed when he stood in the middle of the street and screamed at cars that swerved to avoid hitting him. It was an awkward moment. He politely offered me a hit and when I declined he offered me some weed as another option. I told him “No thanks, I’m going to work right now.” Luckily, the bus driver didn’t let him on the bus, and when I confessed to the driver my anxiety he told me to file a report to metro…which I did.
9) Tomorrow I’m sitting through 8 hours of CPR training…and than hurray for the weekend!

Got on the bus, purposely wore a dress because I knew it was going to be a hot day, the traffic was terrible and the bus wasn’t moving much. Guy in the seat across from the aisle said, “Is that an mp3 player your using?” It took me a second, (is it an mp3 player? I think so…) “Yes, it is…” “Wow,” He admired. “It’s really small, that must be nice.” “Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s great, I used to lug my cd player around but it got so heavy. This holds a lot of memory…” “Really? Like 3000 megs or something?” “I don’t know,” I said, lamely. “I requested something like this for my birthday, for my commute.” “You’re really beautiful, by the way,” The guy threw in there. I’m startled, really startled, for a second: “Oh…ok, well thank you.” He didn’t say it like a Big Sleaze, or disrespectfully, it just surprised me because here we were talking electronics and than bam, he busts out the Bus Compliment.
Ah, the Bus Compliment. Sometimes, I think people say things on buses, or while waiting for buses, that they probably would never reveal in real life. Back when I was in college, I got everything from marriage proposals to full on propositions that were really pretty genuine in their context. I had assumed I was now too old for such fanciful (and flattering) admirations…too old, and oh, yeah, should I tell him I’m married? I realized it didn’t matter, because after a quick, weird, pause he launched into being a fisherman in Alaska, catching crab for commercial distribution. It’s his winter job, good money, gotta pay child support and all. “Crab fishing…isn’t that dangerous?” I asked. “Yeah, it’s number one on the most dangerous jobs list.” “Oh, yeah, I think I watched a PBS special on that,” I mused. “I love it,” He declared, “I can’t wait to go back…so what classes are you taking at the college?” This guy was killing me. “I’m actually not a student, I’m a teacher…I’ll be teaching at an independent elementary school this year…4-6 year olds.” “Man, I wish I was 6 again,” The stranger said. “They have a good time, “I agreed. “Well, it sure warmed up nicely today,” He mused. “Sure,” I said, not sure if I should end this conversation soon but really, what else could I be doing on a bus but sitting around feeling bored? “Man, this heat is making me totally break out,” The guy showed me two zits on his forhead. “Heh heh,” I said. “Hey, does this bus go to Capitol Hill?” He asked. “No, you want the 44,” I advised. Just than the bus driver announced the Montlake Bridge was up, we would be sitting for a while, and oh-by-the-way this bus has no air conditioning. My new Bus Buddy got up and said, “I wonder if I can catch the 44, if he could let me off.” The back doors opened and suddenly he was gone…just like that.

A crazy gentleman on the #3 proclaimed the entire bus to be part of his family. (In hindsight it was really pretty heartbreaking). All the bus riders were of familial ties to this nutty old guy. The two little girls sitting in front of me were his grandchildren, the two women sitting across from him were his ‘women,’ and he was the royal grandfather of us all…the patriarch of the bus. He kept calling to the little girls, “How is school? How’s school going for you?”
The #5 traveling to Fremont at 1:45p is driven by an extremely good-looking, overzealous, bus driver. The man croons into the bus speaker: “Please stay in your seats until the bus comes to a complete stop for your safety.” He announces every single street that travels past, every single bus stop is announced by name, and he graciously welcomes everyone on the bus. Think you’re getting on before the passengers exit the bus? No way, Mr. Man throws out a warning hand and a “hold up a minute sir!” while he waves the passengers off. Only until the last person has stepped down are you given a permissive nod to board.
On an unrelated note I have begun to collect lightweight jackets for the upcoming winter. Since arriving to Seattle I have acquired several snazzy little jackets, some long and some short, for canoodling around town in. The weather is terribly unpredictable, obviously, and I spend a lot of time at bus stops regretting the t-shirt I chose instead of the jean jacket. Hidden in the back of my closet is one of those gigantic LL Bean raincoats with all the snaps and trimmings. The darn thing has several snap-on hoods, a million pockets, and is considered indestructible AND waterproof. My Dad bought it for me during my last year of college, when I finally just gave up trying to look cute and went for function. Of course it’s electric red, it must have been on sale because my Dad owns an identical one. I only pull it out when it’s raining sideways, and I actually left it behind when I moved to CO. My Dad handed it to me during my first trip back, “You’ll need this now, right?” Yeah, he’s right, I’m destined to be a big wet red blob sloshing my way through a northwestern winter. In the meantime, I’m buying coats on sale, stocking up, trying to look cute while I can.
Of course, this is a far cry from when I would just toss a jacket in the backseat of my car, carelessly wearing open toed shoes on a predicted snow day, the car serving as my shield against all elements. Gone are the days of keeping snacks in my glove compartment, my cds lined up inside the dashboard, my belongings stuffed into a simple small bag that rested in the passenger seat. Now that public transportation is my only means of travel, I must carry everything on me. I have tried to leave my gigantic backpack from college home, I really have. Today I carried around: Wallet, keys, mini mp3 player, sunglasses, glasses, dance pants, nalgene water bottle, coffee mug, fresh produce from the market, new jacket from Nordstrom’s rack, and 2 frosted pumpkin cookies.

I have started a new category: Metro Transit Musings
1.) I hear a loud thud behind me, a woman has dropped her purse and it has landed on the bus floor. The man next to her assists her as she struggles to reach down and get it. She laughs and says, “My stomach is in the way.” She is pregnant. The man takes notice and congratulates her, asks her what the gender is, she says she doesn’t know, it will be a surprise. He says, “You know as a Christian, I really admire that, I really admire you bringing another life into the world.” The pregnant woman says, “Yes, it’s really exciting.” He continues, “You know God said go forth, be fruitful and multiply and I really believe that. People who don’t have babies, they’re just being selfish.” I can hear the shift in the conversation, the pregnant woman and I are both thinking the same thing: “Uh-oh…this guy is a little crazy.” The man continues on: See, he has a daughter…and the mother of his daughter didn’t even tell him she was pregnant. They were going out, she disappears, and nine months later she calls him from Denver to tell him about the baby. Well, than the mother goes crazy, turns out she’s a bi-polar, manic-depressive type and she’s admitted to a mental hospital. They took the baby away and put her up for adoption. He feels that’s the right thing to do, give the baby two parents…what does she think? What does she think? I exit the bus before I hear the pregnant woman’s reply.
2) I’m heading home after a full nine hour day, I’m excited because I caught the #8 during peak traveling time. Instead of waiting every 1/2 hour the bus comes every 15 minutes. Turns out this particular bus only goes to Capitol Hill, dropping me off at the Group Health Medical Center on 15th Ave. I hike back to the bus stop, sulking, feeling slightly stranded. A gigantic drunk man is passed out on the only bench at the bus stop. He is stretched out, arms dangling over the edge of the bench, legs splayed wide apart. He is snoring in wild, drunken, abandon People are walking by, they point at him, make comments. I wonder if I should be worried: I don’t find it all that unusual.
3) On my birthday, only yesterday, I took my favorite ballet class in the morning. Before every class I evaluate how I feel so I know how far I can push it. Last week I didn’t feel well, so I mentally made the decision before class that I would live ten minutes early–right before the dreaded petite allegro my most hated part of class. The petite allegro involves short, quick, beating steps at an insane speed. A year ago a local choreographer in F.C. made the comment: “Tall people are inherently slow, they just can’t move very fast and are usually a step behind in choreography.” It really offended me…I should have said, “Actually your choreography is really uninspiring and it’s everything I can do to keep up–what with being bored stiff and all.” Anyway, the only time I can hear this comment ring in my ears is when I’m struggling to beat my legs in the air super, duper fast. It rarely happens. And this has always been the case, even in my teenage prime, I despise the petite allegro–in the past I usually feigned a mild injury that meant sitting out for a few minutes until we could get to my real love: jumping. Anyway, on my birthday I decided I would go all out–who cares if I’m 28, I’m still spry! So I had this fantastic class, worked so hard I almost puked. I came out of the class buzzing with that kind of cardio rush you can only get when you’ve been gasping for breath. I boarded the bus, humming, my face bright red and sweaty. I looked like a crazy person trying to hold it together. The bus got so warm I got off the bus early and strolled into downtown on foot. Walking felt better anyway.
4) Early Saturday morning, I am transferring to the #5 from the #3, and it’s cold. Somehow I ended up in Belltown at the bus stop in front of the YWCA. People stagger in and out, an ambulance pulls away–probably hauling off a travesty of the street. An overweight teenager in pink terry cloth sweats, flip flops, g-string hanging out, is walking towards the YWCA. She is holding a baby. The kid looks nervous, like he knows something is up. His Mom is talking to him, convincing him of something, trying to coax the hint of smile he has cautiously spreading across his face. All the baby is wearing is a diaper. I watch them enter the YWCA. Than a drunk, angry, staggering man locks eyes with me. He stumbles over to me, I try and stand my ground…I realize it’s a losing battle and anger him even further when I move away. I gain some distance, the bus shelter is long and covered and spacious. I think about earlier this morning, when I was approaching the bus stop by my house, there were two police cars on the corner. The police were frisking a skinny lady, asking her questions, putting handcuffs on her. When the #3 swooped up, I was relieved to be removed from The Scene. A woman on the bus asked me: “What happened?” “I don’t know, they’re interviewing this lady, I tried to give them space.” “Oh, well, I like to know what’s going on…I’m nosy.” I thought: I’m kinda nosy too…but I’m still not immune to people being arrested on my street, ambulances parked in front of the apartments on the corner, cracked out people climbing onto the bus stop next to my house. I guess I just don’t want to know.

Bus observations:
1) It is apparently ok to bring dogs on the bus. Remember the book Henry Huggins? Remember how Henry tried to bring Ribsy on the bus and the driver said he had to be in a box? So Henry stuffed his dog into a cardboard box and various hijinx ensue. I guess I thought that the book was accurate and you can’t bring dogs on the bus unless they’re in a carrier. Nope, I’ve seen everything from Chihuahuas nestled in handbags to two beagles on the bus.
2) I had a Bus Buddy at one point…you know, someone you wordlessly sit next to. This was consistent every morning on the #8, I would sit in the same spot, and several stops later this nice young man with a leather briefcase would sit next to me. It was like a silent pact. Lately, the bus has been so crowded I can’t stake out my original seat, much less get one by myself. I admit: The first time my Bus Buddy was forced to sit somewhere else I felt betrayed.
3) Bus stops are a great place to write letters.
4) While waiting for the #5, a Mexican guy ask me (in Spanish) if I was “going to work.” (I had no idea what he said until after I boarded my bus and all my Spanish came back). At the time, I laughed and said, “You know, my Spanish just isn’t that good” and than resumed reading my book. He paused for a minute before asking me if I spoke Spanish in Spanish. I said, “Poquito.” He laughed and than he got up and started walking down the street. It wasn’t until after I got on the bus did I remember that “trobajo” means “to work.” I don’t really know what conversation we would have had, but I felt guilty and than relieved about the language barrier.
5) A crazy lady yelled at me about how I was “stealing her identity for airport security purposes.”
6) I watched this little kid talk openly about his new baby brother, his school, and his sleeping patterns with complete strangers on the bus. His parents completely ignored him.
7) Alternative schools apparently use metro bus frequently to transport loud packs of students. At least once a week I am joined by at least 12 kids accompanied by several teachers. Regardless of how full the bus is, the classmates always find a place to sit. It’s interesting to observe large amounts of children on metro transit, simply because they are usually very excited about the bus. The latest was a group of 3 year olds all jammed into the backseats of the #10. Several individuals on the bus were so thrilled they actually joined in while the kids sang a rendition of “Row Row Row Your Boat.” Needless to say, the additional singing sort of crashed the 3 year old party, and awkward silence followed.
8) I don’t remember this, but it is proper bus etiquette to thank the bus driver while departing the bus. Sometimes I do this, other times I can’t muster it.
9) A possible mildly retarded man walked up to the bus driver and started praising him. “You do a really good job, I know you don’t hear it enough…” The bus driver politely thanked him. The man continued, “I was on the bus that flew off the Aurora Bridge several years ago…” The bus driver was silent, before saying, “Well that was a very tragic incident.” Man said, “Yeah I wasn’t even injured…I felt terrible for Michael…well, that’s my stop. You’re doing just great. Bye now.” Call me a cynical bastard but I think he might have been lying…maybe.
10) I’ve decided to rule out the #3 when I can…it’s just not worth it. What with passing the jail, the various soup kitchens, AND Harborview Medical Center (read: Released mental patients), it’s just too much to handle. Last time I rode it, five guys were eating hotdogs and beans off of paper plates. The bus driver tried to prevent them from coming on, but they persisted. Finally the driver agreed but only they promised not to leave their paper plates on the bus floor.

The kids? Well, the young, hip, urbanites are still beatboxing on the bus–but this time they were good! The #27 is an interesting bus. Unlike the creepy #3 that strolls past Harborview Medical Center (read: CRAZY PEOPLE) and all the assorted jails, the #27 takes you deep into the colorful, gentrified corners of the Central district. You’ll see a burnt down home settled next to a new set of urban condos. A hip coffee place next to a struggling car repair shop housed in someone’s side yard. The people on the bus are less frightening, more real, and in some cases I truly feel like I am peeking into an entirely different cultural. (OK, so this probably sounds like Little White Girl Enters the Big Wide Ghetto, but I’m trying to be genuine here).
A group of young, black, teenagers sat in the back of the #27 last Friday. One of them played the mouth trumpet, the other repeated the traditional “boom-ch-boompity-chee,” one of them made realistic turntable sounds, and the last spouted off rhymes. It was such an 8 Mile moment. Instead of being annoyed I was actually really impressed with how good they were. So good in fact, the bus driver carelessly said into his radio, “Hey, if you have a radio on back there, turn it off.” Which was actually a compliment! The boys toned it down briefly, until the leader began to sprinkle his rappin with colorful words. The bus driver came back on the radio with: “Watch your language, we’re a Family Bus.” It was all very heartening; especially when I got off the bus and the kids let me go first, like, “No, no after you.”
Despite having to work on Saturday for a few hours, this weekend was awesome. I met Johnny and Kris’ posse, ate cupcakes, ,
Cooked several good dinners, drank a lot of wine and cocktails, and genuinely enjoyed myself. I’ve been attending classes at the oldest Improv School in the states, which will remain unnamed for now. Instead of just hopping up onstage and playing games we’re actually studying the fine art of improvisational comedy through theory, example, and personal exploration. That might sound pretty heavy, but I’ve been out of school for a while, and I love it. Wednesday they have an open 3 hour forum, where you go crazy with the improv games. All the heavy theory and analysis can be applied. All in all, it’s been a good way to get back into the community.

Today I went to register our Honda and receive WA plates, etc. It was something I had to do because the plates expired yesterday and the car is in my name. I went expecting to pay $30 bucks and I ended up forking over $306!! Apparently there is this Monorail Tax, and since my car is nice and new my tax was huge. I’m all for the monorail, I voted for it back in 1998, but OMIGOD! I was shocked. I thought I was going to be paying 30 bucks, and whoa…damn. I said, “Wait, this wasn’t on the website!” And now I know why: We should have registered the car in a different WA based city and the tax wouldn’t have been applied. I should have used my parent’s Vancouver address! Why, God why! Well, now I’m warning all y’all who plan on moving here, do not register your cars in Seattle…you will be severely burned. While waiting in line I also read an article about how if you buy a used car from an individual instead of a used car lot, they will tax you on the percentage the car is worth versus how much you actually paid for the vehicle. So if you paid $800 for a ‘88 Skylark, but the car’s value is really $4,000, hello, you’re gonna pay something like $450 for registration. I think this is to weed out the common occurrence of lowballing the actual amount of money that was exchanged. I know when I bought my first crappy car, we wrote on the title that I bought it for next to nothing so I could avoid a heavy tax. Now, the state has found a way to nix this behavior. I suppose the advantages are clean streets, well kept parks, and (one day) a monorail…but still, damn, I’m still smarting.
Taking the bus from work, to the U District for licensing, and than to my house took….2 and a half hours. That’s a lot of waiting around. I consoled myself by listening to NPR on my Walkman (that’s right, I play it ol’ skoo), until my batteries gave out. Than I was enchanted by a blind man sitting with his (unblind) four year old daughter. She was crawling all over the seat next to him, talking to him, telling him about her day. At one point she held his cane, which was folded up in her lap. He kept touching her face as a way to calm her down and I realized he had no other way to see how beautiful she was. It was a nice moment. They finally exited the bus, and all the passengers on my bus watched this blind man and his little girl wait at the crosswalk at a busy intersection. She was holding his hand, and when the pedestrian crosswalk lit up, she sprung from the sidewalk and pulled him forward. The whole bus watched, as if vicariously guiding them across the busy street and out of harms way.
Speaking of bus rides, some guy was BEAT BOXING on the bus the other day, that’s right, loud and clear: “Boom-chee, batta-boom, chee,” He was even making little squeaky squeak noises like he was mixing a couple of records on a turn table. This was not some guy quietly vibing his music with headphones, this was a confident fellow who wanted the whole bus to know how talented he was with his vocal rhythms. It was funny until it became annoying. I went down fantasy lane: What if I turned to him and said: “Sir, could you please stop that?” Or better yet, “Hey, shut-up, ok? Nobody wants to hear you.” What would he do? Kill me? Grow even louder to antagonize me? I amused myself with this until finally he got off the bus and we were all spared.