Tales From The NJudah Express

I am now a happy devotee to the NJudah Express which stops in the Outer Sunset then leaves like a bullet from 19th and Judah to Bush and Sansome. What was an hour or so commute is now a happily livable 35 to 45 minutes. The thing with buses though is that you often board them at the same time, and you and your fellow patrons are suddenly a bus posse. The same people day in and day out sitting in the same seats day in and day out. Because of this, I have come to notice the people on my bus. Today I present to you - Crazy Hair Lady.

Crazy Hair Lady is dubbed so because one day John and I sat in front of her and a friend. CHL began to go off on the fact that her hair was cut into layers by some arrogant Supercuts stylist when she specifically said - NO LAYERS. She lamented the fact that she was antsy about her hair and was dire need of a cut, so instead of going to her other less than $20.00 stylist who was on vacation, she went to Supercuts. This scourge of a stylist took scissors to her hair with the vigor of a layering ninja. She droned on and on in a voice an octave too low and medicatedly even. “So now I’ll have to grow my hair. And it will take at least a year. Last time someone cut my hair in layers, it took forever to grow out.” “I don’t understand, I did not ask for layers, I asked for an inch all around.” “I should have waited." On and on she went the entire bus ride.

All of this hair waxing I could understand, due to many an ill-advised (read PMSed) idea about a haircut. But this woman, this woman so adamant about her hair, so distressed about this layering massacre. This woman who I have seen day in and day out for weeks. She puts her butt length, dyed black, split-end ravaged hair piled on the top of her head in a ponytail secured by god forsaken scrunchie.

I was tempted to turn to her and say that what do you expect when you go to Supercuts with hair brittle, black and way too long for your age? They guy was doing you favor, Scrunchie. So shut up. I would like to point out that said scrunchie is always the same color and same style leading me to believe it is the same one.

Ah, buses. Next up - Gross Pervert Man.

Tales From MUNI

Two weeks ago, I got aboard the NJudah and made my way to work. At Sunset Boulevard a girl sat next to me. Score, especially since she was rather thin and not smelly. I think we can agree that although we will sit next to the musky man muttering, we prefer a semi-normal being to share seat space.

Then it started. She started playing with her hair. Combing her hands through her long brown locks over and over until there was a stray single hair on her shirt, or pants or coat that she would carefully excise from its location. Bringing it forward, she would would flick her fingers until the hair fell between her knees to the floor. She was grooming herself as if she were a monkey the entire way until Montgomery Street, which was at least 50 minutes.

I sat reading my Kindle getting the side vision of what she was doing. As she succeeded in pick and flick number ten, I began to get annoyed, but more importantly disgusted. How can you possibly believe this is okay to do on public transportation? I thought it had to be a nervous tick of some sort, and then how sad it was this person will never marry. I wanted to shake her, but instead adjusted my vision so that it was impossible to bear witness to the abhorent action. I covered my eyes with my hand, essentially making a blinder. But every so often into my field of vision there it was - a hand releasings its find. Finally the speaker announced “Montgomery Station”, whack-a-doo off boarded and I breathe a sign of relief.

Is this normal? Was my reaction normal? I don’t know. Believe me for some reason things do get under my skin and make me insane - like open cabinet doors, or curtains, or vodka bottles. I kid, that last one is kind of awesome. But holy cow, Ms. Hair Extractor 2011, you top them all. Please do me the favor of never sitting with me again for I will gladly take psychotic bi-polar off his meds bearded clam smelling man, at least he's normal.

Tales of MUNI

I have been taking public transportation since birth. I do believe Mary Jane had to hobble onto the green line to Mass General after her water broke when opening the fridge. This should be a lesson to all pregnant women, stop eating already. My entire life I have been getting on and off of trains and buses as a way to get from here to there. My mind is programmed to think bus rather than car, which now makes me “green” when it use to just make me “poor”. Yes, public commuting can be an exercise in exasperation with its delays and overly close sweaty scabies guy. But it also provides a bounty of entertainment, especially in the form of people running to a train that they are about to miss.

The See Saw. A person usually of advancing age saddled with too many grocery bags of what smells to be rotting vegetables. The run to the train is a quick duck waddle with the bags of one side going down and the bags of the other going up. This person will always miss the train, and possibly break a hip.

The Bitch Slap. This person sees the train and makes a mad dash, only to stop because they realize the journey is impossible. But then the train remains with heckling open doors. They run fooled by promise only to reach closing doors with a departing train. This will always end with cursing usually of the muther fucker variety.

The Savior. There will be times when you are running towards a train, another passenger sees your effort. Perhaps a Bitch Slap fresh in his mind, he holds the door open while you enter the train. You will say “thank you” and he will “smile”, the rest of the train will glare at the both of you for making them late.

The Jabberwocky. This is the person for some reason or another when running for a train starts to talk in almost hysterical excitement. There is usually some sort of skip run combined with an “Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhh. Wait, Wait, Wait.” Perhaps invoking a Savior response in another passenger, but usually just ending with them on the platform huffing and puffing with a significant amount of eye rolling.

And there you have it, just a few of the pleasures of public transportation to witness and adore while you Purell your hands obsessively while tri-folding your newspaper. How do those guys do it?

At A Loss

The other day I was getting off my stop on the N-Judah, when this man out of no where starts running for the train going “Oh wait, wait, wait.”, just as the doors closed. He then said “Shit.”, taking out a cigarette and lighting it while looking up the street for the next train. I will now like to point out that my stop is the second to last stop on the train. The last stop is two blocks or a five minute walk from where he smoked. It has been three days since this happened, and I still don’t know what the hell was going on. Welcome to San Francisco.

Tales of Muni . . .

Yesterday while sitting on the N Judah making my way home, I looked across the aisle and saw a homeless man sitting down. I was about to begin reading when it suddenly occurred to me that said homeless man was good looking. Looking again, I confirmed he was handsome. I had stumbled upon the ever elusive Homeless Stud. I began to wonder if homeless life was easier for him with his carefree boyish looks, whether all the homeless ladies in town spoke of him in girlish giggles and if being good looking in the downtrodden clique was a bonus - like high school. But then he opened his mouth to reveal tarred and yellowed teeth, three of which were missing. And I stopped thinking, because I had suddenly become ill.

The Little Bonuses

Ah the working life, the return is sweet. No longer talking to an infant about the color of her breastfeed poops or how she needs to take a napinsky or how Mommy really thinks Al Roker is pretty god darn funny. I am back making conversation with actual people capable of returning my questions with actual worded answers. But the best part of returning to the working life is that of the commuting life. I have been on public transportation probably since the day I was born. In fact, I have never commuted to work via motor vehicle, because I am a city girl. And city girls don’t drive, they sit on a crowded train with a book, a walkman (now Iphone) and a patented don’t talk to me glare. Sure it is a pain in the butt when your train is late, or if you are unfortunate enough to have to ride the N-Judah which seemingly breaks down every 3.5 seconds, but the rewards of same are sweet. In the past few days I have been witness to a myriad of city folk. The crazy older guy singing at the top of his lungs while everyone else just ignores. Drunken homeless woman cursing the many love pains in her life with slurred speech. Older Asian lady so adamant about getting a seat she sits in a pool of water only seconds later to jump up with a wet behind. There is a reason that seat was empty on a crowded train lady. Public transportation, you make it all worth while.

In other news, day two of the Goal of Thirty proved to be tough. The front part of my thighs achy from yesterday made today’s run difficult. I am pretty sure that if they could talk, they would be saying “You bitch. You bitch. You crazy bitch.”. But two down, twenty-eight to go.

Tales of Muni . . .

To the man standing to me on MUNI this morning: I am unsure if taking a shower this morning in Drakar Noir was a good idea. As a pregnant lady with super sensitive smell it took all of my energy not to scream why it was necessary for you spray your cologne 8,000 times this morning. Did you drop it in your bathroom? I did that once with my perfume, and it smelled like a brothel for about two weeks. And because of this, I decided to smell through my hand and imagine a life in which I did not have to take the train to work, because I would not be working, because I won the lottery. And now my days consisted of throwing darts at a world map to see where John, the kids and I would end up next. Looks like Australia. Also, seriously men folk, cologne is just stupid. No man needs to smell like burnt beechwood and sand. Unless they had been trapped on a desert island for the last 1,000 days, then that would be acceptable. But barely.

Tales of MUNI

Let it be known that yesterday was a day of MUNI reckoning that was headache producing in nature. First let me begin by saying that in the morning, I like my coffee. I like it on the N-Judah, whilst reading and listening to music. So if the train is stationed and not yet going, I go to Java Beach, and order a medium black. Yesterday morning, I entered Java Beach and was happy - the train was parked and there was but one customer before me. However, Mr. Skinny Non-Fat, Non-Dairy, Bagel Toasted Dark, With Oatmeal And Bananas, you made me tap my feet in a fury of activity as I nervously eyed the train. After his seemingly 10 hour order was complete I quickly rattled off my order, received cup, pour coffee, got lid, and don't burn your hand cover, ran to the train as it sat parked and pushed the button. I pushed again. Door open!!! No, it did not. I ran to the next car as its doors closed. Muther fucka. As the Muni took off, I quickly followed. Let me say this, running with coffee is not an easy task. I ran at a good clip finally giving up because "No way will I catch that train." Flash forward to 10 seconds later, "Good lord, I can get that train, look at that line of fools waiting to pay." So I hoofed it again, like a half paralyzed animal due to coffee and my bag, only to be once again greeted by closing doors. Muther Fucka Part Deux. I know the pain of running for a train, only to miss it. But to run for the same train twice, with the same hurt feelings of failure and incompetence is a true horror.

So as the day progressed, and the 5:00 o'clock whistle blew, and I made my way to the Embarcadero Station for my train. Little did I know that June 30, 2008 was the day Cassie McCall would be driven to insanity by the good folks at the Bay Area Transit Authority. It began simply enough, a two car N entered the station. But the second car said "No Passengers". Muther Fucka Part Tres. I made my way to the other car with gaggle of others. Push, push, slam, bam, is that person touching me? Oh my god. So I got out my book, got a decent standing spot, and tried to forget all the body heat circling me like bees buzzing in my ear. The next stop added to the crush of people. At this time, a woman about 55 years old with wild white hair, a 6'0" foot frame and man hands stood behind me. It was at this time, I knew I was in trouble She repeatedly said, "Move in everybody, move in. We can all get in the car." Sorry, lady but currently my ass is being rubbed by the man behind me, my whole left half is sandwiched into the girl beside me like we are Siamese Twins, and you are getting a little too close for comfort. We continued onward, trying to lose myself into my book. Gargantuan woman makes her way beside me and gets out her USA Today paper. She beings to read, while touching my hand. I kid you not. She rested her hand on mine. I moved, she moved, I moved, she moved. Is this really happening? Her paper is on my head. My head! We get to the next stop and another rush of persons onto the train. Ms. Charitable Commuter actually says to the person trying to get on "Come on sir, you can get on too." Bitch, please. So now this guy is on after about two minutes of twister like contortions by the other passengers. We get to the Duboce Park stop, and before me the seated passenger is leaving. Hail Thee Jesus. I sit down, but who else sits down? Yep, Ms. MUNI United. As she sits, her cat hair strewn sweater is on my hand, this does not surprise me. If the was ever a poster child for the Crazy Ole Cat Woman, this lady was it. It is at this time, that the passenger who we let on at the previous stop shouts the following "Hey Man, don't let your frustration out on me, because I AM PRIME TO GO. PRIME!!" Great, now there is a going to be a fist fight. Thanks lady, soooooo happy he got on board. But peace reigns supreme.

Finally it seems that the world of MUNI had gotten off its crazy axis as the cat lady has left, and a young girl sits next to me. I was happy. But a minute into this bliss, came the following "Do you have twenty-five cents?" "No, sorry." Then there came the moaning. The guttural wailing of an insane homeless person and then the talk of purple potatoes. Ah, I don't hear you. Seriously, God, why me? I try to concentrate on my book while the girl next to me chatters, moans and speaks in demon tongue. And then it happens, a seat opens up, I make a beeline and plop down. Finally on my own within the confines of N-Judah ride of crazy. My head is aching, my nerves fried, only to hear "Sorry folks, but this will be our last stop." Oh the humanity. I make my exit, I make my entrance, and finally arrive at my stop. Needless to say, that evening, wine was had. MUNI, you may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

If It Is Yellow . . .

At nineteen years old I went up to New Hampshire with my friend Valerie, whose family had a cabin. Upon going to the bathroom, I was greeted with the following embroidered and framed sign:

If It Is Yellow, Let it Mellow
If It Is Brown, Flush It Down


As if. Please note that said sign was done in browns and yellows on an ivory background with flowers and butterflies. It still haunts me. Upon explanation by Valerie I was told that they had a septic system, so you did not really want to flush anything but poop, so there would be no overflows. Okay then. I will let you know that I flushed every time, I had to. I could not let the yellow just mellow. Flash forward 15 years, and what am I currently doing due to the water restrictions? Yep, letting my yellow mellow. And good lord it is hard, try reversing years of programming of flushing. It is ridiculous. I often go into the bathroom thinking "What the hell man? Who didn't flush?" Only to immediately think, "Cassie, it is mellowing, that yellow is mellowing." So I guess I am being green, or disgusting, I have yet to decide. Speaking of disgusting, I kid you not when I say that on Monday's N-Judah ride the old lady next to me was ravaging her nostril with her finger at a break neck pace. I just sat thinking, this is not happening. Does this woman think she alone, or in her car? I get entire wisdom when older, but it must stop when you are happily picking and then flicking, FLICKING, your found treasure into the air on public transportation. Is this a total giving up on life, or just further proof that you just don't give a damn when old? I don't know.

The Hustle, The Mistake, The Mad Piss

As the clock approaches 5:00 p.m., I do as many a San Francisco working fool does, log into nextmuni.com to find the status of my train. Well imagine my surprise yesterday at 4:56 p.m. that the next trains would be in 4, 8 and 27 minutes. So, I high tailed it out of the office in a running attempt to get the 8 minute train. However, with luck and a gazelle like pace, I ran down the escalator onto the N-Judah. I immediately texted John gloating of my hustle to catch the seemingly impossible 4 minute N-Judah. Well, not so much. I did not catch the 4 minute N-Judah, but rather the M-Ocean View. This is the second time this has occurred. I would like to point out for the record that my eye sight without glasses is 20/450. So you as a person with good vision see at 450 feet what I see (without contacts or glasses) at 20 feet. Yeah, I don't know where my walking cane is either. I would also like to point out, in my defense, that the M goes to Ocean View and the N goes to Ocean Beach and if you look quickly at the digital M/N they are similar, very similar. And honestly, I don't even get why the N-Judah - a train that basically goes down Judah Street is called the N, shouldn't it be called the J? But nope, not here, the J is the train that goes to the Castro. And then there is the L-Taraval that goes down Taraval Street. We just got a T Line that goes down Third Street. What the hell? Commonsense prevails? So I got off the train, and then got onto the L - the train that goes down Taraval and requires a 15 minute walk home. I got on the train, got a seat and noticed a skunky smell. I looked up to see across from me a teenage hoodlum rolling a blunt (and I had no idea I knew what that was called either, but I thank Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre). So as I sat reading, smelling the odor of weed, and listening to the friend of the rolling hoodlum speaking of the "mad piss" he had to take, I thought how lucky I truly was at that moment, but not as lucky as the poor owner of the house wherein the bladder buoyed boy let a stream of urine out with a shriek of happiness. Ah, Muni Madness.