the weirdest

Shows two nights in a row this week. At the Crocodile, Rust on the Rails made me a fan, with two barefoot, lumbersexuals on violin, guitar and didgeridoo, another beardy guy singing, just a soulful, rhythmic sound. Then Tango Alpha Tango blew it up. Spotted down front, Ayron Jones, hanging out with a tall brunette. The next night, Eldridge Gravy and the Court Supreme, fronted by a tight, energetic super-mariachi band Banda Vagos. En route to the show, our bus was diverted onto a pre-emptive May Day re-route, so we abandoned ship and walked up 12th Avenue, helicopters crackling and hovering overhead, and came around the corner by the SPD precinct, suddenly confronted with an alcove stuffed with riot cops.
*
Pictured, graffiti from the ladies at the Five Point.

shabiby ride

--a video I took in Tanzania, on the Shabiby bus from Dar es Salaam to Dodoma -- now with beats!

hey stranger

There were times I didn't think I'd make it through this week. Grim events have lurked and materialized, and I'm soaked in weariness.
But also in the past 7 days, I've met some super cool out-of-towners. Seattle is known--and despised--for its freeze, for its surface friendliness and veneer of hostility. Sometimes I feel I'm on a personal mission to dispel the myth. Last week at the Eldridge show my pals and I met some Portlanders, goofy musicians who showed us YouTube videos and drank PBRs and did crazy dances. At the end of the night we all went our way, no numbers exchanged, just smiles and good-bye.
Tonight, I went to a nearby bar for a beer and some dinner, alone but not lonely. I met a funny pair from Cle Elum, in town to drink beer, see friends and valiantly attack a gigantic bowl of potato chips. She works at a chimp refuge, he fights fires. For an hour we shot the shit, laughed and bonded, and then I settled my bill, shook hands, and peaced out.
Tomorrow I have no plans. It may be the first time in a long time. I need it. I'm ailing. I need to summon my strength.

Overheard around town, 4oJ edition

On the 18 downtown last night, four bewildered Indian tourists--mom, dad, young adult guy and girl--endured a barrage of questioning from a Metro nutjob:
Indian people are beautiful. Don't you think? Don't you think Americans are ugly?
(nervous glances) Americans aren't ugly.
Where are you staying in Seattle, at a hotel?
We're staying with a friend.
Male or female?
Female.
Married?
(more nervous glances) Yes, married.
Then why'd you say you say 'friend?' You should have said 'friends.' Unless you're better friends with her than with him.
(no reply)
Where'd you go to college, here or in India? Or did you go to university?
What's the difference between a college and a university?
There is one, I guess I'm asking did you go to college, here or in India?
(patiently) What is the difference between a university and a college?
You know, like community college. I guess. (now, finally, consternation)

Overheard around town, Juneuary edition

On the 18 to Ballard last night, two drunk dudes checked each other's street cred.
"You like Scooby snacks?"
Nah, man, them's for kids.
"No, man, you ever been in the penitentiary? No? King County Jail?"
Proudly: Never been locked up.
"That's what they call breakfast sausage in the King County Jail. 'Scooby snacks.' If somebody asks 'do you like Scooby snacks' you better say hell yeah."
*
The 30 to Fremont this afternoon felt like a scene from Wings of Desire, with snippets of strangely endearing conversations percolating around the back of the coach.
I don't know what I want to do with my life.
"Dudes, there's this new movie coming out with Nicolas Cage and the Rock!"
I just want to be happy. I don't care what I'm doing, as long as I'm happy.
"So you don't get off at this stop." "Uh--no."
I want to learn French. But I think I'd speak it with a Japanese accent.
"You think he can excuse their pathetic defense the past two matches? Like I excused those two knuckleheads in class earlier? No, I didn't think so."

Gomer's visiting from Chicago

I don't even bring reading material on Metro anymore. The scenes are that tasty.
Saturday evening, the 124 to Georgetown. A drunk guy boards at 3rd and Pine and sits close. Whats my name, where do I live, do I want his number? When he persists--what neighborhood you live in, gurrrl--I say, Hey, if you had a daughter, would you want her telling strange men where she lives? He allows he wouldn't. And retreats.
My next seatmate is an overweight teenager, who asks to use my phone. I dial for her, hand it over. She starts crying and bawls into the phone for awhile. Nervous--will she bolt?--I keep an eye on her. A guy sitting in the accordion section of the bus shakes his head. I'm from Chicago. This is the weirdest bus I've ever been on.
The woman across from him says tartly, Then you haven't been on very many buses.

Just a ride

At a Ballard bar last weekend a drunk guy kept bragging about the vinyl he'd picked up at the Punk Rock Flea Market. I said, to be polite, So do you have a turntable?
He said, witheringly, Why would I buy records, if I didn't have a damn turntable?
A guy nearby, in a pimped-out wheelchair and sipping whiskey, commented, Well why do I buy shoes, when I'm in a damn wheelchair?
*
Began my Saturday with a SIFF movie -- American: The Bill Hicks Story. See it.
It's just a ride.

Overheard around town, May edition

The 28 to Ballard on a rainy Tuesday night. I sit in the back amongst my people.
The kid beside me--lanky, with a head of dark curls and wide eyes--leans over. "What bus is this?"
"The one we're on? It's the 28."
"Damn." He shakes his head, seems a little amazed. "I thought I got on the 30."
"You know they go totally different places right?"
He shrugs. "I didn't really have any plans tonight anyway."
I have to laugh. "Guess you're going to Ballard."
He laughs too.
I get off a few stops later. "I hope you get where you're going."
He says, confident, "I'm pretty sure I will."

Aspirational eavesdropping

My new favorite site.
Clearly I need to step up my game stat.

Overheard around town, part bleorgh

College students on the 31 headed to Fremont:
Girl#1: So you're going to Mario's for dinner?
Girl#2: Yeah, I'm so excited. We were supposed to finalize the plan today but he wasn't in class.
Girl#1: Yeah he was probably cooking.
Girl#2: Yeah probably. He invited me and Charles over, for whiskey and manicotti.
Girl#1: That's so Mario.
Girl#2: That's soooo Mario.

More overheard around town

At a Port Angeles coffee shop yesterday, a half dozen women in their fifties talked about doing headstands and gossiped about an acquaintance who was shacking up with a younger man. She's a predator, one said, to universal nods. Men should be warned about her man-acquiring, marrying ways. And then someone noted that the predator (Predatress?) had been divorced and single for twenty years.
*
The conversation moved on to canola oil. Don't use it, it's poison, one woman said. It's made from rapeseed.
Rapeseed--that's where crop circles are formed, another said.
Gasps.
Now it all made sense. The circles were a warning, they agreed. About canola oil.

Overheard around town, part hmmmph

Kid on the Ave: Dude, that gay guy in Red Light--he looked at me!

Guy on the 373 bus (on the phone): Yeah we caught all our buses. We'll be there in 5 minutes. No, it's not like we're gonna beat him up or anything. We're just gonna steal his dope. (Hangs up and hands phone back to his pal.) Your battery says extremely low. Not just low--extremely low. (Laughs loudly. I see he has H-A-T-E tattooed on his knuckles. Relieved when he de-buses to go steal dope.)

Me (asking rocket scientist about upcoming mountain observatory expedition): Is it going to be a tent situation?
Rocket scientist: Excuse me?
Me: (repeat)
Rocket scientist (giving me troubled look): No, it won't be tense at all. In fact I think it'll be quite relaxing.

Are oddballs the instruments of Deus ex machina?

Some weirdos have been crossing my path lately. Mom always attracted the strange ones. A mentally disabled guy was in love with her for years. He'd stand on our porch and call to her through the screen door: Beautiful Mary!

Last week I took the dog out for a 6am run. Toward the end of it, we approached a thin figure in a black hoodie striding along the sidewalk. We went around him; then I looked over and the guy was running alongside us, muttering to himself. Oh honestly, I said, and sped up. And he kept pace with us, talking louder. It was barely light out, so even though I was tired and only 3 blocks from home, I did the smart thing and turned back, and took the long way back to the house. No sooner did I walk up to it but another guy materialized. A big guy in a polo shirt, waving his arms and lurching around on the sidewalk. Harmless fellows both, I guess, but you never know.

Over the weekend, I was in Vancouver and again took the dog out for an early morning spin around the block. We passed a guy carrying a large duffel bag. He ignored us, instead flipped open a Dumpster lid and hollered up at the apartment above: it's 7.20 a.m., wake up! Pooch and I came back around the block and Mr. Dumpster Diver was just exiting the alley. This time he made eye contact. This is the forty-thousand-millionth time I've seen you today, he said, not angry, but exasperated.

So, what's the key, or is there one? I talk to myself sometimes too. I'll kill myself running so as not to be passed by another jogger at Greenlake and I've certainly been known to pick up free stuff off the sidewalk. One person's Dumpster diver is another's freecyler. One person's loon is another's--well--me.

Enough already

Usually I'm a fan of inanity.
Usually I love the little conversations going on all around, the little politenesses, the verbal bread crumbs that remind us how we got here and where we're going. The bright connective yarn threads on the hook rug of life.
Usually, but not always.
Due to some changes in the office, I am now aggressively greeted every morning.
Good morning, how're you? If I manage to lift my gaze from the carpet, the greeting is seasoned with a broad, welcoming grin and just the hint of a wink.
Good morning how am I at 7.28 a.m. on no caffeine and an SRO Metro bus ride?
!
So far, I have kept a lid on it. I grunt something that resembles good morning--a series of sounds reminiscent of those German Shepherds that bark "Jingle Bells." It's a sound, but hardly human. If I extend myself any further, I might have to address the how are you. And that would really be pushing it.

Our birdy neighbors

I'm hearing a lot about crows all of a sudden.
A friend posted to Facebook this morning about being woken up by crows; and a few weeks ago, an even more erudite friend posted about watching a murder of busy crows.
Last week, I needed to make a private phone call at work, but the moment I sat down on the stone bench behind my building and pulled out my cell phone, a bunch--sorry, murrrderrr--of crows began a chorus of raucous cawing and jeering. I moved down to another a bench, and they hopped along the grass, continuing to harass me. I gave up finally and went inside to make my call.
Scientists study crows and yet we know so little about them.
I see what I think is the same crow sitting on a power line most mornings when I walk the dog. Sometimes we get a croaky caw greeting. Sometimes, just a sideways beady-eyed glance.
And then this morning, as I waited in line at Irwin's for a pumpkin muffin, a guy entered and stood in line behind me. A space invader, he stood too close, and reached over me to grab a handful of dog biscuits from the freebie cup on the counter. And then another handful. I feed these to the crows, he confided to me. A fifty-ish guy, with gray stubble and Ward Cleaver glasses. The crows know me. When they see me coming, they fly in from all over. I said, joking, You're the crow whisperer, but he didn't laugh. Apparently he takes his murder of crows quite seriously.

Overheard around town part VI

The heat may have eased temporarily, but tempers are still crackling and frayed. On the 373 bus to north Seattle, an irate man with a phone clapped to his ear read somebody the riot act. Nobody's gonna tell me when I can go to the f*cking bathroom. How you gonna know when I'm gonna need to go to the f*cking bathroom? If I need to go to the f*cking bathroom, I'm gonna go. I'm gonna. He went on in this vein for a good ten minutes. Then, Hello? Hello, are you there? He closed his phone, disgusted, and stared off into space.
*
A few nights later, on the 73 downtown, two young men in slouchy jeans rubbed baby lotion into their hands and agreed on the importance of moisturizing. A pair of teenagers boarded, a big cute girl with rhinestone barrettes and a trendy white hoody, and her friend, as slight as she was generous, each of them carrying a rustling collection of shopping bags.
Oh no you didn't, I heard her say, in a sassy, tinkling voice. This is a Coach bag. Coach. Do you know what that means? Coach. She held up the bag. It was little. It was Coach. It was cute. She glanced at me, and I nodded. It's cute.
Couch bag, he joked. After awhile, he asked to look at her iPhone.
You can see it, but you can't hold it. Na-uh, I'm sorry. You're gonna be that way about my Coach bag, I'm not gonna trust you with my phone.
I'll let you look at my phone, he offered weakly.
She raised one eyebrow and sniffed, So? Your phone's little. Size matters.

How my dog and I ruined everything

I freely admit that I'm a contrarian. I find conflict interesting, telling, sometimes helpful. That said, I did little to start (okay, and little to defuse) the altercation yesterday with the 2 bearded bald guys and their snarly shepherd mix.
*
Starbucks on 1st Ave S, mid-morning, out front in the sun. Notice The Stranger's Farrah/Michael cover and head past some patio tables to grab one. Out of nowhere springs this pretty big dog, barking savagely. My dog--16 lbs and fierce only in the pursuit of squirrels--falls back, yelping and scared. What the hell, I say aloud, backing away, confused.
*
The dog's people, two middle-aged paunchy bald men, resplendent in scraggly beards and blue blocker sunglasses, start berating me. How dare I startle their dog why didn't I just go away they had been out there for an hour reading their paper with no problems at all with their wonderful doggums.
I point out that said doggums was still barking so hard that saliva was flying out of its mouth. My dog calmly looks at the trio. We go stand in the shade. Look at her she's standing right there you can't stand there go away you're ruining everything. Inside the Starbucks, people watch, unable to hear but clearly enjoying the visuals.
*
I also admit that--now that it was clear that the duo was completely unhinged--I fanned the flames. We're leaving, they declared huffily, and I said Good for you. But we need our paper, they added. It had blown over near where I was standing. Then you better come get it, I said with a smirk. The classy couple stamped off, still winging epithets. They puttered away in an old white Volvo wagon, dog still barking insanely. In unison, the pair flipped me the middle finger and drove away into the hot morning.

Overheard around town part V

Best overheard comment, at the Fremont Solstice Parade yesterday:
"Let's go over there to Taco Delmer," uttered by a well-upholstered fifty something citizen. I'm guessing he meant Taco Del Mar but the pronunciation made me giggle. Tah-co Delmer. It put me in mind of a sunburnt Iowan in overalls.

Second best overheard comment, on the 56 bus to Alki last night:
"Why won't he answer the damn phone? I just wanted to wish him a happy damn Father's Day."
Gee, I wonder.

A lesson in Seattle nice, courtesy of Metro

Hands down, the best part about riding the bus--other than low-carbon brownie points--is eavesdropping. Seattle is pretty passive aggressive, so most of the time you have to pay close attention. (A friend from Chicago declares we are passive-passive, and she may have a point.)

I rode the 31 today and sat, as usual, in the back; it's not as crowded, but it's also where the troublemakers ride (coinkidink?) so things can get lively.

A guy got on at the last U-district stop, and ran down the aisle to the back. Like half the other riders, he wore headphones, an iPod, sunglasses. Then, a couple blocks later, he moved to the back bench, wedging himself in between a girl by the window, and a very tall guy in scrubs sitting in the middle.

Now, seating etiquette--unspoken but elaborate and hierarchical in a Louis XIV-meets-State dinner kind of way--dictates that if the bus isn't crowded, you don't sit thigh-to-thigh with another rider. This bus was maybe 1/2 full. I watched headphone guy's seatmates. They stared off into middle space, not making eye contact. If I ignore him, maybe he'll move.

Headphone guy started to sing. The kid opposite me, in a knit cap and low-rider jeans, smirked. The guy in scrubs frowned even harder. The girl by the window got up and left. Out of nowhere, low-rider started singing too. They sang together. Sing it, bitch, headphone guy enthused.

When the song was over, headphone guy peeled off his sunglasses and headphones. You got a pot pipe, he asked low-rider. Cause I got some weed.

Laughing, low-rider said No, nope, no way.

Two girls were giggling in a nearby seat. Headphone guy asked them to sell him some weed. You should have stayed in the U-district, they laughed. It's all over the place there.

I tried, he said, rueful. They called me a faggot.

Silence. It was one of those moments where things can go sideways, fast.

I am a faggot, he said, putting his sunglasses back on. He turned his attention back to low-rider. You're a good looking dude, man.

I'm not gay, low-rider said easily.

Headphone guy nodded. That's okay. You're still hot. And you know it.

He got off the bus at my stop, laughing and talking to a passing dog. It's a miracle he didn't start a fight. On another bus, on another day, he might have. But, not today.

Overheard around town redux

A rainy afternoon, and cold.
The driver of Metro Route 31 alternately leaned on the gas, then the brake, as though he wore super heavy shoes, as though they were so weighty he couldn't control their depressions.
When a new crop of riders boarded and the bus lurched away from the curb, I wasn't too surprised when a man flew past me. A bearded, tattooed fifty-something man, smelling of beer, wearing an American-flag-emblazoned leather coat and carrying a taped-up guitar case. He flew past and landed sideways on a skinny kid seated on the back bench.
Ha, the kid said, looking sheepish. As though he were the one who'd flown ten yards and smashed into a stranger's legs.
You think that's funny, huh, the guy said. He righted himself and sat next to me.
The kid opposite us also carried a guitar case, made of newish canvas, not even rain-spattered.
Whaddya playin' with, the older guy said to him.
Uh, nylon, the kid said.
What? the older guy snapped.
The kid repeated it, timidly, and the other kid--the fallee--laughed and said, Nylon strings? No, dude, what kind of guitar do you play?
The second kid's face cleared. Oh, Yamaha.
You gotta buy American, the older guy said.
It's not a very good guitar, the kid admitted. The three of them then had a nice chat about music.
The boys got off a few stops later. The older guy immediately began talking to a woman in fucschia lipstick, his companion apparently, and who I hadn't noticed in all the arrival drama. He was pissed. The other night he'd wanted to make french fries, and as he waited for the oil (the ole) to heat, the stove burner caught on fire, and when he tried to smother the fire, the towels too went up in flames.
We need to tell the landlord, the woman said, nervous.
Tell him what? We burned up the fucking kitchen? We'll fix it first. But we're not telling him nothing. Abruptly, he thwacked the page of my magazine. Watcha reading, hon?
Startled, I flipped back to the beginning of the article. It's about cards, I said. Poker. Then--embarrassed to show him it was The New Yorker--I got up and stood by the rear door of the bus. We were almost to my stop.
I passed the two on my way home. They stood, pelted by rain, in the cloud of exhaust from the departing 31, looking with longing at a mattress and frame dumped on a patch of muddy grass, clearly not deterred by its sodden, forlorn state.