our 90th weekly open mike

Let’s see what happens when your host (me) has nothing to say. Step right up, speak your mind, tell a story, sing a song, whatever.

7/25/2026

Anything goes

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The Burien Transit Center, which I lovingly call the BTC, is not a place where highbrow intellectuals gather. It’s always scruffy, and on this particular morning, it was loud.

Two black men were arguing in the public parking lot across the station’s asphalt busway, shouting lots of profanities and yomommas. My first thought was that they were pals, kidding around. No kidding, though.

The tubby guy, about 50, was yelling at and being yelled at by a muscular guy, about 20, and after a few minutes of two-way trash-talking, Young & Muscular took a swing at Pudgy. Pudgy sidestepped, so the punch didn’t connect, and he responded with a gutpunch that hit the target, putting Young & Muscular down hard onto the asphalt.

How does the song go? “I like it like that,” on behalf of pudgy old guys everywhere.

Young & Muscular took a minute to get to his feet again, and he seemed woozy from the blow, but soon as he had his footing, he resumed insulting Pudgy. Instantly they were yelling at each other again, then threatening each other.

Two of the bus station’s security guards approached, but they’re not cops, not paid to seriously risk life and limb, so they only urged the two men to calm down, walk away, leave the station, etc. But they informed the antagonists that police had been called, which seemed very courteous to me. I would’ve walked away, but these guys didn’t.

The second round started with another swing-and-a-miss by Young & Muscular. High and outside, strike 2. As the punch flew past him, Pudgy grabbed his opponent’s arm, and karate-flipped him onto the asphalt again. I’m usually for peace over fisticuffs, but Young & Muscular getting his ass kicked was pretty cool. From a long ways and a safe distance, I may have shouted, “Get ‘im, Pudgy!” or some such embarrassment.

Both men connected with a few punches, and then Pudgy kicked Young & Muscular in the nuts, and I definitely cheered at that.

Pretty soon came the cops — two county deputy SUVs, and one Burien Police SUV, so six officers of the law, all white. I hate cops and feared the worst, but the four lawmen and two lawladies were very polite, even as Young & Muscular screamed at them.

Over the next ten minutes or so, they quietly handcuffed and arrested him, and also cuffed and arrested a buddy who hadn’t done any of the fighting but had done plenty of arguing, during the fight and then with the cops.

By the time my bus came and I left the show behind, Pudgy was still talking to the cops and hadn’t been arrested, which is justice. He hadn’t thrown the first punch in either round, only defended himself.

Cops don’t care who started a fight, of course. If Pudgy wasn’t arrested, it’s almost entirely because the security guards backed up his story.

♦ ♦ ♦

Another moment, a different day at the same bus depot, I was sitting on a bench, with a probably-homeless man of about 40 years sitting beside me. “Brffl mrffl grrfl,” he said.

And I said, “Huh?”

He repeated himself, “Brffl mrffl grrfl,” shaking his head for emphasis.

“I don’t know—”

Loudly and with excellent annunciation, he explained, “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” and he walked away, angry and muttering, “Brffl mrffl grrfl…”

♦ ♦ ♦

The city, county, state, and federal governments spend many millions of dollars “addressing the problems” of homelessness, but mostly it’s make-work. Plush careers for paper-pushers, but little or nothing filters down to people who need help. That’s what I’ve always believed and always will, but here’s a sliver of something not quite so pessimistic.

At the BTC, teams of three sometimes approach down-and-outers, making un-pressured conversation before eventually asking if they need a referral to a homeless shelter, a meal, a shower, etc. They introduce themselves as County Resource Outreach, and don’t wear badges or uniforms.

There aren’t enough shelters to house all the homeless, and shelters often have rules so stringent — no booze, no pets, no weapons, etc — that many or most homeless folks feel safer and more secure sleeping in the bushes.

That said, I approve of the outreach program, and the people being reached out to seem to appreciate it. Haven’t seen any of them offended or angered at the offers of help. They take the information, and a sack of potato chips if it’s offered. It’s better than nothing, and other than this, nothing is what’s usually offered.

It was surprising when the team approached me one afternoon. A middle-aged lady said, “How are you doing today, sir?”

I grunted, and she persisted. “We’re County Resource Outreach, and we try to provide services for anyone in need. Are you having any troubles that we could help with?”

“It’s hot,” I said. “A glass of water would be nice.”

And dang if one of her partners didn’t open his carrying case, and whip out a plastic mini-bottle of water. I may not have known any companies manufactured bottled water so tiny, a mere eight ounces, but it was cold!

“Uh, thanks,” said I. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing at all,” said the lady, and resumed her spiel about helping folks who need helping.

I’m old, scraggly, was limpin’ that day, and wearing cheap maybe smelly clothes and all, so I probably had the look but, “I’m not homeless,” I said. “Just poor.”

“We’re happy to help anyone, you don’t have to be homeless,” she said, and kept talking as I walked away, slurping my nice, free, fresh, cold water.

It wasn’t until the bus ride home that I realized, they’d approached me right after I’d peed in the bushes, so they’d probably seen me unzip and tinkle and rezip. That’s why they’d thought I was a bum, but please note, I pee in the bushes because I pee in the bushes, that’s all.

7/22/2026

Transit Takes

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Tomorrow, Tuesday, Mom had two home health care visits scheduled — physical therapy, and a shower. When health care professionals ring the doorbell, my presence becomes less vital, so Katrina and I agreed that I’d have the day off.

Yup — once in a great while, I take a day off from helping Katrina take care of our mom. I sleep late, and hope to do nothing. And I love those days off.

My plan for tomorrow was a bus ride to my bank, which is necessary once monthly because the landlord doesn’t take checks, plastic, or anything but cash. He’s a libertarian, I think, but we don’t talk about it because I’m not good at chatting with stupid people.

And usually, when I’m out and about on a day off, I’ll treat myself to a meal out. I already knew where I’d be eating — a return visit to Falafel Salam, where I’d try the vegetarian options, now that I’m avoiding meat.

That was the plan, but Mom’s home health people are flaky, often canceling or changing appointments, and last night Katrina texted that both Mom’s appointments had been rescheduled for Monday — today, instead of tomorrow. So with no notice, I swapped my day off to today.

♦ ♦ ♦

The #128 bus is electric on weekdays, and I hate the electric buses. Had to sit sideways, and the trip had one of those drivers who loves to play with the pedals — gas, brake, gas, brake, gas, gas, brake, brake, swerve. In a stretch with no traffic, no bus stops, he laid on the gas and then brakes in exactly the right combination to twist my back. “Motherfucker!” I shouted, and I’ve been limping ever since.

While withdrawing the rent from the bank, the teller made me wait while he explained some new security protocol to another employee. I didn’t understand much beyond the fact I had to wait, but he twice referred to “DNA sampling,” which presumably means some new high-tech insult is coming, and they’ll call it “security.”

From the bank, I limped painfully to the falafel place, but they’re closed on Mondays. Slowly crossed the street to my second choice, Puerto Vallarta, where a sign on the door said, “On break, back in 45 minutes.” My third choice would’ve been Great American Diner, but the windows are papered over and they were tearing down the Great American sign, which seems fitting for 2026.

All this was in Seattle’s Alaska Junction, a mildly upscale but tolerable neighborhood with dozens of restaurants. I didn’t want dozens of restaurants, though. Didn’t want someplace new. I’d come for the falafel, damn it, and might’ve settled for Mexican or even whatever’s vegetarian at the out-of-business burger place, but fuck the rest of the restaurants.

Sighed and limped onto a bus, with the same driver who’d wrenched my back getting there. Spent the ride cursing my back and my luck and the driver.

But hey, there’s decent food in the fridge and freezer at home. Decided I’d microwave some frozen fries and a fake chicken sandwich on raisin bread, mmmm. By the time I tenderly winced my way off the bus, I was really looking forward to lunch, but …

Dean was in the kitchen, wearing his puffy white chef’s hat and apron and everything, which guarantees he’ll be in the kitchen non-stop all afternoon. Chicken body parts were spread on the naked counter, which I’m certain Dean hadn’t washed before plopping raw meat on it, and hoping he won’t forget to wipe the blood and bacteria away afterwards. He’s forgotten before.

And he started talking at me soon as I stepped into the house, telling me what he was making, and what ingredients were in it, and how everyone had loved it the last time he’d made it. And also, “Looks like you’re limping, bud. Did you do something to your back?”

With as few words as possible, I evaporated into my room and closed the door on whatever he was saying.

It would’ve taken ten minutes in the kitchen to prep my microwave meal, but hell if I’m going to spend ten minutes being talked at by Dean, so fuck it and fuck him. Ate a big sack of corn chips for lunch, with a small sack of potato chips on the side.

While chewing my chips and disappointment, I banged out a text to my brother Clay. For weeks, he’s been insistently inviting me to his house next Monday, to watch a Mariners game on TV with a few friends (his friends, strangers to me). I’ve said no nicely already, but he keeps asking so this afternoon’s no wasn’t so nice.

In 2022, I moved back to Seattle, where I grew up, where my family is. The idea was to be part of the family again, for at least my final few years until croaking. And I do want family, in theory, but it’s gotta be on my terms — I am not going to church, not going to watch the latest right-wing fake-Christian movie, and not going to some little kid’s birthday party, even if the kid is my grand-nephew.

Having said no to those invitations, though, there’s nothing much left to say yes to.

I’d say yes to the baseball get-together, if it wasn’t at Clay’s house. He lives in Prairie Dog City, about 50 miles into the suburbs and beyond, but it feels like 100. No bus comes within miles of that town, so the only way to Clay’s house is riding in someone’s car, which adds two hours of chit-chat coming and going. Factor in a baseball game, and it’s a minimum of eight hours of conversation.

Normal humans do that all the time, I suppose, but I ain’t a normal human. Cripes, if my dead wife came back — my very favorite person in my entire life — I don’t think we could talk non-stop for eight damned hours.

What’s worse, the baseball shindig is a week from today, right after another weekend in Straggle. Yeah, damn it, I’m going to another family reunion on the other side of the mountains. I do not want to be there, thanks for asking, but Mom does, and Katrina’s taking her, but the heavy lifting — Mom up from bed, up from a chair, into another chair, etc — is too much for Katrina, so I’ll be there.

That’s family.

The only route to Straggle is via the freeway over the mountains, and then a hundred miles of one-lane 50 mph highways, which terrifies me just typing it. Riding in a car, I’m always aware how quickly our lives could be snuffed out at 70 miles per hour. Gotta keep my eyes closed or I’ll scream.

Four or five hours on the freeways and highways, coming and going, and between those awful rides, two days in Eastern Washington’s always, always scorching dry summer, while half-attempting to socialize with strangers. They’re family, but we have nothing in common, beyond a few random chromosomes.

And if I make it back over the mountains and freeways alive, the very next day, comes a day of conversation with Clay and a few strangers in Prairie Dog City, watching the Mariners lose again? No, no, no, and actually I texted “no” seven times, while eating corn chips and listening to Dean rattle cookware and talk to himself in the kitchen.

That is not a day I’d choose, and neither is today, and you know what? I’m old and damned tired of days I didn’t choose.

Today’s my day off, but everything since waking up has sucked. My back hurts and Dean’s still cooking and talking on the other side of the door, and it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon. Plenty of afternoon and evening ahead, plenty of time for everything to suck worse.

7/20/2026

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