Pushing the fish-cart, I was almost to Telegraph when a pretty woman in a short short sundress got out of her car, across the street. She closed the door, and my oh my. I was admiring her legs almost all the way up, and as my gaze settled on her rear, that’s when she gently pulled some of her dress out of her asscrack. It had been bunched up in there, but loosened, her dress was suddenly several inches longer, and so was I, and the day was off to a better start than yesterday.

And then my spirits sank. 

It’s that time of the month — like an infestation of ticks, the Christians were out, preaching platitudes and singing salvation at the corner all day.

Picture if you will, a very amateur band with five white guys playing sub-par rock’n’roll with Jesus in the lyrics. Now imagine that they’re singing and occasionally preaching into microphones set way too loud, all afternoon, so there’s simply no escaping the sound for blocks.

Conducting an open-air business across the street from this Christian cacophony is very difficult, and that’s why we street vendors get the gut-drop feeling when we those damned Christians set up their amps, mikes, and big phony smiles.

After hours of this that felt like weeks, one of the loud Christians said into the microphone, “Our next song will be ‘House of the Rising Son, Part 2’,” and they proceeded to desecrate that song of desperation with new lyrics, all about The Lord coming to the rescue, and Lord, I could take it no more.

Across the street from the “band,” on the corner closest to me, they’d stationed a plump woman in a yellow muumuu, handing out their flyers to anyone dumb enough to take one. She held one out for me, on my way back from a pee break at the tavern, and I took the flyer, ripped it in two, dropped it into the slight breeze, and let her have it.

“What you’re doing,” I said in lines rehearsed while urinating, “is an embarrassment to yourselves, your church, your religion, and rock’n’roll.”

She turned her back on me in a Christlike manner, so instead of speaking I started shouting. “It’s so fucking rude of you to blast your beliefs into everyone’s ears out here.

She ignored me, of course, so “Jesus wouldn’t need a microphone!”, I shouted, and I’d become part of the spectacle, so I went back to my table, back to trying to talk about anti-Jesus fish over the noise of Jesus.

The band’s next number, to the tune of “Yellow Submarine,” was “We All Live in the Light of Jesus Christ,” and Jesus Christ, I frowned all afternoon.

♦ ♦ ♦  

There’s a newsstand at the BART station near my hotel, and when I’m coming home by way of BART I sometimes buy the evening Examiner there, from Sam, who ran the stand. Past tense.

Tonight, coming up from the subway and headed toward Sam’s newsstand, the door-size wooden flap that locks the big box overnight was down and padlocked. A wreath had been nailed to it.

And Sam’s death is not merely my assumption; there’s a note taped near the flowers, that says, “Does anyone know when the memorial will be? I’d like to be there, please call…” followed by a phone number.

Sam is dead. He ran that newsstand forever, far longer than I’ve been in San Francisco. I lived in this neighborhood years ago, before moving back in April, and he’s always been there, seven days a week. He was part of the backdrop, a given — so much taken for granted that I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned him in the zine, until now, when he’s dead.

No word on how it happened, but it couldn’t have been any lingering disease — he was laughing just a few afternoons ago, when I walked by his stand without buying anything. He laughed a lot, and was a very friendly gent, which was mildly irritating. I only wanted to buy a paper, not make a buddy, but he usually wanted to talk about the weather, the news, whatever.

People loved Sam, though. They often crowded around his newsstand, buying a paper and then lingering to talk with him. When his newsstand was crowded, I was more likely to buy a paper, because Sam would be busy talking to other people, and I could simply grab an Examiner and slide the coins toward him and walk away.
If nobody was loitering around the stand, then Sam would want to talk, so I’d wave as I walked by and purchase my paper somewhere else, or do without.

Which means, I guess, I wasn’t one of Sam’s friends, or even one of his better customers. Still, I’m sorry he’s dead, wish he wasn’t, and I sure hope someone opens the newsstand again.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

To buy a newspaper and a few other incidentals, I walked into a new grocery store, under their “Grand opening” banner. Nothing was particularly grand about the place, and the prices were higher than the bodega across the street, so I probably won’t be back often. On the way out of the store, I noticed a bright yellow “Notice of Violation” glued to the window.

The city’s Department of Building Inspection says it’s an “unsafe building,” per SFEC 90-37, with “unlawful use of electric energy,” per SFEC 90-52, and “electrical work unlawful to [illegible],” per SFEC 90-56. I’m guessing SFEC is San Francisco Electrical Code, and it means that the building hasn’t been inspected. More urgentgly, it means that the proper fees, bribes, and kickbacks haven’t been paid.

Small print warns in three languages that this non-compliance will be punished by immediate fines of $100 per violation, escalating to $200 per violation if the first notice isn’t heeded, and promising eventual fines of “not less than $1,000 per day or six months imprisonment or both.”

In addition to the Department of Building Inspection, nine other city agencies are listed, all of which must sign off (meaning, receive payments under or over the table) before the store can legally open (though, obviously, the store was open anyway). Maybe I was breaking the law shopping there. Sure hope so.

You don’t want electricity wired by amateurs, sure. Someone should look at that stuff, and all the rules, all the city agencies probably make sense at some level, or did when the rules were written. The libertarian in me is skeptical, though.

This store isn’t in a new building, or a new space. It was a grocery with a different name until it closed several months ago, and since then it’s been an empty storefront. All the new owners have done is paint the place, lay new tile on the floor, plug in the refrigerators left behind, and hang a new name from the awning.

This, then, is their punishment for doing business in San Francisco.

Pathetic Life
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A knock at the door woke me too early. “It’s 7:30,” a man’s voice said. Huh?

“OK,” said another man’s voice.

It took a San Francisco foggy moment to figure out that they weren’t talking to me, and my door hadn’t been knocked. The knock and talk was at a door across the hall.

And damn it, I can’t even be pissed off about it. The knock wasn’t a pounding, and neither voice had shouted. This place has thin walls and thinner doors, that’s all. But I never got back to sleep.

Fuckers.

To vent my frustration, I took a raw egg to the fire escape and waited for the next cop car to drive along. It’s Mission Street, there’s a police station a block away, so it’s never a long wait.

From four stories up the timing is difficult, though. I got the distance right, so the egg splattered in my intended lane of traffic, but judging cars’ speed from my angle is a skill I haven’t mastered (yet). The egg exploded on asphalt after the cop car had passed.

♦ ♦ ♦  

I got to the subway station just as my train was pulling away. Great. Twenty minutes to stand and wait.

On the next BART to Berkeley, soon as we’d rolled out of the station the guy across the aisle started sneezing, and too loudly.

People do sneeze. It wasn’t until his eighth consecutive honk that I turned to glare at him, and saw that he wasn’t even covering his mouth. Like I need another three weeks of unpaid sick leave? He was young and muscled and wearing a wifebeater t-shirt, so I said nothing, just stepped through the double-doors into the next car.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Lots of days not much happens, and I come home and stare at the typewriter wondering what to say. Other days stuff never stops happening and I jot seven pages of notes and I’m still writing about the day three days later. That was today.

♦ ♦ ♦  

At the Berkeley BART station, dozens of gradeschoolers were crowded around the gates — kids on a damned field trip. Three adults were nearby, shouting that the kids should line up in an orderly fashion, and the brats were sort of obeying but mostly running around and being in the way and jabbering among themselves.

Fifty kids make sounds I wouldn’t wish on anyone but a school teacher, so I walked by hurriedly. “Look at the fat guy,” one of the boys said, imitating and exaggerating a fat man’s waddle. I looked around for a fat guy to laugh at, but it was me.

I wanted to reach out and flatten the kid. Could’ve done it, too. He was within arm’s reach, and his 10-year-old ass needed to be kicked, but a kid that loudmouthed will be beaten by someone his own age soon enough, so I exaggerated the waddle and waddled on.

♦ ♦ ♦  

At the top of the escalator, a long-haired young man was handing out flyers, and I’ve done that for a living so I’m usually willing to take whatever anyone’s handing out. He was cleverly holding the flyers so nobody could see the picture on the front, but when I looked at the single, folded sheet of paper he’d handed me, it was a picture of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns.

Underneath and on the other side was an invitation to church, which I crumpled and tossed, of course, but then I took it back from the trash can so’s I could write about it. Here’s what’s happening at the hippie church:

Sunday 10:30 AM — Dynamic Sunday School
Sunday Noon — Adventures in Worship
Sunday 8:00 PM — Anointed Evangelical Services
Tuesday 8:00 PM — Explosive Bible Studies
Thursday 8:00 PM — Powerful Praise Service
Saturday 8:30 PM — Healing and Miracle Service
with special guest: The Holy Ghost.

♦ ♦ ♦  

It was hot today, really hot. Like the kid had helpfully pointed out, I am a fat man, but I’d dressed for May, expecting chilly, so walking the mile from BART to Jay’s house for the cart and then to Telegraph Avenue, I was swimming in sweat.

Block after block I got hotter, wetter, and more annoyed at nothing in particular.

Poppa came out of his stucco house, petted the dog, waved goodbye to his son, started the Volvo for his drive to work, and I wanted the car crushed, the child kidnapped, the dog put to sleep, and the house burned to the ground.

Flowers blooming in a garden, I wanted them wilted and choked with weeds. The birds sang to me, and I wanted them fricasseed.

I was a grumpy fat man, and as the heat soaked into my skull, I got grumpier.

At Telegraph, the only spots remaining on my assigned block were all in the sunshine, and then before I’d even finished setting up the fish-stand, a Christian said to me, “These fish aren’t funny.”

There were only a few fish on display, my chair wasn’t even unfolded yet, and I wasn’t wearing my customer-relations face. The stand wasn’t actually even open yet, and here was the morning’s first moron — a man about my age, same flabby build, but wearing a suit and jacket and tie, and giving me crap about the fish.

Such encounters happen more often than I write about ’em. Way too often. Some people love the fish, most people don’t get the joke, and a small percentage of people find the fish offensive and preach at me about it. Which I was in no mood for, so “Fuck off,” I said.

“What did you say?” he said, and I was supposed to say something like, You heard me or Did I stutter? but instead I ignored him and continued setting up the stand.

“What did you say?” he said again, louder.

I looked at that fat believer and smiled, just a little. The whole situation struck me funny — fat guy selling sacrilegious fish, another fat guy offended, and we’re going to yell at each other as if it matters. “What I said was ‘Fuck off’,” I said, and I guess I giggled.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, flush-faced.

“Yes, I’m laughing at you,” I explained. “At you, and your Jesus.”

At that, he reached toward me as if to grab my shirt or my face, and it wasn’t funny any more. Instantly furious and ready to defend myself, I knocked his arm away with mine. First contact, so I guess lawyers would say I was the aggressor.

He said something about Jesus, I think, but I can’t remember what.

“Are you a good Christian?” I answered with a taunt. “Are you ready to meet your maker? ‘Cause if you reach for me again, you’ll meet him today.” Blood, sweat, and adrenaline was boiling in my veins.

He took a slow step toward me, leaning his body over the table between us. “You talk tough, buddy” — Hey, wait, I was thinking, you were supposed to be intimidated — “but you don’t look like much to me.”

“Come closer, and find out,” I said, with what I hoped was a convincingly savage growl. But also I thought, What am I getting into? He leaned closer, his face only inches from mine, and I wondered, Why do I get all testosterony like this? 

“Are you ready?” he snarled.

Hell, no, I wasn’t ready for anything, but I guess this kind of manhood showdown is like poker. I stayed with the hand I’d dealt myself. Simply stared at him, with all the meanness I could fake. And also, I calculated my strategy — I’d go for his groin, try to do as much damage as possible.

Our big staredown seemed to last several minutes, but it was probably mere seconds. I wanted to make a joke about the faint line of pimples across his sweaty forehead, but I stayed silent and, hopefully, looked tough.

“I’m ready,” I said and wondered why I’d said it. He said nothing, so I said, “I’ve been ready for a while. You gonna do something, or do you just like looking at my pretty face?”

He raised his eyebrows, continued staring at me, and I raised my arms, feigning impatience, as if “Well?” 

“You’re not worth the bother,” he said, taking a step to the side, away from me and my table. As he walked away I gave him the raspberries, which was as dumb as everything else I’d done and said, but he didn’t turn back.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Larry and Umberto appeared from nowhere with amiable backslaps and wisecracks. Wiping the sweat and fear off my face, I wondered, if there had been a fight, would they have been around to help?

Yeah, they would’ve helped. I’m sure they would’ve helped, only probably not.

♦ ♦ ♦  

I’m big, but I’m a wimp, and I’d lose a fair fight with almost anyone on the first punch. I ought to be avoiding trouble, but sometimes like today, I seem to welcome it. Hours (and now days) later, I’m still trying to psychoanalyze myself. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Across the street, on the shady side where I wished I was working, a homeless woman wept, sitting on the sidewalk. All eyes on the Ave were looking the other way, as she sat by the door of the doughnut shop and cried like everything in the world was against her.

Someone ought to offer her a kind word, I thought, but stayed seated across the street. Someone ought to at least give her a cold can of ginger ale or something.

She didn’t cry for long. Ten minutes or so, and then two city cops came by. One of them thumped his nightstick twice on the doughnut shop’s doorjamb to get her attention, and, “Move along,” said the other cop.

The woman picked up her paper bag of possessions and  moved along.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

It was hot, really hot. Felt like the low 90s, with no wind, and standing on unshaded asphalt, I was crabby and sweaty. So then I did the stupid “tough guy” thing again.

A man in a ridiculous pink-orange blazer had stopped to look at the fish, and he was wearing a frown that said: Christian and offended. Another clue: on his lapel was a pin that said, “Jesus is Lord.”

“Hey, mister,” I said, and he looked at me, still frowning. “It’s a hot day. Do us both a favor, and walk away.” He slowly shook his head ‘no’, but walked away.

♦ ♦ ♦  

In addition to the heat, everything on Telegraph today played out over a steady stream of “Levi!”

A woman who couldn’t have been 20 sat and panhandled on the sidewalk, while her very young son wandered around. Whenever the toddler toddled too far, his mother would yell, “Levi!” but even when she called his name five or seven times consecutive, the boy never came or obeyed.

“Stay out of people’s way, Levi!” Nope.

“Come sit by mama, Levi!” Nope. 

Mostly, though, it was simply “Levi!” all day, without a sentence surrounding the name. “Levi!” And a minute later, “Levi!” again.

She’d interrupt her begging to get up and corral him near her, and then she’d sit or lean and start asking for spare change and then, “Levi!”

Me being helpful, I sometimes shouted at Levi too, and one time I shouted at his mother. “Christ, woman,” I offered, “beat the kid, or leash him to you, or just let him play in traffic — anything! — but he is never coming when you call his name, so shut up already!”

“You’re a mean old man!” she yelled at me.

“Yeah? So?”

And then, “Levi!” And, “Levi, come here!” On and on all afternoon. “Levi!” I didn’t complain again, but still…

♦ ♦ ♦  

On my way home, same as in the morning, I got to the station just as my train was pulling away. Great. 20 minutes to stand and wait, again.

♦ ♦ ♦  

When I’d made and packed onion & peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, I’d forgotten to put the lid back on the jar of Jif. As noted previously, roaches love peanut butter, so of course, upon returning home several were crawling inside the jar.

I’m disgusting, but even I have limits, so the PB went into the trash. Now I’ll have to spend two bucks buying another jar.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Dinner was bread and butter and Top Ramen, and then I went to bed, hoping for a better tomorrow. Always you gotta hope, but tomorrow is usually just more of the same.

Route review:
RapidRide #F and #560

The distance between Seattle’s southwest corner, where I live, and my mom’s house near Renton, is about eight miles. It feels like a mule ride across the prairie, though, because I’m riding the bus.

My daily trip starts with a southbound #99 from my house to the Burien Transit Center, then the long ride from Burien to Renton on either the RapidRide #F or the #560, and then a short ride on the #105 to Mom’s house. Those beginning and ending routes are OK; the aggravation comes from the middle leg of the journey, on either the #F or #560, the only two routes connecting Burien and Renton.

First, let’s consider the RapidRide #F. Christ, it sucks.

It’s a “rapid ride” compared to walking, but it’s in ordinary traffic all the way, and other than a few blocks without traffic lights where the driver tends to gun it, the #F is as slow as any city bus anywhere. Public transit isn’t about getting anywhere rapidly, but it’s nice to at least be making progress, rolling onward toward your destination. That’s why the #F is so frustrating — instead of approaching the destination, we’re making left turns, right turns, and stopping everywhere along the way.

Eastbound from Burien, the #F takes a straight shot down 156th Street, which becomes 154th, which becomes Southcenter Blvd as the bus approaches the Tukwila light rail station. If the route stayed on Southcenter Blvd, it would become Grady Way and take us directly to Renton. The whole trip would take maybe 20 minutes — much more rapid than the RapidRide #F. That, however, would be pleasant and efficient, neither of which is allowed.

Instead, the #F makes its first wrong turn at that stupidly-designed light rail station. The bus waits at a traffic light, then winds through the station’s parking lot to the bus stops, then rolls through the parking lot again from the opposite direction, weaving past Volvos and Volkswagens and pedestrians hurrying to the bus stop or light rail. Finally we’re back at the same traffic light where we entered the station’s parking lot, waiting again for the red to turn green. Depending on the lights, looping through Tukwila Station adds 3-5 minutes to the trip.

Riding the #F damned near daily, the Tukwila Station loop drives me nuts. If the walk/don’t walk sign at International Blvd is in your favor, you could walk from the bus stop before the station to the bus stop after the station, and beat the bus without breaking a sweat.

Also, there are frequently driver changes at Tukwila Station — one driver’s shift ends, a new driver comes on, and spends 3-4 minutes adjusting the mirrors, the driver’s seat, and (I don’t know why but always) testing the air brakes half a dozen times, before we finally pull away. And then, after a few 90-degree turns in the parking lot, we’re waiting at the same traffic light again.

Technology has long been available to turn traffic lights green for public transit as a bus approaches. Metro may have this tech on some route, somewhere, but it’s certainly not on the RapidRide #F. It passes through 40 intersections with traffic lights, and the bus waits its turn at all of them, same as every driver in every SUV.

Onward to Southcenter, the biggest and ugliest shopping mall in the region. For reasons with no reasonable reason, the #F skips 61st Ave, which would take it directly to the mall. Instead it rolls five blocks further, to 66th Ave, before turning, crossing the freeway, and looping backwards toward Southcenter. There’s no popular destination along those extra blocks, only two stops where passengers rarely step off or on. The #150 route services those two stops, and it’s going to Southcenter too, so why does the #F go the long way? It only adds a few more minutes to what’s already an anti-rapid ride.

The mall is surrounded by miles of smaller strip malls and office buildings, and the #F stops at most of them. Turn left, go a few blocks, turn right, go a few blocks, turn left …

After wandering through miles of blah surrounding Southcenter, the #F twists around in the parking lot at the Sounder train station — a commuter rail service that’s only in operation Monday-Friday during rush hours. Sounder makes just 13 trips on weekdays, and none on weekends or holidays, but the RapidRide #F goes to the station 24/7, adding a few minutes to every trip as we pick up and drop off nobody.

Mostly, though, the frustration is the all the sharp turns instead of straight lines as the #F rolls along. The route has sixteen 90-degree turns (yes, I’ve compiled stats), not including 8 inside the Tukwila station, 3 at the Renton station, and two 180-degree turns at the Sounder station. Between Southcenter and Renton, the bus spells out a mile-long W as it norths, souths, easts, and wests all over the map. For two stretches, it makes sharp turns to go through areas with only swamps, stickerbushes, and empty beer cans.

In addition to all the turns and traffic lights, there are 30 bus stops, two stop signs, and one roundabout that the bus cannot clear without riding up onto the curb, and bouncing down. The route has several “swoopady” sections, where the road itself is curving this way and that, and if the driver is doing 25 mph or more it feels like you’re on an un-fun rollercoaster. The #F has three stretches where shitty pavement makes the ride even bumpier, including six absolute ball-busters.

Pro tip: four of those ball-busters are as the bus approaches or leaves the Sounder station, so it’s best to rise up from the bus’s barely-padded seats and stand for those blocks. One afternoon, stuck in traffic, we passed so slowly over this area that I could see the ball-busters — the pavement drops an inch to other, earlier pavement, then climbs the inch up again mere inches later. It’s a series of intentional ruts in the pavement, and you can tell from the color of the asphalt that the ruts have been there for years. How many men’s gonads have been splattered on those ruts? The site needs a testicle memorial plaque. Or re-paving.

Whether the driver goes fast or slow, the ball-busters hurt. And most drivers prefer fast, hitting the gas while making turns, braking harshly at bus stops, accelerating enthusiastically when pulling away. With so many turns, bumps, stops and starts, no joke: I am reliably & literally in pain by the end of the ride, just from hanging on. It’s why I now carry a thick seat cushion in my backpack, which is always under my butt on the #F.

Eight miles from Burien to Renton, which takes the RapidRide #F about 42 minutes. How rapid is that? About 11 miles per hour. And all the way, a guy is sitting behind you blasting bad country music (but I repeat myself), and someone in front of you is chanting Muslim prayers every time the next turn has the bus facing Mecca. Or equivalent annoyances, same as on any other bus ride, but alll the wayyy for eight damned miles.

There is, however, an alternative for the Burien-to-Renton trip: the #560. It’s operated not by Metro but by Sound Transit, the tri-county agency, with buses that are quieter and more comfortable, with plusher seats and smoother suspension.

Unlike Metro, Sound Transit buses take the freeway, so it could be almost as quick as driving. But, of course not — the #560 goes miles out of its way to service Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, a loop that adds 15 minutes if airport traffic is light, but much longer on weekends, holidays, and on random rides when there’s no guessable reason for all the traffic.

Here’s a blatant insult to transit riders: As the bus drives through the airport, we roll past huge parking garages, a dozen taxi stands, the Hertz and Avis offices, departures and arrivals, international and domestic, check-in stations for all the airlines, hundreds of people with hundreds of cars in the half-mile-long loading/unloading zone, a dozen different shuttle bus stops, even stops for ‘airporter’ buses to distant counties, before the #560 reaches the airport’s one and only public transit bus stop. It’s the last piece of airport land before International Blvd, the main drag that runs beside the airport, and you’re closer to 13 Coins, the fancy restaurant on the other side of International, than to wherever you need to be if you’re checking in, passing through security, and flying away.

Another problem for air travelers is that buses going east and west both stop at that same stop, so passengers are often and easily confused. Is this bus going to Burien, or to Renton and onward to Bellevue? Many passengers are fresh off the plane, don’t know the area or transit system, and quite often they’re paying $3 to ride in the wrong direction. Kind drivers announce the destination when they open the doors, “This bus to Burien,” or “This bus to Renton,” but most drivers say nothing.

My dilemma is more ordinary: I do know the area and the transit system, but for every ride between Burien and Renton I must choose between the sluggish and ball-busting RapidRide #F and the #560 with its unpredictable delays due to airport traffic.

According to the schedule, the #560 is a 32-minute ride, which works out to 15 mph — lots quicker than the #F. But the #F runs more frequently, and generally stays on schedule, while the #560’s airport loop can take an hour if the airport is crowded. Both routes suck in different ways, and there’s no third choice except buying a car or taking an Uber.

The solution I’d propose is to require transit executives to ride the bus, twice daily, five days per week. Magically and immediately, routes would straighten out, roads would be patched with fresh asphalt, drivers would ease off the gas instead of slamming on the brakes, and there’d be an easy, efficient ride between the suburbs south of Seattle. And maybe the guy behind me would lower the volume on Parker McCollum and the Turnpike Troubadours.

5/25/2026

Transit Takes

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