Friday, April 26, 2013

Sammy Hagar

I think I had a celebrity sighting yesterday on the morning Express.

This guy totally reminds me of Sammy Hagar. Pre-Van Halen Sammy Hagar. The one that couldn't drive 55. Yeah, before he came in and screwed up Van Halen. It might actually be him. You never know.

This is Sammy Hagar on the bus. Note the sunglasses and hidden face...yes...trying to avoid being recognized.

This is Sammy Hagar showing off his Cabo Wabo drinking skillz at the
Hard Rock (probably) Orlando.

Please let me start by saying I feel bad for Sammy Hagar on the bus. He just wanted to sleep in the articulation. He looked hung over. He's sporting a Kawasaki motorcycle jacket, yet stuck on the bus. Maybe he was being responsible and going to pick up a motorcycle he had to leave parked somewhere last night because he didn't want to chance it. Or maybe he had just been released from the Kent RJC. (Looks likely the more I think about it.)

You may or may not gather from the picture his hair is all fucked up. He could have played it off as "the messy look" or even "DUDE! I drank an entire bottle of Yukon Jack last night behind the Safeway." Either way, there are highlights in there. Apologies for the bad lighting. He's a light sleeper and I didn't want to unleash a torrent of high note Oh Yeahs and WoooooOOO!s from him.

Here's a classic video clip of the real Sammy Hagar in action back in 1984. I'm sure most Metro bus drivers sing this song to themselves as they drive down the highway.

If I was a Metro driver I would sing it over the speaker system.


Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Slow Few Weeks - Funny Pic Re-Direct

Since nothing Busworthy has happened lately around here, I thought I'd direct you to some funny pictures of bus goings on.

The Sarcasm blog is one of my favorites. Be careful in there if you are easily offended. But then again, why would you be reading my blog if you're easily offended?

You're welcome. Happy bussing.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

The RapidRide C-Line: Joan The Baptist/Hee-Haw & Crackhead

busworthy is pleased to announce a new correspondent on the West Seattle RapidRide C-Line, Babs. [applause.] While the C-Line is usually a mellow ride, there are exceptional days, which you will soon find out about. Babs is awesome.

Babs told me about two great stories that happened recently on the C-Line. I hope I can do them justice; really, it would have been funniest just to video record her telling the stories. But I'll see what I can do.

Joan The Baptist

Babs boarded a full C-Line the other day going from downtown to West Seattle. People were standing, and naturally there had to be one lone mentally impaired woman among the commuters. One "old, crumply, crinkly-clothed, super skinny" mentally impaired woman who stood with her hands in the plastic loops above the seats. She mumbled to herself among the hum and chatter.

Let's call this lady Joan. Joan was on a totally different plain than the others. Every so often she would burst into song - LOUDLY - proclaiming barely coherent verses about Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Then, as quickly as it began, it was over and she was mumbling again.

Babs was not alone in feeling relief when Joan got off at the next stop down the line.

We should probably all ask ourselves, "Is Jesus driving our bus?" He was driving Joan's bus, that's for sure. This cup is available on if you want to get one for the next crazy gospel singer you encounter - or if you know a Hispanic man named Jesus.
Hee-Haw Meets Crackhead
According to Babs, few buses are as quiet as the 6:20 a.m. C-Line from West Seattle Junction to downtown. It is like a tomb filled with zombies. But not yesterday!
A crackhead we'll call, uhm, Crackhead got on. She was your standard, loud, muffin-topped, low-rise jean-wearing Seattle crackhead. This one had been up all night puffing the glass pipe. Babs was sitting in the sideways seats near the middle of the bus, so she had a great vantage point for hearing Crackhead take a seat at the back.
"Hello friend! You goin' to work?"
"Well HeLLO, friend. You goin' to work?"
"Hello friend! Are you goin' to work?"
Crackhead spoke to all of the half-asleep commuters in the back. Bless her heart for trying to reach out to the workers of the world! When she realized she was getting no response from them, she backtracked to the middle of the bus and sat down. She produced a bag of jalapeno potato chips and began loudly eating them.
Sitting across the aisle from her was an older man who Babs referred to as Hee-Haw. Apparently he looked like one of these guys:
No one told the dude on the left his overalls were on back'ards.
Crackhead looks over to Hee-Haw and says, "Hey Gramps, you goin' to work?" He replied he was. The two had a pleasant conversation. He worked construction. He also enjoyed jalapeno chips. And then, Crackhead leans down into the aisle as though she might barf. Babs' worst fear at 6:20 a.m. was about to happen. Miraculously, Crackhead held it together.
"Hey Gramps, what's in the cup?" asked Crackhead, referring to Hee-Haw's travel mug.
And then the unthinkable happened.
"Can I have some?" she asked, as though it was perfectly okay to ask a stranger for a drink of coffee to wash down jalapeno ships and crack cocaine residue.
And then the superunthinkable happened.
Even Britney knows that ain't right.
(Incidentally, this animated .gif came up in a Google search for "vomit face.")
The two continued their small talk, and Crackhead continued asking for sips of Hee-Haw's coffee. Eventually, she became so comfortable she simply reached over and took the travel mug without asking. Babs said she didn't see Hee-Haw drink from the cup after Crackhead did, so that is good. He either had to take it home and boil it or toss it when he got off the bus.
Realizing the trip was nearing an end, Crackhead began searching for a phone. She asked everyone around if she could borrow theirs, and finally Hee-Haw let her use his dinosaur flip phone.
Her conversation was odd, but it was obvious she was trying to meet her dealer.
Crackhead, to Dealer: "I don't know - hold on. What bus is this?"
Hee-Haw: "It's the C-Line to downtown."
Crackhead: "Where are we going?"
Hee-Haw: "Uhm, downtown. Downtown Seattle."
Crackhead: "What direction are we going?"
Hee-Haw: "North. Well, a little North and a little East. I need my phone back. My stop is coming up."
Crackhead: "What stop is next?"
Hee-Haw: "I really need my phone back. The 3rd & Union stop is next." [Hee-Haw was thinking of the old 54 bus that stopped at 3rd & Union. The first C-Line stop is 2nd & Seneca.]
Crackhead continues talking, then hands the phone back to Hee-Haw asking him to explain to Dealer where she is. Exiting the bus, he flips the phone shut.
"YOU HUNG UP ON HER!! Oh my GOD! Does someone have a phone I can use?!"
Hee-Haw shook his head and left the bus. To think he shared so much with her. Their common like of jalapeno chips. The nectar of morning coffee. Smiles and heartfelt conversation. His Nokia flip phone. But most of all, his compassion toward a lady who had been up for days on end, cranked up on drugs.
Let us all find courtesy toward others on the bus - and know when to end it before it becomes irritating and disgusting. 
 I need that guitar more than any of you know.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

"M" is for Metro

It's tax season and I'm working on Saturdays until April. I worked quite late today and took the 150 home from Convention Center. Today was very special because the big comic book convention Comic Con is in town. Believe it or not, some people from the convention made their way onto the 150.

Most of these people were standard looking, middle aged men. They were holding brochures and souvenirs from the booths. They were nerdy guys, all very nice, loudly discussing the goings on of the day.

As the bus pulled up to the University Street tunnel stop, I spotted a young man. He was wearing a trench coat and carrying a medium sized box. He had a weird look about him, but whatever. As he approached the bus to board it, I noticed he had something on his eye. I wasn't wearing my glasses, so at first I thought he'd donned Ace Frehley face makeup.

I thought he was part of the Kiss Army. That would have been so damned rad.

I had Ace Frehley's solo album when I was a kid. I was so proud of it, I tried to take it around with my portable record player so the old ladies in my neighborhood could hear it. They were all devout Southern Baptists in Tennessee and did not take kindly to my Devil Music. I still know every word to "New York Groove."
The closer he got, the more I realized it wasn't Kiss makeup. It was the letter "M" on just one eye. A far cry from any members of Kiss. I was pleased when he chose to sit right in front of me with his box of comics and souvenirs. I was even more pleased that I took the picture below without being noticed. Stealthy.

It's a "M." As in "Metro!"

The more I looked at him, the more he reminded me of one of the lesser known guys in Depeche Mode.

This one.
Anyway, everyone on the bus was looking at him or making great efforts to not look at him. You could see he was self conscious, so he was trying to look tough. He put in earbuds and started bouncing his head and mouthing the angry words to some white rap/metal group. He was doing his best to look bad ass, which is difficult when you are a grown man with a box of comic books.
Just once, I would like to sleep on the 150. I just can't. I'm so tired when I get on it, but there's always some crazy shit going on. Or I'm afraid I'll get shanked in my sleep. Or it smells so bad I can't sleep. Today it smelled like some chemical cleaner. Maybe acetone. Someone was probably huffing on the way into town.
The highlight of the commute -- aside from simply being in M's presence -- was an old grandma-type black lady who called him out on it. She was sitting diagonally away from him, and she was chit chatting with everyone around her. She motioned toward him to get his attention.
Lady: "So, what is that on your eye? I can't figure it out."
M: "It's an M." [looks at his feet]
Lady: "Oh! An M! I get it. What's that for?"
M: [mumbles] "I went to a convention."
Lady: "Well it is cute. So cuuuute!"
M: [feeble smile]
Lady: "Is it paint?"
M: "Nah, it's a grease pencil. It comes right off."
Lady: "Honey, you know Pike Place Market? I work there on the weekends. You should come down sometime and wear your M. The people in the Market would love it!"
M: [stares at the floor, painfully grins]
Lady: [chuckles] "It's just so cute."
There's nothing quite like grandma singling you out like that when you're trying to be a hardass on Metro.
Kiss just isn't the same without their makeup. All Hell would seriously break loose if they had grease pencil letters over their eyes. Check out the dude with the Japanese rising sun shirt. He is totally coked out. Gene Simmons (far right) is like, "Konichiwa! Pull it together for the record cover, Man. And Paul Stanley, you better return my mother's belt when the shoot's over."

Friday, February 8, 2013

The Blind-Driver Theory

A funny thing happened to me the other morning on the Express bus.

So many blog posts start like this, but the story I'm about to tell has very little to do with the bus or its passengers. It took place on the bus, which means it's busworthy.

I'm sitting in the window seat behind the articulation zoning out, watching the drivers in slow moving traffic heading toward downtown. We were in the carpool lane passing all of them by. I was half asleep, when suddenly I saw a white work van. It had a custom lettering job and a vanity license plate.

The company name was Dan The Blind Man.
The vanity license plate read "BLINDMN."

"HOLY SHIT!" I thought to myself. "That man is BLIND!"

Seriously, until I saw the little picture of Venetian blinds under the company name, I thought the driver was blind. I was both surprised and fascinated at how he was driving and why he would advertise the fact he's visually impaired on the road. It would have been like a warning label. Like a Student Driver magnet stuck on a Ford Taurus.

I felt a little ashamed at how naïve this was, but do keep in mind I was starting to doze off in my little corner of the bus.

This whole thing reminded me of when I was a kid. I had seen handicapped parking spots, and I think I'd seen a person with hearing aids park in one of these stalls. I made the deduction that if deaf people could drive (deducing, of course, the person with the hearing aids was totally deaf - not just hard of hearing), blind people could drive as well.

I was terrified. For months I watched each car carefully as I walked to or from school, thinking that the driver might be visionless.

This was when I lived with my great grandma in Tennessee and we didn't have a car. She was too old to drive and we couldn't afford one anyway. My aunt and uncle who lived with us did have cars, but overall, I didn't ride in them often. Because of this, I was a little afraid of them. They could start on their own, slip out of gear and start an uncontrollable roll, or just not stop when they're supposed to.

Cut me some slack, Readers. I was like six years old.

Granny would tell me, "Now, you better watch out for cars when you cross the street. Drivers don't always see kids and won't be able to stop in time."

"Mmm hmm," I'd respond, nodding my head. I'd imagine the driver pulling into a handicapped parking stall at the Service Merchandise and whipping out their white cane while fumbling the keys around at the lock. And I'd get a cold shiver.

Fueling my Blind-Driver Theory was the fact that all of the physically disabled people I knew got around perfectly fine. The best example is the furnace repairman our family friend Spider sent to help us with our heating.

Honestly, you haven't really lived until you can say you know a guy named Spider. The Spider I knew was super cool and from what I remember, he looked like David Soul from Starsky and Hutch.

Spider didn't have a leather jacket or turtleneck. He had a navy blue mechanic's jacket and a white t-shirt. He helped us out when things broke down. He was rad. (Photo courtesy of

The repairman, who looked nothing like Starsky, had probably just come home from a tour of Vietnam and been hurt over there. He was missing his middle and ring fingers on one hand. I am ashamed to admit I was mesmerized watching him work with his crab-like hand. His missing fingers didn't affect his work at all. So if this guy can function perfectly fine, the drivers entitled to a special parking spot must have a loss of senses; they're deaf or blind.

You can imagine the rush of relief I felt when I learned that people who are blind can't legally drive. That doesn't mean they couldn't try....

I tried to find Dan The Blind Man's website, and while he can see well enough to drive, apparently he is blind to Internet marketing strategies. He has no website. Don't trust him for your window covering needs. He's playing on the sympathy of vulnerable, tired bus riders for a non-existent affliction and he doesn't have an Internet presence. Two definite red flags.

"Hutch, I think the bad guys are upstairs in that Chinese joint on the South end."
"Starsky, never mind the bad guys. These boots are supa fly!"

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Clip Clip, Hooray!

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been months and months since my last busworthy confession.

What else could I be? All apologies.
I couldn't even remember the password to get on Blogger. But that doesn't mean the bus craziness has stopped. Life happened, repeatedly.
I could write about anything tonight. I could write about the poo poo smear I witnessed tonight on the Express bus. The perpetrator even left behind some liquid for effect.

Seriously? That's just gross.
I could write about the morning I got on a very early Express bus - and looked outside only to come eye to eye with a BULLET HOLE.

"Good morning, Blog Man. I am a bullet hole. Relax! It's from the outside."
Instead, I will entertain you with stories of people cutting their nails on the bus. Yeah. Ewww!
If you think about it, fingernails are pretty gross. They trap dirt and bacteria. They are weird protein, keratin, skin hybrids. Keratin is found in human nails, skin, and (UGH!) hair. These fingernails have been places on their hosts' bodies and maybe other peoples' bodies you DON'T want to think about. And really, they are akin to animal hooves. So if you think they aren't so bad, you're wrong.
It's happened to all bus commuters at least once. You're sitting there minding your business, and {click click click} someone starts clipping their nails. DNA is flying randomly around the coach, maybe hitting someone, maybe not. The sound of those clippers snapping down is deafening, not unlike a prison cell door slamming shut. You're trapped on the bus, in the general population, with a Clipper.
I should clarify: I'm not writing about the person with the bothersome hangnail that clips quickly and goes on about their commute. I'm writing about the person who thinks it's a great idea for a full trim on the bus.

Mmm hmm. Time for a trim.
(This pic came from a Google search. I don't have access to hooved animals.)
So, the story that comes to mind when I think of nail clipping on the bus is one from the Eastside on the 255 from The Brickyard. My friend was sitting next to a Clipper who whipped out some clippers and proceeded to groom herself into a plastic bag. Now, it was kind of her to consider others and catch her nail fragments, but it's still nasty.
Plus, Heaven forbid she admits to owning a plastic bag in the Pacific Northwest.
This woman is a repeat offender. She does all sorts of personal grooming, and at least one time, she ate an apple with her freshly manicured nails. She has been seen working at the Nordstrom Grill downtown.
A woman on one of my buses filed her nails mid-commute, which made me gag. I don't gag easily, but that did it. Not only was she messing with her nails, she was releasing powdery particles of her body into the atmosphere. It was a snowstorm - blizzard, even - of cells.
I inadvertently breathed in that woman's fingernails and all the dirt, bacteria, germs, and filth from underneath them. Yeah, yeah, they were probably clean. Clean looking. We've all seen or heard about Dateline NBC and what they find under a blacklight that isn't visible to the naked eye. I held my breath for as long as I could on that trip.
Camels don't have hooves. Well, they sorta do. They're more like nails.
(This pic is from a Google search. I don't have access to camels or their toes.)
Some people say the Devil has hooves, but no one has ever taken a picture of it. I think hooves are funny, so I hope the Devil doesn't have full hooves. It would be okay with me if he just has long toenails like a camel. Although I'm sure Satan would board the bus for the sole purpose of clipping his nails.
Welcome back, Readers! You're in for a Hell of a ride, because I'm planning to update more frequently.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

It All Started With A Poopy Shoe

My oh my. This is the blog post you've been waiting for. My afternoon bus ride today was pure Hell.

I left work on time to catch the last Express from my bus stop, as always. On the way down Union -- right beside Gelatiamo, the greatest place on Earth -- something caused my right foot to slip. In the middle of downtown, with no grass nearby, I had stepped in the biggest, semi-mushy pile of dog shit I've ever seen. I am not entirely certain it came from a dog. Maybe it was a cow or an elephant.

I feel pretty confident it wasn't human feces, only because that's a heavily populated area with lots of foot traffic.

In any case, I arrived at my bus stop along with my new pungent odor. Kendra was at the bus stop already. I showed her what happened, and I tried to get all of the mess off my shoe by scraping the bottom on the pavement. We laughed about it, but really, it wasn't funny.

Kendra pointed out that the popular phone app, OneBusAway, showed the Express bus arriving in 66 minutes. I laughed, telling her that app is totally unreliable in the afternoon. There's no way it could take that long. She checked the traffic, then called her husband. He checked his computer and told her about the traffic jams on I-5. I came to the conclusion that our Express could be an hour late, but if that was the case, the Express before ours should still come by at some point; they'd lap each another.

In the meantime, my shoe was reeking. "I can't get on the bus with this thing!" I told Kendra. She told me to go into the new city Target (located right at our bus stop) and get some napkins. There's a Starbucks in there, which I raided for napkins. I came back to the bus stop, removed the offensive shoe, cursed both animal and owner, and began the disgusting task of wiping shit from my sole.

The process was simply gross. People passing by me agreed with that statement. I went to a special place in my head. The place that told me I could not foul up the back end of the Express bus.

Me: "Kendra. Do you have any hand sanitizer?"
Kendra: "No. But I have Listerine."
Me: "That works."

Kendra passed me her trial size Scope with Listerine in it, and I rubbed my hands with a tablespoon of it. I smelled great, but it wasn't enough.

Me: "Do you think I have time to run into Target and get some hand sanitizer?"
Kendra: "Yes. I don't think it's coming. And if it does, I'll ask the driver to hold it for you."
Me: "There's a 152 to Auburn. These things are behind! And what's that one? Why is that guy from our bus getting on a 192?"
Kendra: "The 192 goes to Kent Station. We just never see it because it usually comes an hour earlier."
Me: "I've never seen a 192 before. I totally do have time."

We went back and forth a few times about whether I had time to go into Target, and more unfamiliar buses stopped by. There was obviously a huge delay, because these buses usually arrive long before ours.

Finally, I ran in to Target and got some hand sanitizer and a Diet Coke. While I was in line, I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Kendra. I winced as I unlocked it and read the following words:

"Seriously. Shit."

That damned bus had come after all! Oh man!

I held out and kept hope alive that the real Express bus was following behind that one. But it wasn't.

I walked slowly, filled with dread, back to the bus stop. Kim Thomas was waiting there, checking her OneBusAway app. (It isn't the real Kim Thomas, but she sure reminds me of her so that's my bus name for her.) She was convinced the Express was 2 minutes away. This woman rides my morning Express buses all the time, but we'd never talked. We laughed about how terrible the 150 is, and we waited. Then, we knew what we had to do.

I let one more bus to come by before calling off the wait. It was going to Ryerson Base. "Dammit!"

Kim Thomas and I began the walk of shame to University Street Station to catch that God awful 150.

Me: "Well, you know, we could always take the 255 to the Bellevue Transit Center, then get a 550 back to Kent Station."
Kim Thomas: "I could expense a cab ride on my work credit card."
Me: "Go up to one of the hotels up the street, then hail a cab. They have a flat rate to the airport that's about $50 less than a fare to Kent. Or we could take the Light Rail to SeaTac Airport, then catch a 180 to Kent Station.
Kim Thomas: "Yeah, but I parked at the golf course, so I will need to catch a 166 over there.

I was really enjoying this conversation. Kim Thomas was knowledgeable about the buses and very pleasant.

Kim Thomas: "I hate the 150. Were you on it the morning that young guy got sick? You know, the couple from Kent Station that used to have the baby...." (She's referring to Eddie and Becky, who have also made busworthy appearances: The Brushing.)
Me: "No. But I didn't miss another young fellow lose his lunch." (That's Captain Morgan!)
Kim Thomas: "I was on the 150 when a guy took a crap on the seat."
Me: "Get outta here!"

She even told me a short story about Moustache Man and how he'd been creepy with her.

And we entered the bus tunnel. We waited for the 150. And waited. And waited some more. We watched three 150s go the opposite direction, but they never returned. There must have been a black hole at Convention Place; that wouldn't surprise me.

Finally, at about 7:15, a 150 came along. It was beyond packed. I've never been on a bus that packed. I asked the driver if there was another 150 coming along behind it, and he philosophically replied, "There's always a 150 behind me." Taken aback at how absolutely true that statement was, I tapped my Orca card and squeezed myself in the abyss of bodies.

Kim Thomas followed suit. I moved my wallet to my front pocket to avoid pickpockets. All of the seats were taken, and angry passengers were standing two in a row down the aisle. There was no room for another soul on that bus. Yet the driver kept stopping along the tunnel for more riders. A man's angry voice called out, "There's no fucking room back here!" I was pressed firmly against the gentleman in front of me, and the woman behind me had her purse jammed into my hip. Really, it was my butt, but it doesn't sound right to say she had her purse jammed into my ass.

I've been on crowded buses before, but this was exceptional. It beat any 12 or 36 I've ever been on downtown.

The driver stopped at the next stop, Pioneer Square Station. More desperate riders boarded, trying their hardest to jam themselves behind the yellow line by the driver. You have to be behind the yellow line, otherwise you must get off. A woman, probably in her late 40s, got on. Her name was Tammy. Really, it was. She introduced herself to the bus driver. Tammy wore a beige sweater, beige pants, and a most obnoxious smile. She announced to the mob, "You need to move back and make room for me. I've been waiting for FOUR HOURS for this bus." Then her eyes scanned ours for acknowledgment. Somebody five or six bodies back shouted, "There's no fucking room for you! We can't move anywhere."

She repeated herself. I told her firmly, "There's no place for us to go."

Tammy was a pain in the ass, plain and simple. She was straight out of a 90's sitcom. She would say something, then look at us all quickly as if she was seeking our acceptance. Like she wanted to be vindicated, justified in the stupid things she said. "We're all just trying to get somewhere." She ended each sentence in a breathy, annoying tone. She tried flirting with the driver, telling him she couldn't believe he did this every day. She asked him if he always made people wait for four hours before coming around. Then she asked his name, which he refused to give her, because she wanted to compliment him.

That 150 may have been late, but there's no way Tammy waited four hours. It probably seemed like it, though. She carefully studied everything going on in the bus. Then she turned to Kim Thomas and I to announce she "never rides the bus. I'm with King County. I always take the train."

"Is this always so terrible. With the four hour wait and all?" Some may not believe me when I say I'm a logical thinker. I do have solid critical thinking skills. If it was 7:30 when we (unfortunately) picked her up, that would mean she had started waiting there at 3:30. Sounder trains start running southbound from King Street Station from 3:15 to 6:15 p.m., so she would have had ample time to catch a train. Her logic is as flawed as her cheap purple nail polish.

As I was writing, Kim Thomas and I were three bodies back from the front. When people wanted off, we got off the bus and back on.

There was a pocket of space, the exact size of one upright, medium-sized human body, behind a guy wearing sunglasses in the middle of the bus. He was being cussed out to the max by a woman who was, in her own words, "not a bitch, but not afraid to speak her mind." She was letting this guy have it. I only heard her portion of the exchange, which lasted for about five stops.

"I bet you fucking love to come home to your man lover."
"Get your dick off me! Get it out of my ass!"
"Keep your Lincoln Log to yourself." (My personal favorite.)
"Oh YEAH?! What are you going to do to me? Hit me?! Go ahead. Hit me right here."
"Well you want me to get off at the same stop as you. What? Are you going to kick my ass?!"
"I will fuck you up, Man!"
"Fucking coward!"
"God, you are such an asshole! All you have to do is move back and make room for more people!"

Finally, the guy got off at the last stop in SODO. I think he got tired of listening to this bold woman going off on him. We parted as best we could to let him off. A guy in the sideways seats told him he needed to find Jesus. With that, he burst through the last few people in the front like a linebacker, knocking Tammy all the way into the cash box.

"God! What a jerk!" Tammy exclaimed, eyes searching ours for agreement.

A bitchy IT woman with an ill-fitting, extremely-low-cut-for-no-good-reason shirt on was pissed.

Kendra sent me another text later, while I was on the 150 and unable to access my phone. I couldn't reach my pocket in the crowd.

"Mail handler. And he looked me straight in the eye, which I've managed to avoid for months.... That's my curse for telling you there'd be time. He's going to try to talk to me again...."

Because "we were all just trying to get somewhere", we continued on our 150 journey to Southcenter, where Kim Thomas and I moved to stand in the back. Away from Tammy, the IT nerd, and the rough looking people who considered getting off at the casinos in Tukwila so they could "strike it rich." We stood until we arrived at Kent Station.

I walked home, happy to be away from the nasty, filthy 150 and all of the people on it. Except for Kim Thomas. She was cool. And the woman who was ready to kick that guy's ass. Because you have to love a good verbal altercation on a bus full of people.

Here's a pic of Lynyrd Skynyrd for the bus Kim Thomas. Actually, I'm sure both Kim Thomas' will enjoy it, as will the good people of the 150. Freeeebird, Baby! [Picture courtesy of a Google search.]