Muni Memories #1
When you visit San Francisco, your natural instinct may be to drive to your various destinations. That’s fine if your plans include crossing a bridge or heading up or down the coast. But if your day’s plans are to stay within the city limits, think outside the Buick. Find a place to park your car and leave it there (and by the way, if you leave so much as a quarter in the ashtray, you’re inviting a break-in. So empty your car out. And empty means empty. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure is practiced here to the extreme). Instead, buy yourself a bus map and traverse the City like a real San Franciscan – on Muni!
A buck-fifty will take you anywhere you want to go in San Francisco. And you won’t have to deal with any traffic, search for parking, or pay for it (if you’re lucky enough to find a spot, a quarter will buy you a mere ten minutes on the meter). When you get on the bus, you’ll even get a transfer good for ninety minutes so you can board other buses for free. Best of all, you will be treated to a view of San Francisco that only Muni can provide, encountering real San Franciscans that you could only meet – yes – on Muni. I promise, if you ride Muni enough, you will go home with at least one good story to tell. Because, while San Franciscans are some of the friendliest people in the world, true to our reputation, we’re also a bunch of flappin' loony-boobs. Trust me, you don’t want to miss that.
I’ve been a Muni rider for nigh on eight years now. In fact, from ninety-seven ‘til ought-two, I didn’t even own a car. Muni was it! So you know I have some good stories to tell! I’m going to share these sometimes delectable, sometimes deplorable, tidbits with you from time to time, starting with the following story.
Muni Memory #1 - the 24 Divisadero
It was a chilly night in the middle of Winter, 1998. The sun had long since dropped behind Twin Peaks and the sky was a blackish-orange of low-hanging fog reflecting city lights. I was heading out to a party – a Blue Room party – at 550 Barneveld, a large warehouse-turned-partyspace hidden among a sea of warehouses in a relatively remote, industrial corner of the City. The best parties were Blue Room parties, and 550 Barneveld was the place for the best parties in town – huge and comfortable, with multiple rooms, multiple sound systems, on multiple levels and dizzying visuals at every turn. To get to the party, I needed Muni. The bus that would get me there: the 24 Divisadero.
Seated at the bus stop, I saw the unmistakable glow of a Muni bus come over the crest of the hill. It squealed to a stop and I hopped on board. I flashed my December FastPass to the driver and found a seat on the right-hand side near the back.
The bus was almost empty and lit up brighter than Walgreen's. On the right-hand side of the bus, it was just me and an older Latino gentleman sitting several rows in front of me. On the left, a pair of young Latino fellows were sitting together a few rows ahead of mine, and directly across from me was a young white dude who was dressed to party. I wondered if he was headed to Blue Room as well.
After a couple stops, another guy got on the bus. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be Urkel. He was a little taller, a little older, and much nerdier, but for the most part, he was very Urkel. He took a seat right in front of me. Aside from the two friends, who were talking quietly to each other in Spanish, we all sat in silence, staring out at the city lights from the brightly-lit tin tube that was transporting us to our various destinations.
Enter the crazy person.
Crazy people come in all shapes, colors, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness. In fact, you never can tell who around you might be crazy. For example, this particular specimen was a tall, thin, fashionably dressed, and quite attractive African-American female with beautifully braided extensions pulled back behind her dark, angular face. She got on the bus a few stops after Urkel, and, with a strained smirk on her face (which was a sign of things to come), walked briskly to the very back row of the bus, two rows behind me.
We continued to gaze out the windows, facing forward and minding our business, as we gradually became aware of commotion – restlessness, a disturbance – coming from the back of the bus. The new passenger was struggling - and every couple of seconds, emitting a little twitter of laughter. She was fighting it, but she was losing. Trying desperately to hold it in, little laughs were squeaking and popping out of her. I braced for the inevitable. She was a pressure cooker and she was about to blow. Finally she did, exploding with a loud peal of full-on belly laughter that caused every head to turn. She had collapsed onto her side, laying across the back row of seats, and was convulsing with giggles.
I knew exactly what was going through her mind: mushrooms – the magic kind. I’m pretty sure everyone else figured that out pretty quickly too, except for Urkel, who looked baffled and a little annoyed. He kept looking back at her with a scowl of utter perturbation while she continued to try in vain to bring her inappropriate laughter under control.
The rest of us glanced at one another with the kind of smiles you give to strangers you suddenly find yourself sharing an odd or uncomfortable moment with – smiles that cross all language and culture barriers – smiles that say, this is going to be good. But our smiles didn’t last long because laughter is, after all, contagious and soon enough we were chuckling and launching our own personal campaigns to fight the urge to join her hysteria.
Of course, the harder you try not to laugh, the harder it is to resist. And her own miserable failures in this regard proved too much for us. She brought us right down with her and in a matter of minutes the 24 Divisadero was ringing from end to end with loud, raucous laughter, bursting at first in snorts through our nostrils and fluttering through our tightly pursed lips as we tried to hold the laughs in. We all became the targets of urgent, scolding looks from the increasingly disapproving nerd sitting in front of me.
I imagine his thoughts went something like this:
Oh good, the bus is almost empty. This seat looks clean, I’ll take it. Do te do te dooo…
What’s HER problem? Is something funny? She looked right at me. (Check your nose) Be cool man. Go ahead, laugh. See if I care... (Check your hair)
She’s just a stuck up bitch. Give her a look. Show her you aren’t going to take her crap.
She just laughed harder. SO immature. Now they’re all joining in. Just ignore them...
They’re all in on it. What are they all laughing at? I hate this. It’s not that funny, whatever it is. Is it something about the seat I’m sitting in? I knew I shouldn’t have worn this shirt. Why does this always happen to me? I can’t take this. People can be such jerks! They’re all looking at me now.
“Just leave me alone!” he finally broke down and screamed at her.
Until this moment, I simply thought he lacked a sense of humor. But his sudden outburst revealed to us all in no uncertain terms that he thought this was all about him. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to laugh any harder, but full-on hooting, hollering, and knee slapping ensued. Of course, it was the perfect thing to say to help the original crazy person, the woman responsible for rendering us all fit for the booby hatch, regain her composure.
By now, she was literally gasping for air, but to her credit, she managed to say in a single breath, stringing the words together as quickly as possible, “Sir, I dunno what I’m laughing at, but I ain’t laughing atch-you!” before she disintegrated back into a quivering ball of lunatic giggles. Now, I am quite certain that we were all already over the edge at this point. So that can only mean one thing: her comment literally moved the edge and then flung us all back over it again. Everything was beginning to go white as I wiped the tears from my cheeks and attempted some of my own breathing exercises.
Imagine what this news meant to Urkel. He could react in a couple of ways. First, given his paranoia, he might not have believed her, remaining convinced that we were all laughing at him. Or, perhaps he did believe her, in which case he’d have then suddenly realized that now we were all laughing at him. Either way, we were all laughing at him.
He lasted a couple more stops before he pulled the cord. The bus stopped and he made a quick exit, still clearly in a snit. Upon hitting the sidewalk, he either immediately burst into tears or began laughing himself at the silly situation. I hope it was the latter, but I doubt it.
We finally began to reign in the laughter. By the time I reached the party, I was in an incredibly good mood. Laughter is indeed great medicine. Make sure you get a good dose of it every day.
Oh, and when you're in San Francisco, don't forget to ride Muni.
A buck-fifty will take you anywhere you want to go in San Francisco. And you won’t have to deal with any traffic, search for parking, or pay for it (if you’re lucky enough to find a spot, a quarter will buy you a mere ten minutes on the meter). When you get on the bus, you’ll even get a transfer good for ninety minutes so you can board other buses for free. Best of all, you will be treated to a view of San Francisco that only Muni can provide, encountering real San Franciscans that you could only meet – yes – on Muni. I promise, if you ride Muni enough, you will go home with at least one good story to tell. Because, while San Franciscans are some of the friendliest people in the world, true to our reputation, we’re also a bunch of flappin' loony-boobs. Trust me, you don’t want to miss that.
I’ve been a Muni rider for nigh on eight years now. In fact, from ninety-seven ‘til ought-two, I didn’t even own a car. Muni was it! So you know I have some good stories to tell! I’m going to share these sometimes delectable, sometimes deplorable, tidbits with you from time to time, starting with the following story.
Muni Memory #1 - the 24 Divisadero
It was a chilly night in the middle of Winter, 1998. The sun had long since dropped behind Twin Peaks and the sky was a blackish-orange of low-hanging fog reflecting city lights. I was heading out to a party – a Blue Room party – at 550 Barneveld, a large warehouse-turned-partyspace hidden among a sea of warehouses in a relatively remote, industrial corner of the City. The best parties were Blue Room parties, and 550 Barneveld was the place for the best parties in town – huge and comfortable, with multiple rooms, multiple sound systems, on multiple levels and dizzying visuals at every turn. To get to the party, I needed Muni. The bus that would get me there: the 24 Divisadero.
Seated at the bus stop, I saw the unmistakable glow of a Muni bus come over the crest of the hill. It squealed to a stop and I hopped on board. I flashed my December FastPass to the driver and found a seat on the right-hand side near the back.
The bus was almost empty and lit up brighter than Walgreen's. On the right-hand side of the bus, it was just me and an older Latino gentleman sitting several rows in front of me. On the left, a pair of young Latino fellows were sitting together a few rows ahead of mine, and directly across from me was a young white dude who was dressed to party. I wondered if he was headed to Blue Room as well.
After a couple stops, another guy got on the bus. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be Urkel. He was a little taller, a little older, and much nerdier, but for the most part, he was very Urkel. He took a seat right in front of me. Aside from the two friends, who were talking quietly to each other in Spanish, we all sat in silence, staring out at the city lights from the brightly-lit tin tube that was transporting us to our various destinations.
Enter the crazy person.
Crazy people come in all shapes, colors, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness. In fact, you never can tell who around you might be crazy. For example, this particular specimen was a tall, thin, fashionably dressed, and quite attractive African-American female with beautifully braided extensions pulled back behind her dark, angular face. She got on the bus a few stops after Urkel, and, with a strained smirk on her face (which was a sign of things to come), walked briskly to the very back row of the bus, two rows behind me.
We continued to gaze out the windows, facing forward and minding our business, as we gradually became aware of commotion – restlessness, a disturbance – coming from the back of the bus. The new passenger was struggling - and every couple of seconds, emitting a little twitter of laughter. She was fighting it, but she was losing. Trying desperately to hold it in, little laughs were squeaking and popping out of her. I braced for the inevitable. She was a pressure cooker and she was about to blow. Finally she did, exploding with a loud peal of full-on belly laughter that caused every head to turn. She had collapsed onto her side, laying across the back row of seats, and was convulsing with giggles.
I knew exactly what was going through her mind: mushrooms – the magic kind. I’m pretty sure everyone else figured that out pretty quickly too, except for Urkel, who looked baffled and a little annoyed. He kept looking back at her with a scowl of utter perturbation while she continued to try in vain to bring her inappropriate laughter under control.
The rest of us glanced at one another with the kind of smiles you give to strangers you suddenly find yourself sharing an odd or uncomfortable moment with – smiles that cross all language and culture barriers – smiles that say, this is going to be good. But our smiles didn’t last long because laughter is, after all, contagious and soon enough we were chuckling and launching our own personal campaigns to fight the urge to join her hysteria.
Of course, the harder you try not to laugh, the harder it is to resist. And her own miserable failures in this regard proved too much for us. She brought us right down with her and in a matter of minutes the 24 Divisadero was ringing from end to end with loud, raucous laughter, bursting at first in snorts through our nostrils and fluttering through our tightly pursed lips as we tried to hold the laughs in. We all became the targets of urgent, scolding looks from the increasingly disapproving nerd sitting in front of me.
I imagine his thoughts went something like this:
Oh good, the bus is almost empty. This seat looks clean, I’ll take it. Do te do te dooo…
What’s HER problem? Is something funny? She looked right at me. (Check your nose) Be cool man. Go ahead, laugh. See if I care... (Check your hair)
She’s just a stuck up bitch. Give her a look. Show her you aren’t going to take her crap.
She just laughed harder. SO immature. Now they’re all joining in. Just ignore them...
They’re all in on it. What are they all laughing at? I hate this. It’s not that funny, whatever it is. Is it something about the seat I’m sitting in? I knew I shouldn’t have worn this shirt. Why does this always happen to me? I can’t take this. People can be such jerks! They’re all looking at me now.
“Just leave me alone!” he finally broke down and screamed at her.
Until this moment, I simply thought he lacked a sense of humor. But his sudden outburst revealed to us all in no uncertain terms that he thought this was all about him. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to laugh any harder, but full-on hooting, hollering, and knee slapping ensued. Of course, it was the perfect thing to say to help the original crazy person, the woman responsible for rendering us all fit for the booby hatch, regain her composure.
By now, she was literally gasping for air, but to her credit, she managed to say in a single breath, stringing the words together as quickly as possible, “Sir, I dunno what I’m laughing at, but I ain’t laughing atch-you!” before she disintegrated back into a quivering ball of lunatic giggles. Now, I am quite certain that we were all already over the edge at this point. So that can only mean one thing: her comment literally moved the edge and then flung us all back over it again. Everything was beginning to go white as I wiped the tears from my cheeks and attempted some of my own breathing exercises.
Imagine what this news meant to Urkel. He could react in a couple of ways. First, given his paranoia, he might not have believed her, remaining convinced that we were all laughing at him. Or, perhaps he did believe her, in which case he’d have then suddenly realized that now we were all laughing at him. Either way, we were all laughing at him.
He lasted a couple more stops before he pulled the cord. The bus stopped and he made a quick exit, still clearly in a snit. Upon hitting the sidewalk, he either immediately burst into tears or began laughing himself at the silly situation. I hope it was the latter, but I doubt it.
We finally began to reign in the laughter. By the time I reached the party, I was in an incredibly good mood. Laughter is indeed great medicine. Make sure you get a good dose of it every day.
Oh, and when you're in San Francisco, don't forget to ride Muni.
