on line

After walking down to West Falls this morning to catch the number 28 to my cubicle, I once again encountered – or was reminded – of a pet peeve: bus jumpers without SmartTrip cards. Here are some important items to bear in mind: first, the SmartTrip card, which is good for most local buses and the Metro, allows you to merely swipe the fare box and move right along. Second, feeding in money – especially piles of quarters, dimes, or nickels – always slows down the process at the bus door. Don’t even get me started on people who haven’t crisped up the dollar bill via the fold / unfold / iron-with-finger technique prior to bus arrival. Lastly, it’s raining this morning and this may be the most important factor of all. There are about a half-dozen of us hanging around under the bus stop shelter when the 28T rolls up and opens its door. Of the six of us, I don’t think anyone has priority over anyone else – there’s not much chivalry in bus mounting, particularly when there isn’t actually a line already formed at the bus schedule post. As we all step into the rain and approach the door there are two passengers who aggressively slip in front of the nearest folk in order to make sure they are the first on the bus and out of the rain. You know what? I don’t mind that technique on a normal day but if you’re entering the fray with the rest of the customers during boarding then you better swipe your card and move along. Let me ask you a question, and there’s no need to answer aloud, do you think these first two people had cards or cash? Four of us end up standing in the rain while the first woman tries to figure out how much the fare is, dig out her Greek drachmas from the war, sort out which slot to put them in, and eventually decide which way the seats located on this newfangled bus contraption. The second in line decides she not only wants to pay her fare with cash (a ratty dollar bill) but she also decides to charge up her empty SmartTrip card, something she could have done in the station while we waited for fifteen minutes. Here’s the deal: don’t pole vault to the front of the line if you are going to hold up a bunch of riders. The four of us with cards would have been on the bus in a flash and the other two wouldn’t have noticed any real difference and could have stood there for a pig’s year messing around with the fare box while I read the gossip portion for the Express newspaper. (I just made up “pig’s year”, it means nothing, no need to wikipedia.) I guess I’m a cranky old man.

I had something else important but I’ve either forgot or don’t care anymore.

t

ride a wave

To start, send out good wishes to little Ms. X who is right now, as I type, taking her last-ever Law School exam.

I should be better at putting together evidence when it’s sitting right before me. My story is this; with the move completed I’ve gathered a new mass transit lineup that includes buses, Metro, and some walking on either end. What I realized this morning while standing at the 401 bus stop shelter at Dunn Loring (something I won’t be doing so much of in the future) was that the reason for crowded buses over the last few months probably has something to do with gas prices. In my time at the club I’ve noted the usual number of commuters and those that come-and-go over weeks and months: folks with broken vehicles, new residents to the area, and those that mysteriously show for only a day or two and disappear - they’re a strange lot. Basically, my scheduled bus carries the same crew of malcontents on a daily basis. There are always days where some of the crew is AWOL but they’re usually back after a few days on the run. Over the last month there’ve been a lot of interlopers on both the AM and PM buses and, quite frankly, the space is getting more limited. While listening to the a debate on the gas tax holiday on the iPod this morning I finally realized that this surge in ridership isn’t purely based on cycles or weather – it’s gas prices. My analytical training sometimes takes a little longer to kick in when I’m listening to podcasts or rock n’ roll. I’m a genius. That’s the word from the man on the street.

Christopher Hitchens has another interesting commentary on the Obamas and Rev. Wright. The paragraph that struck me most was the following and I found it a bit too broad in assuming what happened at the time of the immediately before and after the Philadelphia speech.

“Nettled at last by the way in which this has upset his campaign, Sen. Obama last week cut the ties that bound him to his crackpot mentor. Well, high time. But those who profess relief at this should perhaps revisit what they thought (and wrote) about the earlier Philadelphia speech in which Obama was held to have achieved the same result with less trouble. If he was right last week, then the Philly speech was a failure on every level, and if it was a failure on every level, and thus left Obama hideously vulnerable to the very next speech made by his foaming pastor, then that must raise questions of eligibility for the highest office.”

I don’t think it’s a matter of whether the Philly speech completed the circle; I think Obama’s position as it related to both his reverend and race relations was spot on. What it represented was his interpretation of the issues that rage across race lines in our country and how those can be woven from some of the more inflammatory language of Rev. Wright. I didn’t see him supporting Wright’s assertions as made nor fully distancing himself from the narrative that led to Wright’s commentaries. The idea that certain words must be uttered by a candidate in order to make something go away is a horribly shallow desire by the public and press. It’s a no-win scenario for Obama yet what he’s done is to try to move through it in a manner that’s much more human than most expect from politicos. If he’d simply stated two months ago that Wright was “crackpot” and then chucked him on the slag heap he would have be blasted for simply brushing the bad news under the carpet and denying further explanation of his actions. He didn’t do that and now he’s still dealing with the fallout. What this shouldn’t be is an endless process that just resets and begins anew. Wright has decided to continue down his path of rage and Obama has now taken the final step and extinguished any hope of diplomacy between the two. His words and actions last week didn’t refute any of the injustice felt by African Americans but merely closed the door on someone he may have thought could change, or refocus, his anger. It was a decision necessitated by Wright, not Obama. What Hitchens does here is follow his tendency to latch onto a single thread and hold it incessantly without sometimes seeing the nuisance; the war and Obama’s reverend being two examples. He was for the war and against the reverend from the get-go and what generally follows are snippets that run support for either pillar on which he stands. There are some valid points and targets within the Hitchens commentary but I happen to think he’s reaching when attempting to sort some kind of math that aligns the Philly speech and what happened last week.

That’s my political pennies for the week. I’m hoping that today’s primaries bring us a little closer to the end of the Democratic nomination process. I can almost comprehend the frustration on both sides of the Democratic fight. I cannot possibly understand polls that say that up to 54% of Dems would either vote Republican or not vote at all if their candidate doesn’t get the nomination. I’m starting to believe they are the real problem in the party – petty, selfless, and mindless voters.

Hey to all.

T

dangling participants

On my bus ride to the Metro I noticed a woman sitting peacefully, if unstable, on the front bench with her legs dingle-dangling above the floor. The first time I remember realizing there were these people like this among us was during a training flight way back in the early naughts. I was standing behind the maid of honor from my first wedding (what are the chances?) and realized that while talking with her via headset, every time I asked a question, she stopped typing and used the microphone switch on her headphone cord in order to answer. As some background to the event you need to know that our plane is outfitted with foot switches so you can generally (if not a midget) keep working the keyboard and mouse while talking. Granted, Kat is shorter than most and there was never any hope of her reaching the foot switch even with the Recaro seat all the way down and in. Funny, I thought, as I let her know that I was on to her and then lether know that she was clearly too short to ride this ride. Ha ha ha. Then she turned around and punched me as she was wont to do. I happened to know that when I’m occupying the slippy-slidey seat on the bus I use my feet all the time to prevent sliding into the strange passenger next to me when the #401 driver decides to make a statement while turning…or stopping…or starting. How do folks get through life if they can’t reach the floor? Baffling.

X brought back some potent bleu/Roquefort/gorgonzola dolce/goat/chevre cheese from Barcelona that I melded it into some gnocchi for dinner this evening. This cheese was of such import (get it? import…) that she decided it would be best to hand-carry it for the return flight. Think about that for a moment. When you come through customs they always ask you things like “do you have any food with you? Maybe an aged wheel of cheese or some such?” The correct answer, cheese terrorist or not, is “Why, no. I don’t have any cheese and I will thank you to not insinuate that I’m a Democrat.” She decided to play honest and truthed up about the wheel. For those that know X you’ll be perfectly aware of what happened next: her scowl as she stood in a second line reserved for the honest and the dishonest. When she gets to the front of the line, after a group of others that had millions of suitcases to inspect, the customs agent says to her, “Do you have food in your bag?” To which little miss sunshine replies, in a cooperative tone, “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” It did not go well.

stop now if you don't want my angst; transition

I almost let this one go but the news today from Southwest Airlines reinforces what X calls my moral judgment.

I’m going to edit the profanity that was laced throughout the initial entry; here’s what we get from yesterday.

It’s called public transit for a reason, seriously. A few things that came up today on my usual northern Virginia / greater D.C. commute. The 401 was crowded this morning, lots of folks standing, yet we had some guy that I’ve dubbed Larry sitting in the outside seat of a two-seat bench. The window seat’s empty and Larry isn’t some guy going 399lbs. who needs two seats – Larry is a hateful person. Larry has direct descendants on Southwest flights: it’s always that couple sitting in the aisle and window seats during the boarding zone A cattle call. Even if you’re part of the A or B boarding they’ll sit there pretending they don’t know each other; as if two emptied-eyed, baseball cap wearing hucks from Kansas City simply ended up, by chance, in the same row. I hate them. Back to Larry. Larry apparently has a divine right to two seats even if some other rider doesn’t feel the need to tell him to either move over or stand up. You know what Larry? Even if you have two seats you’ve got a hundred people who think you’re an ass…and they think you suck. You can go through your simple life thinking you’ve pulled some kind of amazing feat…it’s a fine line between feat and jackassery.

Riding the Orange Line home this afternoon I noticed Larry’s cousin all laid back in my car. He had his headphones on while he kicked back and stretched his feet out on the elderly/handicapped seats in front of him. It doesn’t matter so much that the seats are reserved for anyone, it’s more a configuration I’m describing, but why is it that anyone thinks putting their crappy, stinky shoes up on a seat is okay? Why? If you want to rest your feet on your mother’s couch while you watch Dancing with the Stars, feel free. If you are somewhere that ain’t kin…knock it off. I can see Larry and his cousin, Larry, arguing over the last Miller Lite.

The city is full of doors that are triggered by pads that automatically open the door(s) for handicapped people. (I can’t get much deeper into peeves so I might as well continue.) If you aren’t handicapped, but simply too lazy to actually open a door, then stop with the auto-door function. Those things have a useful life and you’re burning up gears, oil, and maintenance time through your ease. Since I’m on this idea…if I’m ahead of you and between the auto-doors do not activate the doors from behind me and pitch the next door into me as I reach to open it. Look! I’m opening an effing door.

And finally, if someone is running for the train and you’ve decided that you can’t make it, or don’t care to make it, get out of the way. Even with the iPod playing you know full well there are people running for every Metro train in D.C. Without the iPod…you can hear them running. Move out of the way – it ain’t your world.

I quit.

That was a huge whine.

T.

loads of stuff

Let’s get back to talking about the Fairfax 401 bus blended together with a little chat about bags…and purses. (I’m going to excuse the WonderTwins as lab rats for my useless observations because they both carry totes in addition to, or in place of, ‘purses’. Smart girls.) Public transit commuters need to carry stuff because we don’t have the benefit of cars and trucks to run to during our smoke break. We need stuff. What I’ve noticed about the busgals is that they tend to want to maintain their designer purse-cute clutch ideal, probably as much for the other gals as for the busboys. I don’t have any issues with girls and large bags so it must be for the other fashionista dames; they do glare at each other-. The deal with men is this, when we finally realize that carrying a bag is a grand idea we are completely overrun with perfecting the bag life. We have no worries about overall size and certainly no need to find a small clutch or cute little lamè bag to impress the girls…we’ve decided, and we’ve got stuff to carry. It used to be that it seemed women carry purses so that we can laugh at them; as if they needed to bring along all that lipstick, powder, brushes, huge wallet, mirrors, and other womanly needs. In fact, the root of the problem, from the man logic jail, is they don’t go big enough and then end up with and an additional carrying platform like a recycled, handled paper shopping bag from Nordstrom or Macy’s so they’ll have shoes and lunch for the day. I guess the fact that the bag has nice rope-like handles and comes from Bebe or l’Occitane makes it fashionable. Guys would never do that, it’s counter-intuitive and we’d end up with a ratty old Subway bag with our ratty old shoes inside. The point of carrying a bag, any bag, is so our hands are free to do things like:

Describing a sweet golf shot from the 17th hole,

Explaining a great passing maneuver from the weekend’s Formula 1 race, or possibly,

Giving an accurate spatial relation demonstration representing how we shot down a Russian MiG, or our watch, on our Cold War video game.

It’s not so we have free hands so we can carry other bags. The great bag life allows us enough room to carry everything needed to survive either the workday or trip around the world, you never know: lunch, clothes, newspaper(s), book, magazines, iPod(s), first aid kit, umbrella, snacks, keys, wallet, sunglasses, water bottle, spare water bottle, day planner, camera, hand soap, maps, and tons of other stuff. We’ve no need to be svelte and overly fashionable; in fact, the more stuff we can pull from the bag the more impressed the crowd. As if a few lipsticks and rouge is enough to get a man through the day.


I’m off to the 9:30 Club to see the flaming redhead tonight. It’ll be my first Neko Case show and the general tenor of most reviews is that the crowd is a bunch of guys swooning over her. I’ll be mature. I think my review will take on the boy:girl ratio along with how mesmerized and full of woo the men were…

T.

snake eyes

More from the 401. I’m heading home on the bus yesterday and as we stop to pick up some more carnies I find myself looking out the window at a big banner hanging from the eaves of the Gallows Road 7-Eleven; a longer, narrower, representation of the current marketing campaign:

I’m in! I don’t know which part of the three-pronged advertising attack convinced me of the need to hit my neighborhood 7-Eleven as soon as possible: the Slurpee, the collector’s cup, or the Spiderman 3 tie-in. Maybe it was all three…the synergy! Of course, I can’t leave well enough alone and decided to hit the 7-Eleven webpage to see what other goodies I could score on my next pilgrimage. As I navigated the page I began to wonder why 7-Eleven would need a webpage – not from a corporate point-of-view, but from the consumer aspect. Let’s see, the main categories on the homepage are: store locator, careers, franchise opportunities, and convenience card. In addition, there are tabs that include: products and services, news room, real estate, and “about 7-Eleven”. Let’s take a look at a few of these and review some consumer needs.

Store Locator – There are over 30,000 7-Elevens worldwide and I know most patrons use the World Wide Web to accurately and quickly locate the nearest store. I can’t count the number of times The Eleven has tried to sort out shopping plans and used the 7-Eleven homepage to make sure we went to the nearest store, “Hey baby, can you print out the Google Map directions to the nearest Slurpee palace in the 22203 zip code? Oh, and while you’re at it, can you also print one for the Patuxent River area 7-Elevens ‘cause I’m heading down there on Thursday.” I defy anyone to tell me they use anything but their eyeballs to find a 7-Eleven.

“About 7-Eleven” – Here’s a random Fun Fact that I can use at the pub quiz next week:

Big Gulp lovers gulp over 30 million gallons of fountain soft drinks per year at 7-Eleven. That's enough to fill 59 Olympic-size swimming pools.

I don’t know what to do with that. No idea. Is that one store? I'm not sure I'd believe it. Is that all they drink, cumulatively, around the World? I think they’re fibbing…have you seen a Big Gulp? Yes, I just did the math and 30 million gallons actually equal 45.4 Olympic-size swimming pools, and 59 Olympic-size pools equal 38.9 million gallons; conspiracy! What is more interesting is that those 30 million gallons equal 96 million 40oz. Big Gulps. Now that’s a Fun Fact.

Careers – The physical requirements for applying as a sales associate include “…constant standing, bending and reaching with a moderate amount of manual dexterity.” If I can look beyond the manual dexterity requirement, I think my shift selling scratch cards, Slurpees, and a few 40oz. Big Gulps will not only be a job but also my daily yoga workout: it’s a two-for-one.

Convenience Card – This baby works like cash. You put cash on the card and then use the card like cash. It’s like cash, but it’s not cash. What you do is take your sawbucks and convenience card down to the nearest 7-Eleven (you can use the World Wide Web to get a map, see above), insert the card in the machine, insert the Hamiltons in the machine, get your card back, and start shopping. While you’re fumbling with the machine, your card, and your ratty bills, I’ll just grab my hot dog from the roller machine, my Slurpee, my NYTimes, and hang around outside for twenty minutes fighting off beggers until you get your act sorted. There’s even a way to manage your convenience card online: Hibachi! I just use cash; it's like a card but it works like cash.

News Room – I imagined that I’d get a ticker of CNN-like headlines running across my screen when I selected this tempting morsel. Maybe I could get an RSS feed, sign up for email updates, watch a few videos of the Senate discussing the U.S. Attorney scandal, or some clips of Jeanne Moos cracking open another entertainment scandal, but I was wrong. This News Room contains only streamlined 7-Eleven weekly and/or semi-weekly (bi-weekly? semi-monthly?) ‘news’ releases that includes these teasers:

7-Eleven To Franchise for First Time in Home State, Birthplace of Convenience Retailing 80 Years Ago.

What’s the Buzz?

Shopping In A 7-Eleven Wonderland.

7-Eleven To Purchase 10 McKee Oil Company Convenience Stores.

I should click on the first one just so I know the birthplace of convenience retailing for my next appearance on University Challenge, but I think I’ll just try to suss out the answer when it comes up. I’m certainly going to consider that this mystery birthplace is probably at the intersection of two main streets, near public transportion, and in an urban environment.

Real Estate – No, it’s not foreclosures at discount prices, it’s the normal gobbley-gook about converting your store to a 7-Eleven, or what type of properties are best in the hot-growth markets. But it does include this trivia that probably should not only be in the ‘about 7-Eleven’ category, but is also a bit questionable,

“Customers know 7-ELEVEN® stores are the destination for unique, ‘first, best, and only’ products, like Big Gulp® and Slurpee®, -- and they know they can rely on us 24/7.”

I’ll let them slide on the Slurpee because that is some seriously new product – an icy, tangy, fruity, slushy drink. But the Big Gulp? It’s a huge cup. I don’t consider a huge cup to be a ‘first, best, and only product’. This morning I made each boy a big pancake instead of three little pancakes and I’m now claiming copyright on what I’m calling the Big Pancake®.

Of course, I’m well aware of the pot and kettle tone of the posting. My blog certainly has less to offer than the 7-Eleven Web site. In fact, my perusal has only made me more thoughtful about what my consumers need; I’m considering adding a mapping function to allow everyone to get directions to me from anywhere in America…come one, come all. And just like 7-Eleven, I need start selling some t-shirts.

T.

girls on buses

Sometime early last week X chortled at me while relaying some psychological mumbo-jumbo that allegedly confirmed male species' behavior when encountering new folk (I think it’s any type of male: me, giraffe, rhesus monkey, ladybug, or my dog Gus). Apparently, we look quickly at the eyes, glance down to the ‘private’ area (very quickly and without regard to gender), and then return to the eyes and/or face. We have no concern for whether or not the other is speaking, commenting on our hair, eating a donut, or making kissy sounds with their mouth. Eyes – crotch –eyes. Repeat for everyone you meet at the cocktail party. I’ve never even thought of myself as one that would indulge in this behavior but for some reason it came up while we were doing our hair early one morning. Now that I think about it, maybe she said it wasn’t only upon initial meeting, just at the beginning of our daily interaction with each person in our life. I’ve been trying to avoid this male trap for the last ten days but I don’t know if I’ve been successful since I didn’t even know I was doing it.

I’ll tell you what I learned on the bus this morning; but first I’ll pass along the set-up. The #401 / Backlick Road / South Franconia-Tyson’s Corner bus passes the Dunn Loring Metro station and runs through the heart of the Tyson’s Corner business ‘casual’ district in Vienna (12th largest base of business casual employment in America!). The route is conducive for lots of folks heading to work from D.C. and Arlington (opposite the major crowds) that ride the Metro and then catch the bus the last few miles. You get the same busload of people just about every morning, it feels a little like a traveling circus, and you have some imaginary connection with the other carnies. I tend to sit in the first set of seats that face forward (more legroom) so I’m generally looking across the two elderly/handicap rows of seats that have their backs against the windows and face the center aisle. If you haven’t ridden a lot of public transport, or can’t visualize the layout, I can’t help you anymore. In front of me today there were three chicks sitting in those access seats, not as traveling companions, but they were very similar: late 20s/early 30s, nicely dressed, good hair, business casual. I’m in perfect position to watch what’s going in front of me and suddenly it becomes almost comical. At each stop heading up Gallows Road there is at least one other woman getting off the bus and heading to her office, and as she walks up the aisle to exit the front door, all three of the girls give her the look. It’s like watching a tennis match: all their heads follow her from left to right, glare at her legs, pants, jacket, hair, and physical attributes. Once she gets too far into their peripheral vision, and someone might notice them scoping the comp’, they snap their little bird heads back to the ‘neutral looking out the other window’ position. The bus moves, the bus stops, a competitor walks past, heads swivel, grade the goods, snap back to neutral. Without fail, every stop. If the timing is just right you just might catch one of them glancing out the window to see just how ‘she’ could possibly walk and switch in those heels. Now, I’m not saying that this is anything like guys checking out girls but it certainly falls somewhere in the same post code. We have our reasons, they have theirs, but I'm certain neither creature can physically override the mental power to do what seems ingrained in our genes. But, at least us guys do it when we’re looking for something important…like a mate. Girls do it because they’re trying to find new styles of jeans and shoes…and because they’re catty and judgmental. Heathenesses.

Ah, Monday.

T.

in a flash

It’s only right that I relate a few vignettes about my oration (diatribe?) on running for the bus that I made after my move to D.C. last summer. That entry put forth my belief that running towards any public transportation conveyance should be an indication that IF you don’t run, and run FAST, you’ll miss your ride. It shouldn’t appear as if you’re ‘running’ (or giving it the old ‘jog’) because you are so indecisive as to be unable to determine the time-space continuum involved in your movement and its chance of intersecting with the riding thing you desire. What brought this to mind were two steppers I’ve encounter over the last two days. The first I saw at the Ballston bus hub as I was heading to my Metro train yesterday morning. The WMATA 25B bus had departed the bus stall and was slowing at the intersection waiting for an opening to turn left onto Fairfax Blvd. Our contestant, a youngish gentleman, started a good sprint to catch it but just as it appeared he might get a fist on the door the bus slipped left between cars and headed down Fairfax. There was a short letup in the man’s pursuit – a pause just long enough for his inner voice (and commuting experience) to remind him of the fact that the bus would no doubt get held up at one of the next two intersections. Like a bullet he was off, across Stuart St., and blasting down the sidewalk hell bent for leather. I almost starting running just to see the outcome but, alas, I simply stood and gawked in commuter amazement; brilliant. My second harrier I encountered at the other end of my Metro ride (Dunn Loring-Merrifield) this morning. There wasn’t nearly as much target intercept missile plotting as was required yesterday but it was a no less impressive event. A business-casual guy bolted off a WMATA bus and ran something close to an 11-second 100 meters in order to catch an almost departing Fairfax Connector bus heading south; no pause, no thoughts of looking silly, just an opening gun (or door) and fast-and-furious headlong throttle. Both have been enshrined in my commuter hall of fame.

I don't always bitch.

T.