Happy New Year, happy new blog. Or some such thing. Greetings and salutations for a glorious 2005, everyone.

Been home for a month, working for a certain purveyor of soaps, etc. and riding the buses and trains of San Francisco near every day.

Sometimes I notice things in life changing constantly and without pause for reflection; one of these is the 38, which, though never quite the same twice, is always true to its character.

It's good to be back.

The savvy commuter regrets to inform you that she no longer lives in San Francisco...Instead she is working hard in a swing state to defeat George Bush, and invites you to read about her adventures at her new blog, Tales from a Swing State, which you can find at www.talesfromaswingstate.blogspot.com.The buses in San Francisco and their riders are now free to carry on their freakiness and idiosyncrasies without fear of scrutinization and judgment from yours truly. Really, though, it's been fun, I thank you for reading, and I'll be back in action upon my return to San Francisco in December. I might also from time to time slip in a mickie about the buses wherever I am, which I'm sure will be a grand and fabulous place.

Until then....

Happy Bloomsday, everybody! Do something fabulous to celebrate it.

I just heard a guy on NPR say that our leaders have found themselves stuck between Iraq and a hard place.

Pretty good. Pretty good...Surprised I hadn't heard that earlier. Had you?

In bus news, I got on a 38L the other morning and found a seat in the accordian belt. A grandfather and grandchild sat across from me. I couldn't help but smile: She was a cute little sprite, maybe 6, in a turquoise ball cap embroidered with the Golden Gate Bridge and the words "San Francisco." They were speaking a different language, which I immediately tried to decipher. That's a fun game you can play by yourself on the bus. (Unless you have an iPod or something better to do.) It's usually not hard to identify the language, but I always try to figure out what their conversation is about. This time I couldn't even get past the first step. What are they are speaking? I was vexed. Spanish? Italian? Portuguese! I wondered for about one minute before we got to Arguello, and the Bus Angel himself got on, dressed head to toe in white, save his thick black specks on his face, only this time he was in trousers and not shorts.

"Step right on!" He commanded the rest of the crowd. "Right this way, ma'am," he guided an elderly lady to a seat behind the driver, shooing the rest of the crowd down the aisle. The mid-morning crush pressed further, further still down the moving tube.

"Next stop is Fillmore!" And on it went. He gets off somewhere in the Tenderloin each time I ride with him. I wonder where he goes.

I, of course, always get off on Market, in the heart of downtown, the Financial District. Pillars and concrete. Newspaper and coffee. Rubber bike tires and rumbling F trains. The other night I rode an M train from Montgomery out to West Portal and visited my grandpa who has lived his entire life in San Francisco. Most of his working years, decades of time, was spent downtown, or in transit there. His first job down there was at California and Sansome, in the Spring of 1930. The market had crashed in October '29, if I'm not mistaken, and he felt lucky to get a job. In those days, you kept a job no matter what, because there was only a line of people after you who'd take it. In those days, as well, the savvy commuter walked as close to the buildings as possible so as to avoid being struck by the falling body of a suicidal stock broker. No joke.

One of my favorite things is to start a new journal. Something about that initial quick flash of ink on a blank page is pure joy. I love it. There is also, of course, the added satisfaction of finishing a journal. Thumbing through my most recently completed one, I came across a bunch of things I had jotted down but never posted. So, in no particular order, here goes:
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At Arguello and Geary this morning, I sipped my coffee and observed the approaching figure dressed all in white. I've written about him before--the 38 Geary zealot. The only person I know who likes the bus more than I do. "Good morning!" he greeted us all. He inserted coins into the newspaper stand and took out a Chronicle. Fanning it on the top of the trash can next to the bus shelter, he bounced back and forth on his feet, obviously anxious for the bus to arrive. He kept creeping out into the oncoming traffic of Geary (an action not at all endorsed by this blog) and then finally turned round to declare, "Two on the way! A local two blocks away and a limited right behind it!"

"Thanks, eagle eyes," I thought to myself. Everything about this guy is white. His hair is snowy down. His skin is almost transparent. His shirt, his shorts, his tube socks, his Reeboks--all sterile and white. And I am sure he has nothing but the best intentions. This is a dude who announces every stop on the line. This is a dude who greets every new person who climbs on the bus. This is a dude who is either the driver's best friend or worst enemy.

Sure enough, a regular 38 showed up a moment later, and he made sure each and every person boarding it knew a Limited was right behind it. "That's the local, sir! Are you sure you want a local?" The driver of the local saluted him as he pulled away from the curb, making room for the limited behind him. I had stuck it out for the limited, and I'd like to think that made the Bus Angel happy.
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Friday night, waiting for the N Judah. While waiting at the corner of Cole and Carl, I observed this handwritten flyer pasted to the side of the shelter:

"Let us celebrate a truly great American today, RAY CHARLES, 1931-2004. He brought so much joy."

Indeed, he did. A helluva lot more than a certain late president I can think of, but then, let's not nitpick over who gets a national holiday. I will say this, though: Talking to the mother of a good friend of mine last week, I told her I didn't understand why there was such a huge fanfare for Reagan. She replied, "Well, apparently he did a lot of good things. I don't remember them. I DO know he did a lot of bad things, the repercussions of which we are still experiencing. I remember when he was elected, my husband said, 'Well, Patty, that's it. With this guy as our president, we'll have to walk over people in San Francisco's streets. Mark my words.'" Frighteningly clairvoyant, no?
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Later on that same night, I had a perfect San Francisco moment, and I wrote it down right then in my journal, which I will relay here unedited, and with that close. Tomorrow's my last day at work, and I'm working on an ode to the Financial District to share with you all for it. Anyway, here's that perfect SF moment:

A Friday evening
A rollicky busride.
The intersection full of cops, sirens and lights.
A women walks by disenfranchised
holding a huge pinata,
a painted tiger.
A man walks beside her, guiding his bicycle.
I ride by,
entombed in a 24 Divisadero.
There is so much going on, and yet so quiet a bus.
I am aware of this anomaly, and almost scream to break the silence within.

Let's hear it for the absurd:

The non-profit I work for is looking for donations of desks and lamps, stuff for the office. We're growing and trying to accomodate four more people in the office than we had two weeks ago.

Anyhow, we have been posting ads on Craigslist and this site called Freecycle. This reply came in this morning and I am too disturbed by it not to share:

"[I have a] fitted pad in very good condition, extremely clean, though it does
have an unsightly stain that will not come out with bleach.

Goes between the sheet and the mattress, give the mattress a nice
comfy feel."

Thank you anyway, but disgusting!

Dearest readers,

This article touched me as it displays one of the greatest chasms between people--the simple absence of basic listening skills. If we all just made an effort to listen and respond accordingly, don't you think we could overcome many of the hard-core lines so often drawn around us? I do. Anyhow, this comes courtesy of a contact in Santa Clarita, who is a tireless advocate for environmental concerns and public health issues in her community. The article was written by Frank Hovore, and will be published in tomorrow's (6-10) Santa Clarita Signal News. I'm especially keen on the clever title...


Environmental Prose

The Signal editorial page daily displays columns and letters concerning political, religious or environmental issues, each extolling one view and excoriating others, their points sometimes sublime, but more often hurtling well into ridiculous. Arguments waged over environmental issues, almost always involving water and/or development, invariably pit the “greens” against development, often casting local activists as anti-development, anti-schools, anti-progress, anti-people, etc. While a few activists may be anti- this or that, most are not really anti-anything, and in point of fact, are extraordinarily “pro.”

Admittedly, SCOPE and other pro-environment activists too often are positioned contrary to something someone else wants to do to remove another piece of the valley’s remaining open landscapes. But is that anti- or is that pro-? In polls taken over the past several decades, some 85% of Americans identify themselves as “environmentalists.” Surely that many people don’t feel negative about everything happening around them. To the contrary, being pro-environment doesn’t inherently make you anti- anything. When they join hands across a river or in front of a bulldozer, maybe there’s a good reason.

That Americans voice near-unanimous pro-environment sentiments shows an increasing awareness that we are not a species-- or nation-- apart from nature. The expanding reach of “info-tainment” sources such as Animal Planet, Discovery Channel, and excellent nature books, combined with rising costs for natural products, and the disappearance of our surrounding hillsides, has helped modern families view nature in a less adversarial light than did previous generations. The struggle to triumph over nature is evolving into a much gentler quest to live in harmony with it. The 15% who do not regard themselves as environmentalists likely haven’t given much thought to what that might mean, exactly. If you are not pro-environment, then what do you favor? Smog, sewage, death and destruction?

Every living organism on earth shares one big bowl of water, one atmosphere, one earth on which to grow food and families. Bugs, toads, bunnies, birds, boys and girls all need the same things to grow, live, and reproduce, and not one of them creates their own air, water or food. For the most part, the earth’s natural systems supply these resource services free of charge, but with limits. The earth is incredibly resilient, but not invulnerable, and resources take time to produce. If one of these “free services” is overtaxed by our use, and fails to renew itself, everyone and everything loses equally. Being pro-environment, then, means being aware and working to protect earth’s promise from abuses that jeopardize our futures.

So, when environmentalists are portrayed as anti-development and pilloried in the press for obstructing progress, it’s a communication failure. Both sides may be speaking, but who’s listening? Developers and politicians are family people with lives just like the rest of us-- car payments, mortgages, leaky plumbing, orthodontia for the kids. They work their jobs with the same aspirations as everyone else, trying to keep the boss happy and rise through the system. But when a corporation’s primary asset is land, and their client base is a rising tide of humans seeking homes, it’s pretty obvious what they must do to meet that need and make their profits. Bearing no particular malice for that which lies in their paths, the bulldozers rumble in and nature is rumbled-off. After all, you can’t build houses without first cutting trees, mining aggregate, smelting steel, cutting roads, and carving out buildable sites. Once occupied, new homes demand water, electricity, and other resource-consumptive services, yielding rivers of effluent and lines of full trash containers in return. As long as we keep making more of us, developers will keep making places for us to live, followed by schools, roads, bridges, treatment plants, and landfills.

If the situation is that simple, why the conflicts? Why oppose that which seems inevitable and necessary? The truth be told, most environmentalists don’t oppose development or services. They simply want to insure that new development, infrastructure and services are situated where they will do the least harm to our remaining natural resources. They want to protect our water supplies, prevent our air from becoming a filthy soup of unbreathable exhaust gases, and preserve enough open space for everyone living here-- old and new residents alike—to be able to continue to enjoy the quality of life that enticed them to Santa Clarita in the first place.

Does anyone really think that the 85% pro-environment Americans spend their evenings fretting about a toad or gnatcatcher? Battles waged over seemingly obscure sensitive species being overlooked or overrun aren’t about those species alone, they are about all species together. They can’t survive in a toxic world, and neither can we. Arroyo toad, spadefoot and red-legged frog simply are much rarer and much less-tolerant of pollution than we are, and in their demise we may see the potential beginnings of our own. This is not crying “wolf” or running around like Chicken Little-- the potential environmental threats to our valley are very real, and the demands that are made for honesty and integrity in EIRs and other reporting processes are made on behalf of all of you who deserve to know the truth about future impacts to your quality of life. It’s not enough to take things at face value when our collective futures are at stake. If a report seems flawed, or its conclusions ring false, the critical issues must be resolved before permitting or approvals are given. Sound projects should proceed, but dangerous ones must be denied. Drawing the line at a toad’s doorstep is a lot smarter than waiting until it comes to yours.

So, when environmentalists voice concern over poorly-prepared biological reports or conflicting assessments of water supplies, don’t roll your eyes and smugly dismiss them as anti-progress extremists. Listen to what they have to say and consider the issues carefully. In trying to protect the remnant resources of this valley, they aren’t just pro- birds, beetles and badgers-- they are pro-you.

A very special group of fifth graders that I have had the priveledge of working with this year had their promotion this morning. I'm really proud of these kids--they're bright, insightful and renew my hope for tomorrow. Congratulations, Room 301! You and Ms. Tam deserve a round of high fives.

It was my honor to be there at their promotion this morning, but not an honor having to break my word to myself (again) and catch a 1 California downtown. What could I do though? The school is in Chinatown and I was running twenty minutes late. When you've got 21 eleven-year-olds expecting you somewhere, the last thing you can do is take a few minutes to craftilly revise your route so as to avoid that evil arch-nemisis, the 1. Truth told, it wasn't that bad of a ride. I was only hacked on once and screamed at three times--a world record for my history on that line. Plus, the girl across from me was wearing fantastic shoes and reading "A Confederacy of Dunces" so it wasn't THAT horrible.

The promotion went terribly well (despite my slipping in twenty minutes late and missing them sing their song) and I clapped until my hands stung.

*Funny story not at all relating to buses: While chaperoning one of their field trips to the Asian Art Museam, one of the kids pulled my sleeve and said, "Aimee, you could buy that bowl in Chinatown. What's so special about it?" I pointed to the little card under the bowl and said, "Well, actually, this bowl is 900 years old, so you probably couldn't find it just anywhere..."*