Commuting

I live in the Richmond District, but work in SOMA, which means that I must take the bus or a cab to work. Cabbies drive like they’re running from the police, and since I’m rarely in the mood to vomit, I usually choose the bus. The bus [as well as the MUNI and BART rails] can be summed up in two words - forced intimacy.

During rush hour(s) one often finds oneself literally atop of another person. This can be good or bad depending on whether you find the person who is deep within your personal bubble (a concept that is constantly challenged in this city) to be attractive. Color me shallow. A bit of control can be exercised, though, in order to ensure that you are in good company during your commute. Just yesterday, by simply turning my hips and taking an extra step, I avoided being pressed up against a hippie whose dreadlocks smelled of B.O. and patchouli. Your face needs only to be inches away from such a stinky, tangled mess once in order to remember that life-lesson.

I no longer listen to comedy albums on my iPod while waiting for or riding on the bus. To those groggy, stoic commuters, the laughter that explodes from my mouth at seemingly random intervals and destroys each quiet, unfriendly morning suggests only one thing; that I am not sane. In the microcosm that is the public transportation system, it is important to maintain a positive, respectable reputation.

Speaking of the iPod, I derive great enjoyment from setting 24,250 songs to shuffle. A month or so ago, I found myself on the bus, sitting across from a mother and her young, silly child. The little girl was gnawing on a graham cracker and bouncing her feet whilst in her mother’s lap. A sucker for cute, living things, I was smiling and exchanging faces with her. The shuffle-feature injected into this scene great contrast as Pantera’s Sandblasted Skin was screaming in my ears. Apple really does have a sense of humor.

Advertising

I support freedom and acceptance of sexual preference. I have grown up with LGBT family members and friends, explored my own sexuality, and currently live without any sort of corresponding label. After all, just when you establish yourself as straight or bi or gay, someone so attractive and cool comes along and puts your sexual preference on its side. One thing that I don’t understand, though, is the need of many people in the LGBT community to advertise their sexuality. I’m not referring to blogs, books, or other media outlets - I can understand using such venues for self-expression. Hell, I encourage it. I’m speaking of bumper stickers, bracelets, tee shirts, etc. I find it tacky that people choose these decorations as miniature soapboxes for information as intimate and personal as sexuality. Would it be well-received if I wore a shirt that stated my preference for heterosexual sex? I think that it would be awkward and inelegant.

I see the same trend of unnecessary advertisement in many vegans. They often announce their food preference when it really isn’t relevant. I don’t think that this is harmful behavior or anything. I simply don’t understand what it is that motivates them to do it. I never hear them say that they are making spaghetti; it’s always vegan spaghetti. Should I list the ingredients that I plan to exclude each time I mention that I’m cooking?

It has become clear to me that I lack that common character component that drives people to constantly confirm that there are others who subscribe to their preferences, who exhibit the same behavior, who share a similar stance on a particular unimportant issue. Don’t get me wrong - I do enjoy being in the company of other like-minded individuals, but to desperately seek the confirmation of their allegiance to me and my choices seems… well, desperate.

Randomness

I was reminded of my affinity for food when, while watching a baseball game, I realized that the bases resembled pads of butter, which then evoked in me a strong desire for pancakes.

There are many Youtube videos of people getting burned while drinking flaming shots. These people are choosing ingest fluid that is on fire. If I had it my way, and Natural Selection was still heavily in play, the fire that engulfs their cromagnon faces would never be extinguished.

I love 80’s rock [not ironically, you hipster twit] because of lines like this one: “Run through the streets like a tiger…”

The word ‘misogyny’ sounds a lot like ‘massage.’ Can’t be that bad.

The assumption that I [clearly a white guy] want to use chopsticks is kind of irritating. I know how to use them, and even find them to be more useful than standard silverware for certain dishes, but really prefer a fork in most cases. I’d like to open my own restaurant where I force people to eat out of top hats with hammers.

A pro for the small, mid-western town that my mother lives in: Five beers for ten dollars.
A con for the small, mid-western town that my mother lives in: Not a lot of Wi-Fi networks.

During my last flightmare, I noticed that first class ticket holders were allowed to board the plane before those with special needs, like the elderly, children, crippled, etc. Wu-Tang nailed it with C.R.E.A.M. [Cash Runs Everything Around Me]

Hoover wasn’t the last cross-dressing politician. The whole lot of them is still doing it; pretending to be something they’re not.

Dear Clothing Stores in San Francisco,

There should be variance in the decibel levels between music being played at your establishments and music being played at nightclubs. As it stands, there isn’t. I feel that this phenomenon is the cause of my having purchased a certain, ridiculous shirt.

Sincerely,
Don and his exhausted eardrums

I’ve concluded that life is a baseball, thrown at your face, with the word, “Duck” written on it.

Rejected Reality Show Ideas Based On The ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ Concept

So You Think You Can Jog?
So You Think You Can Help Me Move This Weekend?
So You Think You Can Count?
So You Think You We’re Alone Now?
So You Think We Can Decoupage?
So You Think You Can Evoke Economic Growth Via Persistent Campaigning Of Fiscal Responsibility?
So You Think You Can Fly, Bobby?