Metrolink Commuting

If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness, so there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds.
Alice Meynell (1847–1922), poet, essayist

Yesterday (actually Tuesday) I took the train for the first time in 15 years from my home to downtown Los Angeles. There was no particular reason, but I have been thinking about it for some time. Maybe the reason was that all my magazines were piling up and I was tossing many without even reading them.

This morning, I finished the LATimes and the Wall Street Journal and started on September’s issue of The Atlantic, with the cover headline blaring “Lessons of a Failed Presidency, which I proudly did not fold over since I live in a right-wing nut-job of a city. Most recently, my city that houses the Ronald Reagan Library, presented a local church with a $40,000 bill for anticipated police services because the church sheltered a woman whom authorities want to deport across the border, even though her husband and child are U.S. citizens. Never mind that it’s the job of police to protect and serve and not bill directly for such services. Now you know why I was flaunting the cover around.

However, the passengers were too busy chatting about the new television shows such as “Dancing with the Stars,” “CSI,” and reading the bible (that was the person next to me, when she wasn’t chatting on her cell phone). “Oh,” one woman blared, Marcel Marceau died. She was reading yesterday’s paper.

I love my car.

There are two seats of two facing each other and no leg room. I twisted and shifted a bit to avoid having my leg cramp up, but there truly is very little leg room. Seriously, who designed this Billy Barty (he was a vertically challenged person, or what used to be called a midget, for those younger readers checking in on Hopper or Bjork).

I used to take the Metrolink when it first started up from my right-wing city to downtown by in 1992-3, but found the car more efficient for getting home quicker. Also, the line of humanity crowding in a herdable line from the train to the subway depressed me; it reminded me of the beginning of “Joe Versus the Volcano.” (see Monday's post for a clip)

I love my car. I just hate oil companies and traffic.

An Open Letter to the Woman on My TrainWho Doesn't Read Drink Labels

Dear lady on my train,

When you sat down next to me today on the train, I must admit that was already one strike against you -- I like my privacy, nose in my book, outside world tuned out. So sitting next to me was strike one.

But really, I can't hold that against you. After all, the seat was open -- and if you want to sit there and talk loudly to other passengers, I can't really be upset with you. Not justifiably so.

So.

Here's what gets me -- you were sharing with a fellow passenger the joys of the nice, cold beverage you were consuming, even offering him a sip from the lip of the selfsame bottle. So generous, you!

You extolled the temperature, the taste, and the carbonation of this lovely lemonande beverage (and "lemonade" is what you called it). But here's a tip: "Mike's Hard Lemonade" is no sippin' lemonade; it's an alcoholic beverage, and not [technically] legally allowed for public consumption.

When your friend asked what was in it, and you said, "oh it's just lemonade -- but it's carbonated" he, wisely suspicious, did not take the proferred sip.

Perhaps you didn't see the label's message about alcohol content? Perhaps you missed the big warning on the bottle about pregnant women abstaining from drinking it? Perhaps buying it in a six-pack wasn't a clear enough sign?

Is it evil to have been secretly hoping for a cop to come drag you off to the stir? Well, if wishing you were in jail is wrong, I don't want to be right.

All aboard!

This kid's inflatable party rental item just seemed wrong in some way... sort of indefinable... no, wait -- it's because it looks like a giant penis!