Photog David L. describes the following scene:

The woman behind me was talking on a cellphone the entire trip (Yapper alert!) with a creepy ventriloquist’s dummy on her lap. Not only was she talking on the phone, but she occasionally was talking in what I assumed was the dummy’s voice as well.

Quelle horreur!

We’d have that look on our face, too, if confronted by such a tragedy. Thanks, David!

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Jesse was recently, well, bemused on Muni. Here’s why.

I got up to ask the Muni driver if he thought the bus was going to make it to upper Market since the street looked like it was blocked off up ahead. As I was doing this, the crazy guy boarded the bus (an F Bus, btw, since there was something wrong with the streetcars) and started answering my question with “yes, yes, we’ll make it to Church St.,” which in hindsight is somewhat interesting because Church was my destination. Crazy guy and I both went to sit in the sideways seats at the front of the bus. I noticed there were two quarters on his seat just as he sat down on them.

I said to him, “Hey man, you just made 50 cents,” as I pointed to the quarters. Without looking at them, he reached back and grabbed them from practically under his ass and held them in his tightly closed fist. He said “Here, I can tell you the dates on them.” Then he seemed to concentrate for a second, and said “1977…1995.” He opened his hand and we looked. He was right on both accounts. “I can always predict dates on coins,” he explained. That was just the beginning.

Other topics of conversation covered:

• His Superior Court murder case was dismissed.
• He is turning 41 next week.
• Everyone has transistor radios.
• Fuck his dad.
• His family is trying to kill him.
• He can predict the date on coins. (see above)
• His mom died at 57.
• This is his first day without heroin or methadone.
• He only wears Element shoes but doesn’t skate anymore.
• Fuck his dad for ducking him for his whole life.
• This city is pissing him off.
• His last name rhymes with Bolinas.
• The guy sitting across from us might be his dad.
• He’s got to leave this city before he kills someone again.
• His family is everywhere, even in City Hall.
• Theres photography studios everywhere, and that’s how he knows how to find his dad.
• He can tell that he and I are on the same wavelength.
• Oh, and fuck his dad.

There’s a little something for everyone in that story, we think. What’s your Muni story?

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Even when your Muni driver isn’t MIA, as they apparently were in @xt1an‘s photo above, it sure does feel that way sometimes, dunnit?

Says he: “hello? does someone want to come move this train? the driver is nowhere to be found”

We hope it got better.

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@samuelclay says, “Muni train swallowed this poor lady’s bag.” Better than the train swallowing her, amirite?

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Dhyana posted this celebration of coconuty chocolate on the Muni Diaries Facebook Page, noting this:

On the 5 this morning: Some guy got up and dumped a bag of bite-size candy into the seat next to me and then left the bus. “Sometimes he has cupcakes,” said the person sitting across from me. Muni is weird.

Maybe this is part of his oeuvre, a la Felix Gonzalez-Torres. It is so contemporary.

Either that or coconut macaroons are next. But really, though, what does this “sometimes” look like when it’s cupcakes, instead?

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Whoa, Nelly. Karen has quite the 38-Geary experience to share. Let the tea steep, get comfortable, and take this one in.

Once upon a time, many years ago, I had to take the 38-Geary to and from The Richmond to downtown every day. Lots of fun things happened on that route: marriage proposals by strangers; riding in the “accordion” part totally hungover; every Tuesday was the handicapped kids’ school field trip and they always wanted to talk to me about (and touch) my clothes… Sometimes the commute was grueling, other times it was pretty entertaining, and if Instagram had been invented then I would have had a field day every day.

But one night stands out above all others, and has changed the way I think about a certain fast food restaurant – or at least the way I pronounce it.

I got on at Market and Fremont, as usual, and settled in. To get to 14th and Geary took forever, especially since the 38L had stopped running and that meant that we had to stop at every single stop. A few blocks later, a man in a filthy ski jacket with a pik and a Butterfinger wrapper in his giant afro got on and sat directly in front of me. He smelled a little ripe. “Oh great,” I thought, especially after I heard him muttering to himself. “It’s going to be a really, really long ride.” But then I leaned in closer to hear what he was saying.

“Jackinthebox. Jackinthebox. Jack. In. The. Box. Jackinthebox. Jackinthebox. Jack. In. The Box. Jackinthebox.”

Wow. He was clearly a big Jack in the Box fan, and I figured that I would be amused up until we got to the Jack in the Box at Mason, where he would get off. I listened, delightedly, as he chanted and muttered and proclaimed his favorite selections – “Teri-YAKI BOWL! Teri-YAKI Bowl? Jumbojack CHEESEBURGER!”

However, Mason St came and went, and two people had moved just to get away from him. And I realized:

He was going to the Jack in the Box on 10th and Geary. One stop before mine. YESSS!!!!!!!!!!

So the entire way, I got to hear his chanting and his monologue, which got crazier and crazier and faster and faster as the ride went on. Just past Japantown he opened the window and started throwing out stuff from his pockets; napkins and wrappers and whatever else was in there. (The Butterfinger wrapper stayed put, though.) I like to think it was confetti for the party that was ABOUT TO HAPPEN. By this time, about 3 other people had changed seats to get away from him, as he was bouncing with glee.

And then… We were in the Avenues. Just past Arguello he started getting really excited, and the chanting got louder. “Jackinthebox, jackinthebox, jack. In. The. Box. jackinthebox, JACKINTHEBOX!!!!!!!!” People gave each other looks like, “Whoa, he is cuh-raaaaaaazy,” but I refused to participate. I was on HIS SIDE. He could unleash all the crazy he wanted – he was so steadfast in his love for Jack in the Box, his intentions so pure, that he had my full support. (And my undying love, only matched by his undying love for Jack’s Buttermilk House Dressing which he shouted about just past Van Ness.)

At 8th and Geary, his excitement could not be contained. (Neither could mine.) He started ringing the bell, and his “Jackinthebox” mantra had hit a fevered pitch. As the bus slowed down to pull over, he was rocking back and forth with such force that my bench was shaking. And then, the bus came to a stop and he jumped up with a mighty scream…

And farted directly in my face.

The last I saw of my Jack in the Box friend he was tearing across Geary, arms akimbo, running to the Promised Land of Sourdough Cheeseburgers and Curly Fries. I thought of him barging in on the unsuspecting workers and customers, and was jealous. They had no idea what treat was in store for them!

I have a few regrets in my life – giving up my supercheap apartment downtown, saying “sure, I’d love to go on a date with you!” to a few people, being an English major – but the one I regret most of all is not getting off the bus and following him into that Jack in the Box. What did he order? How did he pay? Did he replace the Butterfinger wrapper with perhaps a packet of taco sauce? Ahhh, mysteries of life for which we’ll never have an answer. But some things I know for sure: I have never been able to say, “Jack in the Box” the same way ever again, and every time I see the commercials, I think of him and hope he’s enjoying a delicious Jumbo Jack, wherever he is… Even if it’s on the 38-Geary.

It’s best to keep regrets to a minimum, we say. Stop holding back, and share your amazing Muni stories today.

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Dating season is off right now, so you have a little time to figure out what to do if you see a cutie on the bus. Whatever you do, don’t write a freaky-ass note to broadcast your love for butts. That’s one thing that you’ll learn from this video that we found via StyleCaster.

Like, don’t do this (a scene from the video).

Come on, New Yorkers. If you must write notes, try it this way (via @LindapopSF‘s blog, Popup Poems).

Much better.

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Muni rider Sarah took this one. I love how quiet it is; I always (easily) forget how peaceful it can be on the bus.

…unless the guy at the very front honks the horn affixed to his cane. Per Sarah:

Hard to tell from afar, but there’s a squeaky horn on the end of that old man’s cane. I wonder if he uses it like a car horn, when people are walking too slowly in front of him, or to tell his wife to hurry up because he’s waiting outside.

It would certainly come in handy on Muni, let’s not kid ourselves here. Bravo, cane-horn guy. Few people can pull this off, but I think he does it well.

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At my local Muni stop, a passenger has something to say about the impending new wave bus shelters:

Wave shelters do not shelter! Let’s all get wet!

The new Muni shelters may not protect you from the rain, but they may protect you from small fire arms. Useful? Let’s hope not.

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Octoferret dropped this one in our Muni Photos Flickr pool. Someone tell the NRA, because this Muni’s next stop is the goddamn rifle range.

Octoferret says:

On the 76 line in the Marin Headlands.

My second favorite is ‘General Manager’ on the northbound 19-Polk.

“General Manager” is a great WTF-inducer. I have two others tied for first, though: the running ticker of gibberish and Sassy Muni Bus. Please Ho, indeed.

To answer your burning question, though, there is apparently a place called Rifle Range in the Marin Headlands. The National Park Service says you can find those purty Mission Blue butterflies there. Nowadays, it appears to function more as a venue/public space than a shooting range. Please give us a break for giggling, though, as we don’t see “rifle range” on many things around here.

Go ahead, make my day: drop some photo goodies in our award-winning (finalist-making) Muni Photos Flickr pool.

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