Tara Ramroop has laughed, cried, and commiserated with this amazing community from the start. She's been writing for as long as she can remember and riding Muni for more than a decade.

Dearly departed: A call for Muni Obituaries

Rising Over Muni
Photo by Flickr user smadden

Some of your favorite lines are going the way of the dinosaur come October, folks. But since the SF Municipal Transit Agency is banking on the fact that you don’t even know they exist, it perhaps ain’t no thang to you.

When in October? Mid-October. We can’t get more specific than that. Neither can SFMTA, apparently.

Anyhoo, we’re putting out a call for obituaries* for these dearly departed lines. Though I’ve personally stopped in my tracks and pointed at such oddities as the 53-Southern Heights (southern who?), some of you rode these lines regularly. And, undoubtedly, some of you will rightly miss their presence. Whenever they decided to grace you with their presence, that is.

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You people and your newspapers and your sense of entitlement…

the 33 ride home
Photo by Flickr user messtiza

I’m going to get a lot of hate mail for this one, especially since I’m also the person who hates disabled people with casts, as well as small, innocent children on field trips.

It’s really kind of funny. Twenty-somethin’ gal with her BlackBerry and her text messaging and her internets. Older gentleman with his morning newspaper. Odd-couple comedy in the making!

So this man gets on the bus and grabs a seat next to me in a disabled section crowded with fellow commuters. I check to make sure there aren’t other older or pregnant folks trying to nab a seat, then get back to my internets. The gent opens his newspaper (the San Francisco Examiner, which I used to write for) and extends one side of it and his arm far into my seat/space. I politely say, “Excuse me,” and, thinking the issue is over, am actually surprised when he, clearly affronted, wants to know what I was excusing-me for.

Hmm, OK. I note as politely and even-voicedly (though also kind of flustered and surprised) as I can that his newspaper is in my space, and that if he could just fold up a bit more, that would be great. As easy as it could be to tell him he needed to back the F up, I first incorrectly said (who knew I’d actually have to explain it) his paper was touching me. OK (calm vibes), I guess it’s not exactly touching me, but it’s hovering over my lap, and I’m personally folded up as much as I can be, you know? I happen to agree with the fine etiquette ladies at Muni Manners, who noted in a post about this very phenomenon that folding your newspaper to lessen your impact, but still get your news, is the safe and courteous thing to do for all. Read more

WTF Is This? Mini-Fridge?

minifridge

Heh. Maybe this can become a regular Muni Diaries feature. Tara sent us this photo from the 10 stop at Stockton and North Point … along with this penetrating question:

Is it wrong to kind of wish the mini fridge was still in this box? It’s AC/DC powerd AND can do hot, also.

Are your editors simply out of the consumerist loop? WTF is a mini-fridge, any-freakin’-way?

Send your WTFs and other poignant observations of life on Muni to us!

Public-Service Reminder: Always Practice Safe Sex

Unused (?) condom on the 47

Unused (?) condom on the 47

That’s right, folks. Mere inches from my brand-new haircut.

The 47 and 49 (both Van Ness lines, for those of you following along at home) really need to fight it out for the “And I thought I had seen it all…” crown. I personally go back and forth on the question of which I’d rather be on, though yesterday, I would have gladly eaten my lunch off a 49 (ok, ew, not really) considering what I was faced with on this 47.

First, a harmless man singing/yelling to the songs in his head and smelling 10 times worse than a portable toilet got on and sat in the back. Fine. It’s a freakin’ 47, after all. But that resulted in at least 10 people getting up and cramming themselves around the middle of the bus, since no one wanted to be back there with him. This results in a briefcase in my ass, an iPhone in my side, and a front-row seat to the freakishly large condom hanging by the back door.

Condom-leaver: next time, maybe don’t go with the magnums unless you’re absolutely sure you can fit in them, all right?

Brownie-town on the 49

brownie

I ride the 49 every day to get home, and so do a lot of terrible teenagers (redundant?) who attend Balboa Galileo High School on Van Ness and Bay. At best, they’re usually just screaming about this, that and the other, possibly hoping their volume will increase their level of importance on the bus. There’s often a non-teenage screamer on the bus and a vivid assortment of rude, pleasant, happy, friendly and too-friendly people also, just to add some color to my little cross-town line.

Because the 49 does cross town, I try to understand when it’s mildly gross. A bag of smashed chips at your feet here, a little pile of sunflower seeds there. But I draw the line at what looks like real effort to get moist foodstuffs caked on the bus. For example, someone had to TRY to get this brownie on the window. Someone had to take it out of their bag, out of its wrapper, then purposefully smear it on the window in such a way that it sticks.

I take it personally also because this happened to be next to my favorite seat on the bus (along that single-seat row, on the left, in the back). Maybe tomorrow I’ll find a plate of eggs or something.

Sure that’s a brownie? Send us your tales of suspicious items found on the bus, or any other worthy tales.

Photo by Flickr user Mitsooko

The photo above was taken by the author and pertains to the incident mentioned in this post. It arrived at MDHQ a tad late. Apologies.

Creative punishment for fare-jumping?

MUSTI don’t know about you, but I can appreciate a certain level of honesty with some things, including breaking the law. Especially if you get caught. (“Ah. Yes, officer, I know how fast I was going. Very fast, indeed”.)  By the same token, I also appreciate subtle, off-script ways of punishing people for doing so.

Fare jumpers often seem more nonchalant than anything else. They keep their heads down as they wrench those back doors open by their fingernails, and generally don’t say much or cause a ruckus while they’re trying not to get squished in the doorway.

This gal on a 10-Townsend one afternoon put them all to shame.

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