Your place to share stories on and off the bus.
Found this amazingly neato photo set on Flickr the other day. It was shot and assembled by Octoferret, to whom we owe a humble thank you. In light of upcoming Muni lines slated for extinction, we feel this is a moving tribute to the routes that time has forgotten.
Well, we’ve all renewed our ability to completely ignore weather forecasts, after rain was promised every freakin’ day this week, and delivered none. Nevertheless, we can’t be played off without referencing future skies, no matter how futile.
Not really sure what’s going on this weekend, other than Sunday Streets in the Mission. If you know of something fun, cool, vital, or pathetic, let us know in comments.
Otherwise, just enjoy yourselves these next coupla days.
xoxo,
Muni Diaries
After a day of some Interwebs hiccups on the site, we are finally back! We looked back at the most popular diaries you submitted in May, and the Post of the Month award goes to… No More Bunnies!
I really wish I’d been there to witness Laura’s story:
There was a man standing near the wheelchair guy loudly talking on his cell phone with someone who he later claimed was at his job, but I’m pretty sure I heard him address them as “Mom” at one point. I couldn’t figure out what he was referring to, but it involved complaining repeatedly about “cats and bunnies.” For about three minutes, it was “bunnies” this and “bunnies” that, until finally the wheelchair man became so irate that he literally screamed, “I DON’T GIVE A F*** ABOUT NO DAMN BUNNIES! SHUT THE HELL UP, MAN!”
Ah, this is exactly the kind of conversation that makes Muni awesome. I still want to know what was with the bunnies, though.
Got your own story to tell? Submit it to us. For June we will have a reader’s poll so you can vote for the Post of the Month. Power to the people!
Photo by Flickr user Benimoto.
My colleague Jeff and I were finishing up our drinks at 83 Proof around Midnight, last Thursday night-Friday morning – big shout out to Hazel and Mark, btw – after a hectic night of editin’, paginatin’ and copyeditin’ for the SF Examiner. While plotting our next move, Jeff suggested we go to the Toronado since we were going to the Lucky 13 – our regular Thursday night watering hole – the following night to drink with Muni Diaries’ own Jeff Hunt and Tara Ramroop, who are celebrating their recent engagement (Like it hasn’t been mentioned on Muni Diaries a hundred times already, but, I digress). So I says, “Since you want to go to the Toronado, I suggest we take the 6-Parnassus, cause it’ll drop us off right out front.” After some haggling and debate over the length of time the 6 will take versus the underground, Jeff acquiesced to my suggestion, and what a great decision that turned out to be.
With “trusty” nextbus on my cell phone, I saw that we had 5 minutes to catch one at Market and Battery streets. Five minutes turned into about 6 or 7, but the bus did come (thankfully) and we got on. I sat in the seat on the driver’s side that has that extra leg room, just behind the first row that faces forward. Jeff sat on the seat behind me, and at this time, we were the only passengers on the bus. As we head down Market, stop to stop, the usual mish-mash of folks slowly amble on, from the young man with the drum sticks and faux-hawk, to the late-shift restaurant workers getting off work, to the quiet, silent types with their headphones and glasses, to the crackhead who had a hard time getting his fare together who then sat behind the driver not far from the young man with drum sticks and proceeded to sing and talk to himself trying to make eye contact with everyone in the front of the bus. This caused young man with drum sticks and faux-hawk to move to the back of the bus, opposite the driver’s side, to the seats that face each other. He sat in the row facing the front of the bus. A couple stops later, wanna be alpha-male and overall-slick mother fucker douche bag gets on the bus.
Coming home Wednesday on the 6, it was a typical evening rush-hour crowd. By about 6th St, everyone was squished together in the aisles. Luckily, having gotten on at 2nd, I had a precious seat near the back door.
At about 9th St, the bus driver yells, “Wheelchair coming on, clear the wheelchair seats!” and I’m proud to report that those people dutifully cleared the way as the man in the wheelchair carefully rolled his way down the aisle. Things were looking good; the wheelchair guy was joking around with some other passengers about the difficulty of parallel parking his chair into the space on the bus and no one seemed miffed to have been forced to stand on an already crowded bus.
Now, I know that sometimes — most times I guess — our Muni stories have nothing to do with us, or choices we make. Usually we’re victims of circumstance. But sometimes, we make our own Muni stories. Before I go on, let me preface this with the fact that, rules are rules, and if some rules aren’t enforced by Muni or are just completely ignored by other Muni riders, then those situations where said rules are ignored or unenforced are just reasons to criticize Muni, am I right? Of course I am.
So, let’s get to the first two rules, first — no eating. Now, myself, I’m going to have to be pretty motherfucking hungry to even want to eat on Muni in the first place. That’s just me, I guess, because I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been subjected to nasty fast food aromas and the grease said food emanates throughout the tiny confines of your standard-issue Muni coach. Then, of course, there’s the sunflower-seed shells that coat the floor of the bus like so many expended ordnance on the battle field. Let’s not forget the other trash that is left behind that we have to kick under the seat in front of us just so we can be comfortable. OK, so, people eat on the bus, whether I like it or not, whether I do it or not, this happens, it’s against the rules, but I’ve got to live with it.
