Dispatch from the Metro: Orange Line Art Edition

What a privilege it is to ride the Orange Line everyday from the far reaches of Virginia (don't worry, it's not REAL Virginia, I'm not that far out)! Nearly every day I get to experience one of the greatest pieces of art ever created. Actually, I'd say that I get to hear it many times per trip as the train rolls from station to station. You might be thinking to yourself "Self, what art can exist in such a cramped and utilitarian place?" Or you might be thinking to yourself "Self, it's almost time to eat lunch, isn't it?" Or even perhaps "Self, I can't wait until summer when fresh corn on the cob sells for, like, $2 per dozen!"

All you need to do is listen.

It's beautiful.

Dispatches from the Metro: Magical Happy Land

Just so you, you know, know, the greatest thing ever happened yesterday at about 1:05 PM on the New Carrolton Platform at Metro Center. Let me set it up for you....

A typical six-car train came barreling into the station, just like usual. I was standing towards the "front" of the platform. By that I mean I was standing where the front of the train would stop. I thought. However, as I stood there, I found myself thinking, "dang, that train is going pretty fast!" And fast was it going indeed. So fast in fact, that it didn't manage to stop until the first car was almost entirely past the platform. "Sucks to be the people on the first car," I thought. "I don't think they can get out."

Well, as it turned out, no one could get off the train for about, oh, five minutes. At that point the doors opened. The only trouble was that the doors that opened were not on the platform side, they were on the other side. After about 3 more minutes the real doors finally opened and several people spewed out of the train. And that's when it got amazing and awesome!

So, I walked onto the train while both sets of doors were open. What an opportunity this was! Deciding that I may never have this chance again, I stepped across the threshold into the most incredible land I've ever seen. I don't know if the WMATA uses some sort of cloaking device, but opposite the platform, where you never see anything but a vague light is actually a magical wonderland.

I stepped through the doors and found myself walking amongst lovely trees bearing all kinds of fruit. Except cashews because those things will mess you up with their urushiol. Anyway, it was just like heaven. You know that scene in Happy Gilmore where Adam Sandler goes to his happy place? Yeah? It was just like that. That's the best way I can describe it. Well, not just like it. Adam Sandler wasn't there because then it would have been like hell, not heaven. And there were no midgets because they freak me out.

I wandered for what felt like hours. I saw flying cars that ran on air, talking squirrels discussing dirt viscosity, and even some chick throwing moldy tangerines at a case of wine. It was undescribably beautiful. But in the back of my mind I knew that I needed to return to the train and get my butt over to DOT headquarters. And so, with pain in my heart and the seeds of a longing that will never be fulfilled, I returned to my door. I said goodbye to that place knowing that I would probably never visit again. As I was about to reboard the train, I asked the tangerine chick what this place was called. "Is it Narnia?" I asked. She looked at me like I was some sort of nutbag and said, "No, you dork, this is the real world. Where you live is just a hologram projected by the new world order shadow government to keep the masses under control. It's a conspiracy dude."

Maybe I'll make a documentary. I'll call it "Loose Change."

I hate seeing dudes on the metro that give all us other twenty-something white guys a bad rep. Everybody thinks we're all d'bags, and it's because of people like the guy I saw last night. First, I noticed him because he poked me in the face with his giant, jumbo-sized magazine. You know the ones. They look like a regular magazine except they are glossier and about 50% wider for no apparent reason. I think to myself "what a jerk. I bet he's reading GQ or some other idiotic man-mag." I get a peek at the cover and, even worse, it's Details. I know that you're thinking nothing could be a stupider magazine than GQ. Well, you're wrong.

With my initial suspicions about this guy confirmed, I decided to check him out. Not in a gay way. So I see that he's wearing a nice crisp white shirt with no tie. He probably took his tie off before getting on the train so he could look "laid back." Actually, I do the same thing, so I can't fault him for that. The problems started below the waist. He was wearing black, pleated suit pants with a brown belt. Talk about a major fashion faux pas. Black and brown? Duuuuude. Plus, pleats? Don't they tell you not to wear pleated pants in Details? I guess not. But the piece de resistance of the whole outfit was his footwear. Light brown leather and canvas flip flops. I don't even have a comment about these.

So, with every bad sterotype of late 20-something white guy rolled up in one package, I just looked at him and wanted to punch him the throat. But I didn't. Then the train got to Cleveland Park, I got off and walked out of the station.

As I exited the station, I thought about that guy and how he was really just another guy trying to make his way in the world, although somewhat stupidly. I decided that I really hoped that he was at least a better Christian than I am. That he was more charitable than I am.

Because then he would've turned his other cheek and I could've punched him again.

Yesterday, the worst happened. Just as my trusty Red Line train started to pull out of Metro Center, just as it started to pick up speed, the operator (driver?) slammed on the brakes and the train came to a screeching stop. My first thought was "Oh no. Some idiot is stuck in one of the doors and got dragged into the tunnel and is now a bloody smear." My second thought was "Why did they have to do it at rush hour? This is going to cause a ferocious delay. I'll never get home." My third thought was "What? I live in Washington. I don't give a rip about other people as long as they are not inconvenienceing me. In that case I want them to die. But, again, not in a way that would inconvenience me. There should be a law that no track jumpers are allowed between 4 and 7 PM. Jerks." My fourth thought was "oh thank God, the train is moving again. I'll get home on time."

Bonus note: Metro needs to teach their drivers to use the brakes properly. There are three popular braking methods, only one of which is correct.

Option 1: Brake smoothly and evenly as the train is pulling into the station, bringing the train to a complete stop in the right location (i.e. there is a door directly in front of where I am standing on the platform) with a small, comforting, "you finally made it," jolt. This is the right way to do it.

Option 2: Come barrelling into the station before braking heavily (probably around 0.7 g's) and bringing the train to a stop with a crunching, horrible jerk. This is not the right way to do it. I will admit that seeing people fall over because they weren't ready is fun. Unless it's me, then it blows chunks.

Option 3: The Soul-Killer. All you train riders know what I'm talking about. The old brake, coast, brake, coast, brake, coast, brake, coast....ad infinitum. Literally infinitum. I think at atom-scale distances the train is still alternatingly braking and coasting. It never fully comes to rest. Unless it does, and then it's with a terrifying jolt. I hate, hate, hate, hate this one. It makes me die a little inside at every station. This is not the right way to do it.

Update: After what happened on the Orange Line Friday at lunch time, I kind of feel like a jerk for writing this. Sorry.

Hola, amigos! I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, at least on this subject, but things have been gettin' a little crazy around here. Let's just talk about what I seen lately on the commuter train. The train that, once you get on, you may never get off, if you know what I mean.

Last week, I witnessed the most stunning example of dislikability all rolled up in one person. Here is a brief description. He was short, which, if you read Craigslist R&R, is as big a sin as guy can commit when it comes to women. He was fat, which is right behind short for things people hate about dudes. He was white (read boring). He has balding, but what hair he did have left was really long and pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing stupid looking earrings. And here is the kicker: he crammed himself into a full train just as the doors were closing. At a run. Bodies went flying everywhere as his ample figure pushed them hither and yon. He didn't say "sorry," he just proceeded to take out some headphones and blast heavy metal for the rest of the train ride. I never thought I would see one person be so unlikeable. If you take any of the traits he showed, it wouldn't be so bad. But to put them all together like that? There's just no getting over that.

I bet he stands on the left side of the escalator too.


Second, this morning, I saw another of those bright young things that will either be destroyed or totally corrupted by this city and its political machinations. He was from North Dakota and is a part of some governmental thingy that he had to apply for. Of course, as he was chatting up this girl on the train, he made the requisite "I think I was the only one in North Dakota to apply, so I kinda got selected by default," joke. He was young, handsome, wearing a dashing dark suit, white shirt and red silk tie with a pin right on his lapel. He was the epitome of a young up and comer. But one statement gave him away. He said "I'm really interested in government, and politics and stuff." That's what people say when they come to this city and don't know what they are doing. He will be disillusioned by the end of his intern program or whatever it is. If he doesn't go crying back to North Dakota, he will forget what he said on the train and change it to something more like "I'm really interested in power, and money and stuff." That's the only way he'll survive here.

Mr. Smith never comes to Washington and lives to tell the tale anymore.

Of course, I am in no way qualified to make this kind of statement, so feel free to ignore me.

Every day at lunch....Scratch that. Every day that I go out for lunch (more often than strictly necessary) I sometimes take the metro. Actually, I really only do that if I'm going to meet the Brickfam somewhere for lunch (usually CalTort which runs tasty, messy circles around Chipataplay if you want my opinion (and why else would you be here? (are you ready for this: triple parenthesis!))). But every time I do ride the Metro, I walk by a guy selling Street Sense. I almost never carry cash, which means I almost never buy Street Sense, which can lead to the vendor looking at me and saying things that I just have to ignore. Like, once, he said "Oh, you graduate from college and you go all Wall Street on us?" I think he was trying to say that I should give something back. I know I should, but can he take credit cards? No? Shoot. And then, every time I'm at lunch with the brickwife, I intend to ask her for a dollar so I can buy a copy on my way back, but I always forget.

All this to say that last Friday I did have some cash on me so I bought a copy. And since I was in a good mood, I chatted with the vendor a little. He introduced himself (I don't remember his name) and said he was the house photographer and asked if he could take a picture of me for their Cheerful Givers piece. I said sure, and then a reasonable facsimile of the following conversation took place.

Me: That's a nice camera you've got there! (Speaking of his Nikon D-SLR)

Street Sense Guy: Yep, digital, cost two grand.

Me: Wow, pretty pricey. Out of my price range at least.

SSG: But now I don't have to pay for a whole roll of prints, just twenty-nine cents each! I been takin' pictures since about '70, but I just went digital last year. I was all used to cropping and dodging and that s---, but now I don't got to do none of that.

[aside: if you don't know, "dodging is the practice of, well, dodging your hand in and out of the projector/print maker thing in order to lessen the exposure on certain parts of the print. Just goes to show, I've learned more of practical use from one High School photography course than from all of my high school science classes. Oh, wait. That's not true. In physics I learned about audible beats in slightly different frequency sounds which is very useful when it comes to tuning a guitar.]

Me: It must be pretty convenient for you since you take so many pictures for the paper.

SSG: Yep, now I don't have to worry about getting 36 pictures that are all no good. But it's bad news for the little mom-and-pop developers. They aren't gettin' much bidness any more.

Me: Yeah, too bad. Do you like the camera though?

SSG: It's great man. Cost about two grand.

Me: (thinking that I'm pretty sure he already said this) Wow!

SSG: About two years ago I was crossing the street when this woman waiting for me to cross yells at me "Move it you slow motherf****r!" So I looked at her and said "You dumb black b****, I got the right of way, so you just better wait." (ed. just so you know the vendor was African-American, so he wasn't racist, just a little crude) And then she yells back at me that she doesn't care and she'll run over my a**. So I said "Kiss my sphincter!" She didn't know what I was talking about, so I look at her and say "You dumb black b****! The sphincter is the muscle that controls your a******!" You should have seen the look on her face! And then she steps on the gas and runs me over! Felony hit-and-run! Then this other woman who saw the whole thing says to me "I can't believe she cussed you out and then ran over you!" I made sure to get her license plate number. I ended up getting a three thousand dollar settlement, and I spent two on this camera!

Me: Um, I gotta go meet my wife for lunch, okay?

So we shook hands, I walked down into Metro Center, and that was that. Just goes to show: if you want an interesting conversation, talk to the Street Sense guys.

By the way, does every city have a homeless newspaper? I know that Seattle does. Here's a shout out to anyone who shopped at the Roosevelt Ave Safeway in the U-District back in the day (so, basically just me and the brickwife among all those who read this)...

"Real Change? Have a great day ma'am. Have a great day, sir."

Yesterday, I heard someone fall off the end of the escalator on the Shady Grove of Metro Center. It's a very distinctive sound, the sound a falling person makes. Well, actually, there are a host different sounds, but they are all distinctive. Before I turned around to look and see if the guy (I already knew it was a guy) needed help, I knew he wouldn't. See, the sound he made as he fell was a nice solid sort of thud. Sort of like the sound a stack of phone books would makes if you dropped them onto the first floor of your hip, warehouse loft condo. It's always a relief when someone falls and makes a thud. It's when you hear a snap, crackle, and pop that you know something bad happened, usually to a little old lady. That "thud" sound told me to things: 1 the person had a lot padding, so he probably wasn't hurt, and 2, he is some kind of idiot. I was actually wrong on the second point, though. It appeared that he had been tripped up by some weird plastic piece of litter, so it was someone else's fault. Anyway, he bounded right back up with an embarassed look on his face and shooed away his potential assistors. And that was that.

I will also take this chance to mention the most horrible display of fashion gone awry that I think I have ever seen on the train. There was this woman, she looked reasonably well put-together, fashionable some might even say. However, and this is a big however, she was wearing a silk-screened coat. A silk-screened coat with a stylized cartoon of a hipster girl in a green hoodie. The pattern was varied so that some of the cartoons showed only the girls face while others showed her from the waist up. It was a horrible abomination that should have been taken out behind the shed and shot three times. Not the woman, just the jacket. The woman looked perfectly normal. Except for the jacket. I'll never understand that one.

Dispatches From The Metro

You know, sometimes, riding the metro makes me really sad. I don't know if this is related, but it's usually when I didn't get enough sleep and haven't had any caffeine yet. Like this morning. At Woodley Park a bunch of fresh-faced young men and women boarded my car. You could tell that they were new to the whole Metro thing by the way they hogged poles, blocked the door and otherwise made nuisances of themselves. I mean they even talked to each other. Out loud! Since they were opening themselves up to eavesdropping, I, well, dropped a couple of eaves (the brickwife knows that this is a public transportation habit of mine, remember the Nightride?). I quickly learned that these pretty, confident young women and men were all in town for an internship program. Here they were, ready to take on the world, to go out and make a difference. What makes me sad is that, if they stay here in DC, within a year that will be warped, frustrated young people. Their idealism and youthful enthusiasm will be crushed and they will turn into hopeless, bitter, selfish troglodytes.

Just like the rest of us.

Hold on to your hats and glasses folks, because this is going to be a three-parter! That's right, you heard me. This post will contain not one, not two, but THREE great little dispatches from the metro. And if you call our operators within the next 60 minutes, you'll get a 5-blade juice-extracting device absolutely free!

Dispatch #1: Subtlety is dead.
There's an ad out there in some of the cars for a Napoleon Bonaparte exhibit at some museum. I don't remember which one. One of the ads has the following quotation: "In politics, stupidity is not a handicap." - Napoleon Bonaparte. A relatively clever and subtle "editor" for lack of a better word, had crossed out "Napoleon Bonaparte" and written in "George W. Bush," so as to say that GWB is stupid, but since he's in politics, he can get away with it. It was a cute little moderately subversive act of graffiti. However, underneath "George W. Bush," someone else had written "SUCKS!" Whoever wrote that just doesn't get it. The first guy was not saying that Bush is great, he was saying Bush is stupid. But don't let that stop you Mr. Unsubtle Bush Bashing Guy! Lose yourself in that knee-jerk reaction to think "SUCKS!!!!" every time you see or hear Bush's name. Never mind the fact that there are others out there who agree with you but don't have the same reaction. I'm sorry that it is you who is in fact stupid.

Dispatch #2: Robert Washington
I don't know if this happens regularly, but last night, while I was riding the Yellow Line across the river (from the Pentagon to L'Enfant Plaza), the train operator regaled us for about 4 straight minutes about safety, security, what to do in the event of an emergency and why we should care. He referenced the London bombings from July, the Jordan bombings from last week, and I think he even tossed a bird-flu allusion in there, I can't quite remember. Anyway, as we pulled into L'Enfant Plaza, he wished us all a "Safe, Safe, Safe evening," and ended his lecture by telling us that his name was Robert Washington, and that it had been a pleasure being our operator this evening. I think Mr. Washington is the coolest guy ever. I've never seen a whole car full of people laughing at the same time. It ruled.

Dispatch #3: Mr. Stick My Arm In The Closing Door Guy
I'd like to take a second to salute Mr. Stick My Arm In The Closing Door Guy. You all know him. When the door chimes and says "Doors Closing!" he lunges at the closing orifice and sneaks his arm (and sometimes a foot!) into the door. Then, he struggles, blood being cutoff, to force the doors open again so that he doesn't have to wait 2 more minutes for the next train. And he always wins because, what's the driver going to do? Drive off with some dude hanging out of the train? We can only wish..... Anyway, here's to you Mr. Stick My Arm In The Closing Door Guy, you've got guts and maybe even a little tissue damage. And here's to the two minutes you saved. I hope they went to good use.

Ah, the return of the college students. One of the metro stops I frequent, Tenleytown, is the main stop used by American University students. This means that the trains are a lot more crowded now than they were all summer, but that's okay, because it also means the return of the escalator-top musicians. Most days, it seems, there is a duo playing various types of music at the top of the long escalator that feels like a ladder bringing you slowly, oh so slowly, out of the bowels of hell. I'm assuming that the musicians are AU music students since they were there in the spring, gone all summer and are back now in the fall.

Last week, the musical duo consisted of a violinist and a bass player. Mostly they played classical standards. I can't name anything specific, sorry. As far as metro musicians go, they were pretty good, though the violinist played most of his long notes about an eighth of a tone flat, which grates on my ears. Still, who am I to criticize? I can't play a note on the violin.

Yesterday, however, things were different. The bass player was back, but this time he had a guitarist along with him. As I was walking up the escalator, I heard them playing Take Five, which was originally recorded by the Dave Brubeck Quartet (Holy cow! My History of Jazz class did turn out to be useful!). That, in and of itself, is not weird. What is weird, at least to me, is that it was the bass player that was playing the main melody. I guess I don't usually think of the bass as anything but a rhythm instrument, and I guess I've been selling it a little short.

Every once in a while, I'll see someone on the Metro who is decked in out in full military resplendncy. I'm not talking a run-of-the-mill desk job uniform, I'm talking about full camouflage, pants tucked into boots, bars on their chests. The full monty. Once, a whole crew of fresh-faced young army men boarded the train at Metro Center. They were all very polite, which was refreshing and forced me to assume that they weren't from around here.

Whenever this happens, I feel a little intimidated. On my normal commute there are no reminders that I'm doing absolutely nothing to serve my country aside from paying taxes. Oh, and you government workers, you're not either. Well, maybe a few of you are. But in these instances, I'm forced to come to terms with the fact that I am nothing but a working schmuck, out to make a buck. And much bigger bucks (I assume) than these kids that are out firing guns and getting sent willy-nilly to hostile foreign nations. They have guts that I'll never have, and that makes me feel bad. I feel like I should do something. And by something, I don't mean put one of those stupid yellow ribbons on my car. And by something, I don't mean saying that if you don't support the war "You must hate our troops!" But forgive me, I am getting close to violating my NO POLITICS credo.

So, in closing, I would just like to say to you armed forces guys: Keep up the good work. And I bet chicks really dig a guy in those uniforms.

In keeping with Poetry Thursday, this post will be presented as a poem, albeit a rather poor one.


The Janitor
by SJSTL

An aging man in seersucker
Sits on the train,
To Shady Grove.

His wavy graying hair and
His round, tortoise-shell glasses and
His formerly-white suede oxfords and
His visible black socks and
His crisp white shirt and
His yellow, fly-fishing tie and
His glittering cufflinks
Say "I am tired."

And yet
Between his legs is,
Of all things,
A vacuum.
A 12-amp, Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner
In light blue.

Why it is there,
I cannot comprehend.

Is he stealing from his office? Or
Selling it on Craigslist? Or
Cleaning up a crime scene? Or
Did he get it from a colleague? Or
Did he find it on the street? Or
Did he clean his office at his wife's request? Or
None of the above?

He leaves
At Dupont Circle
With his vacuum
His old, mysterious vacuum
Pushed off the train
A step ahead of him.

Is he the Janitor?
The one who plans to clean up
The mess that clogs our gutters
and our souls?

When trying to ride the bus at non-rush hour times, I will often see two, or even three "Not in Service" buses before one "In Service" bus comes along. Why is this? Why are there buses driving up and down the route (especially the 30's route along upper Wisconsin Ave.) but not stopping to let anyone ride? If the buses are going to drive the route anyway, why not pick people up? Isn't that what buses are supposed to do? You know, take people from one place to another, not cruise by in air-conditioned comfort while we wait wearily by the side of the God-forsaken road? This is especially important in January when it is about 5 degrees out.


Maybe the buses are going somewhere important. Perhaps, by driving the route without stopping, the bus is able to arrive at the start of another route sooner, thus increasing the overall efficiency of the MetroBus system. If that's the case, then so be it. But I still don't like that initially-hopeful, inexorably-crushed feeling that happens every time I see a "Not in Service" bus go by.

Yesterday, on the way home I saw a guy standing a few feet from me with a sickle and hammer tattoo. I'm not one to take offense in most instances, but this pushed me over the line. I don't understand how the emblem of one of the most murderous regimes in the history of the world could have become acceptable to adorn your body with. If one had a swastika tattoo, it would get one abhorred and ignored and thought to be a true boor. But with a hammer and sickle tattoo the reaction is likely to be "cool, man. That's awesome!" But let me tell you, no it's not cool. It's disgusting. The Soviet Communists murdered around (nobody really knows the exact number) 40 million of their own citizens. The number of Jews killed in the Holocaust pales in comparison to that (please don't take this to mean that I think the Holocaust was not a big deal. Nothing could be further from the truth.) but somehow, it's acceptable, nay, celebrated in some circles to remember fondly the regime that carried out those atrocities. For what it's worth, I doubt most people who would get such a tattoo, or wear a similar t-shirt truly understand the meaning and emotions behind that emblem. Just be glad that political dissidents like yourself are not sent to gulags and murdered here. There are some things to still be proud of in the USA. So next time you say "ha ha, check out this awesome communist stuff," think for a minute about what that symbol means and whether or not you want to associate yourself with the world's worst mass murderers.

On a side note, it really sucks that such a beautiful symbol was ruined so. Most graphic designers, I'm sure, would kill to create one such beautiful, simple, and elegant logo. Oh well.

Maybe I missed the memo, but judging from what I see on the train, flip-flops are now acceptable business attire. Approximately 40% of the women I see on the train are wearing them every day. Now some of these floppy shoes are pretty fancy, with rhinestones and embroidery, but the bottom line is that they are still flip-flops. This phenomenon is almost strictly a youthful one. Rarely will I see a women over, say, 35 wearing this footwear. Is it that young women today don't understand what's acceptable? Are they all carrying real shoes in their ubiquitous oversized, strap-covered bags? Or have the rules really changed? Don't get me wrong, I'm not offended by flip-flops or anything, I just didn't know they were acceptable.

To whomever is in charge of this kind of thing: what are the chances that it will ever become acceptable to not wear a tie? I mean, come on, aren't they just a little silly?

Dispatches From the Metro

Right outside the turnstiles at the 13th Street exit from Metro Center there are two bins. The first you come to, heading out of the station, is a newspaper recycling bin, the second a trash can. Every day, the trash can is overflowing with copies of Express while the newspaper recycling bin sits beside it, empty. Apparently, slowing down for two seconds in order to recycle a newspaper is too much time to lose for most Metro riders