New Bike Racks Are, well... RACKED!!!

I had the unpleasant experience the other day of using one of the new bike racks on the downtown-bound #16 Long Street local, which I boarded somewhere in the wilds between Gateway East and Easton. They're black and yellow (damn, yellow again!--see previous post), and made of heavy plastic. They're a real pain in the ass--bulkier, heavier than the previous aluminum models. The yellow handles that hold the bike in place are difficult to dislodge from their magnetized mounts. When I used them the first time, the handlebars of my bike became entangled with the bus windshield wiper during my effort to wrest the holder from its mount. It takes longer to fuck with, and it's sure to increase the ire of passengers already pissed off because the biker takes too long to get the bike on the rack and get on the bus. I estimate it took me an extra 30 to 40 seconds to secure my bike on the rack. Thirty seconds on a behind-schedule COTA bus can make the difference between missing a connection and getting to work on time--not to mention saving oneself from the icy glare of passengers (many of whom I am convinced secretly hate bikers!)--and being late for the umpteenth time. Some things in life just should not be messed with--including the light-weight, easy-to-handle aluminum bike racks that are one of the brainier ideas COTA ever devised. Are you listening, COTA?

Sociopaths Ride Among Us

It never ceases to amaze me the level of sociopathological behavior on ample display on our society--although at my age, it shouldn't. From the halls of Congress, where idgit-brained lawmakers posit the most outlandish and destructive behaviors and actions, to our entertainment industry where it seems the sociopath as star is de rigeur, right down to our bus system here in li'l ol' C-bus town.

Just last week, I had just sat down at the back of the bus, around 6 A.M., full of peace and goodwill toward men. Sitting in the corner seat nearby was a big, burly guy in a rubber duck-yellow hoodie, glowering. Normally, I steer clear of such person's "space" and this time certainly was no exception. Twenty years of living in New York City made me pretty adept at giving people their "space." The driver stops at a Clintonville stop, and Hoodie shouts out: "I'm getting off!" But the bus lurches forward and begins its drive away from the stop. Wanting to assist, I yell out: "Someone's trying to get off!" The dude, by now at the back door, turns his head toward me and exclaims, "Shut the fuck up! I don't need nobody speakin' for me, muthafuckah! Don't tell 'im to let me off; I can speak for my own damn self!"

Needless to say, I was taken aback that my small effort toward helping was rejected. As he leaves the back door, he continues to glare at me and begins with the menacing body language--stepping away from the door as if he were going to come after me, stepping toward the door to exit, trying to make me edgy.

"Just keep walkin'," I mutter under my breath, possibly as a prayer of sorts that he would indeed keep walkin' and spare me the specter of a busted face.

"What'd the fuck you say?! C'mon! Right now!," he shouts, making moves toward me. No one on the bus is saying or doing anything to prevent the potential bloodletting about to ensue, least of all, the driver.

"I said, 'Have a nice day,'" I say.

Pointing, and pointedly, he yells, about to leave the bus: "I'll be seeing you some morning, muthafuckah!"

"I'll pray for you," I say, as the bus moves slowly moves away, while he continues from the sidewalk to glare at me, hoping to lock me in a death-stare, and thereby justifying his beating the shit out of me.

I ignore him--just like the driver and other passengers who witnessed the exchange. Fortunately, for me the cops'll probably grab his ass before he grabs mine, with an attitude like that. Maybe it was the hoodie that put him in an aggressive mood; no grown man should ever be caught wearing that bright shade of yellow (unless of course, you're a drag queen). Maybe the sheer brightness of that color blinded him to act with any sense of common civility (not that civility is very common in Amerikkka these daze). But I doubt it. That's just the way he approaches life--mean, nasty, confrontational, lookin' for a fight.

I've been on a roll tonight. I guess there's something about being caterwauled head-first over the seat in front of you that jogs the mind and loosens up those creative juices. Just wanted to note that this is my first-ever blog, and there are technical things with which I am unfamiliar. I hope to get someone with a little more experience with blogs to help me work out the kinks, and teach me things about blogging. I almost lost all of my posts tonight--for some reason I have yet to understand. So bear with me. I'm also hoping I can somehow drop blogspot from the URL so I can be listed right up there with the COTA website. That way I can make some noise, get some readers, and best of all, comments with their own experiences on our wild and wacky public transit system!

COTA's New Ad Slogan

It's "Forward with Columbus." Guess it's s'posed to be COTA's nod to this year's city bicentennial. I've got a few ideas though. How's about replacing "Central Ohio Transit Authority" with the more-accurate "Central Ohio Tardy Authority? Or how 'bout this for a catchy slogan: "COTA--We'll get you there when we fucking feel like it!"

Did You Know...?

...that if the bus is late because of a ramp malfunction (as happened to me on the southbound No. 2 a few weeks ago, causing me to be 45 minutes late for work), that you cannot get an official excuse from COTA because it is "ADA-related." Yes, it's true. I called and asked that they send a letter to my employer documenting exactly why I was late--and the request was refused for this very reason. The bus was late because the driver could not get the wheelchair ramp to work correctly, leaving a crippled guy without a ride, and dozens of other commuters late for work. Ain't that a hump?

I Heard It on COTA (although I'm not sure I was s'posed to)--a semi-regular recounting of the fascinating conversations overheard on COTA

I often ride the crosstown #96, which takes one from the Battelle Institute out to the suburban serenity of Gahanna. Often, fellow passengers include ladies dressed in blue uniforms indicating that they are prospective med techs at the Everest Institute (which is probably yoking them with thousands and thousands in student loan debt). Many of them are poor, from the wrong ends of town, but they're just trying to learn a trade that they hope will help them claw their up the socioeconomic ladder. Some of them can be loud, profane, and occasionally violent (a brawl broke out one day on the bus, which delayed the driver, as the police debussed the offenders). Overheard was a conversation between two ladies dissin' the tastes of men they knew, with particular emphasis on a certain woman. "She be nasty." "Yeah, Roddie put out that he come up on an old Kotex inside o' huh!" I hope Roddie got out alive....

Getting Like "Old School" New York City everyday:

Last week, again on the northbound No. 2 during the 4-5 P.M. rush. A babbling incoherent graying old guy gets on the bus. As the wretched being shuffles to a front seat, the faces and noses of the passengers nearby wrinkle and sour. Being a veteran of the New York City subway, I know what this means: Someone who hasn't had a bath since Methusaleh was a tot has boarded the bus. Soon, the entire bus fills with the madman's ripe fragrance. "This is the same kind of smell that clears a New York City subway car," I remarked to my neighbor, a pretty cool guy from the East Coast who coming home from his baker job. Trouble is, on a COTA bus, there's no escape....

Close Calls

I get on the 9:00 P.M. northbound No. 2 at 5th and High (it got there 'round 9:17--on time for a change). I should say "run" onto the bus because the driver barely stopped at the shelter and I had to scream, "Wait, wait!" as he pulled off. He basically slowed down, then gunned it. As I got on winded, but relieved I wouldn't have to sit at the corner of Smack Street and Crack Alley for another 45 minutes, Weisenheimer at the Wheel sarcastically sez: "You're welcome!" Like I was s'posed to kiss his big ass or something for the privilege. "Guy didn't even stop," opined an elderly man near my seat. "Yeah, I know." But that wasn't all. Some idgit on a Harley decided he just had to be bad-assed and cut over two lanes of traffic left of us so he could make a right turn on one of the side streets on campus. Then some jogging ditz with headphones blaring runs directly in front the bus, causing Handsome to slam on the brakes and all of the passengers lurching and somersaulting toward the front of the bus. It's a wonder I fucking got home alive.