Adventures In Busing.

Getting Back.

So even though I was called for jury duty I was ultimately not selected to serve. What I did do was spend the entire day in a courtroom with about fifty other people while lawyers questioned potential jurors, excusing one after another, never calling me. At one point a defense attorney asked the people in the jury box, “How many of you are familiar with Star Trek?” and they all looked baffled as though this was something they’d never heard of and I thought, oh please, if I’m ever charged with a crime please let there be at least one Trekkie in the jury. It was a pretty grueling process, or maybe it was oatmealing since it left me feeling pretty flat, or porridging since the jurors all seemed so thick, but that’s another story. Toward the end of the day, after more than five hours of questions and excuses, one of the clerks said, “Damn, I’ve never seen it go on this long!” Lucky us.
Getting to jury duty was easy–I went to where I normally work and caught a bus downtown. It was easy because I could catch any bus going downtown–they all go to the same bus depot. The buses departing the depot, on the other hand, all go in different directions so I had to catch the right one to get home. And normally that’s easy, but right now the Music City Central bus depot is being completely renovated and everything upstairs is completely shut down except for the donut shop because they have priorities.

Anyway this meant that the regular departure stations and times for the buses, especially the couple of buses that would get me home, are completely changed. I had to walk all around the block to try and figure out where to go. I couldn’t even get help at the temporary customer service kiosk which is designed with an oceanic theme even though Nashville is in the heart of a landlocked state.

At one point one of my buses stopped at a red light while I was standing on the corner. I waved to the driver and he shook his head because, you know, it’s not like bus drivers just go around picking up people.
I had no problem with doing my civic duty but once it was over it seemed like the difficulty getting out was just adding insult to jury.

Getting There.

When I got the notice to report for jury duty the first thing my wife asked was, “How will you get there?” which was better than the first thing I asked: “Will they give us legal pads?” because she’s more practical. But then it didn’t take much for me to figure out that I’d take the bus because the courthouse is somewhere downtown. Even though I’ve lived in Nashville most of my life I don’t know where a lot of things in the city are, a fact that was really brought home to me my freshman year in college in Indiana and a group of my friends suggested a day trip to Nashville and I said, “Sure, I’d really like to see it” and everyone stared at me. I assumed they meant Nashville, Indiana, which is where every person from Indiana I’ve ever met has assumed I’m talking about when I say I’m from Nashville. Anyway they meant Music City, which is a nickname for Nashville, Tennessee, not to be confused with Music City, Iowa, which, if you’ve ever been there, you’ll know is egregiously misnamed, but that’s another story. About midday while we were driving around downtown someone said, “We should get lunch,” and everyone agreed and looked at me, and I said, “Yeah, of course, I’m all for lunch, it’s the most important midday meal of the day,” and everyone kept staring at me because they expected me to know a place to go for lunch, but even though there were places I knew they were all in a completely different part of town, so we ended up going to Chinatown, which is not a specific neighborhood of Nashville the way it is in New York or San Francisco but a restaurant called Chinatown.
Anyway it occurred to me that I should do a test run and find out where exactly the courthouse I’m supposed to report to is, so I caught a bus downtown. And I had an advantage I didn’t have in college: Google Maps. According to it the building is just a five minute walk from the bus depot which is a terrible overestimate. The Justice A.A. Birch Building is a less than two minute walk and turned out to be pretty conspicuous.

I was able to make it down there, figure out where I was going, and get back all on my lunch break. And taking the bus is definitely the way to go because the parking downtown is terrible.
That’s something I’ve learned from having lived here most of my life.

When Is A Door Not A Door?

I’m not sure how long exactly the bus had been stopped. It probably wasn’t more than a few minutes but I was lost in my usual afternoon commute reverie, probably listening to Jackie Kashian’s Dork Forest podcast and thinking that one of my life goals is to be a guest on it someday. Sometimes I’ll zone out so completely on the bus that when I finally snap to I’ll look around and say, Hey, I’m almost home, or, on occasion, This doesn’t look familiar at all, am I on the right bus? What brought me out of my delirium was the driver pulling the door shut. He sat down then got up and pushed it open and pulled it shut again. From what I gathered there was something wrong with the door mechanism so it wouldn’t close completely. And I realized something I should have noticed a long time ago: the doors on the bus are now completely automated. For the doors in the back this makes sense, but the doors in the front used to be operated by a hand-pulled lever. I remember the time I was on a school bus and trying to sit back with my Walkman and zone out to a mixtape but some jerk in the back thought it was funny to throw books at me. So I threw one back and the driver stopped the bus and came to yell at me. I said, Screw this, went up to the front of the bus, and pulled the door lever myself—it gave me a powerful feeling to take an action normally reserved only for the driver. And I needed that powerful feeling because I had a pretty long walk home, but that’s another story.
With all the changes to buses getting rid of the simple hand-cranked door opener seems pretty boneheaded. Not all upgrades are improvements which is why some don’t last. If you’re of a certain age you may remember talking cars–and I don’t mean Kit from Knight Rider, although if you’re old enough to remember that you may also remember that some car models would tell you “Door is ajar” when the door was open. Or sometimes when it wasn’t open. Talking technology has its advantages but potential downsides too.

Source: XKCD

I went on a test drive with a friend in a car that insisted on telling us “Door is ajar”. I don’t remember what kind of car it was, just that it was well out of the price range of a guy who had to use a rope to keep the trunk shut of his current ride shut, but somehow we talked the dealer into letting us take it for a spin, maybe because it was early Wednesday morning in early summer and he was bored and knew he wasn’t going to sell anything anyway. While we were tooling around we stopped at a mini-mart to get some drinks. When we got in and closed the doors the car said, “Door is ajar.”
He opened his door and shut it.
“Door is ajar.”
He opened and shut his door harder this time.
“Door is ajar.”
He opened his door and slammed it.
“Watch it,” I said. “Prettyto look at, nice to hold, but if it breaks consider it sold.”
He glared at me. Then we drove back to the dealership with the car still occasionally telling us, “Door is ajar.”
When we got back we made sure to leave before the dealer could close the door.

Home. Work.

Source: Wikipedia

There were a couple of kids on the bus doing homework and I felt a tinge of envy, not because they were doing homework which I’m glad I don’t hae to do, but because they get to ride the city bus. They must go to the school for the gifted which is downtown so if they ever want to cut class they have access to all the cool stuff in that area. And I kind of envy them being able to do their homework on the bus. I had to ride one of those dumb yellow buses where everybody was too busy throwing books to open one and besides the ride was never more than fifteen or twenty minutes, not enough time to finish any homework, although there was one time I tried. It wasn’t academic homework exactly. I’d gotten in trouble for something and had to do what we called write-offs even though they meant writing on and on and I got an extra hundred when I asked if I could deduct them from my taxes. You know the opening of every Simpsons episode where Bart has to write some phrase over and over on the chalkboard? I had to do those too, but not on the blackboard–I had to do it on sheets of notebook paper and it had to be done after, or before, school. What I had to write five hundred times on this particular occasion was I will never… or maybe it was I will always… which just shows how effective a learning tool forced repetition is, but that’s another story. And since I got them on Friday, which in retrospect seems like entrapment because I was excited about the weekend, I had two whole days to do them. So of course I waited until late Sunday night. I wasn’t too worried since I’d learned a trick from one of the Danny Dunn books: I wrote “I” all the way down the page then “will” all the way down the page and I quickly learned that Danny Dunn had led me astray and writing the same word over and over didn’t make write-offs go any faster. It didn’t matter how fast I worked, though–by bedtime I was short by about four-hundred and fifty lines. So on the bus the next morning I worked as hard and fast as I could and kept going while we were waiting for school to start, although the last three-hundred or so I filled in with ditto marks. I was nervous when I handed them in but my teacher just took them, looked at the number of sheets I’d given her, and threw them away. And that’s when I learned the most valuable lesson of all: not even teachers like having to deal with homework.

Roses Are Red, Buses Are…

The Nashville MTA has been undergoing some major changes lately, mostly cosmetic, although that’s still a pretty major undertaking. A new coat of paint still costs money. They’ve renovated the downtown bus depot–and even getting a bus depot back in 2008 was a big thing. Before that the main place to catch buses downtown was a row of shelters stretched out over a couple of blocks and if it rained you might be stuck outside. Anyway the Nashville MTA doesn’t even call itself the Nashville MTA anymore. It’s now We Go which seems kind of presumptuous because lots of people go.

The biggest change though is a set of new buses that are purple. Why purple? I don’t know, but I like it. I also wonder how long they’ll stay purple. Most Nashville buses, as in every city, are basically giant moving billboards. Some are completely covered with a single ad–even the windows. Most of them are advertising a couple of local law firms also known for their cheesy commercials and I’m not including any pictures of those because they’re not paying me to put their ad here, but that’s another story.


The inside of the buses are clean and shiny and new, which isn’t surprising. What is surprising are the seats. They’ve replaced the traditional burgundy upholstery with slick blue plastic.

Full frontal.

Full backal.

I’m no style critic but don’t purple and blue clash? Why not make the seats purple too, or maybe a nice contrasting orange? In more practical terms, though, I understand the plastic is less likely to hide stains of questionable provenance than the old carpet, but it also means my ass slides forward about five inches every time the bus judders to a stop. They’ve made all these changes and never thought seat belts might be a good idea.

Taxi Driver.

Source: Orlando Sentinel

So there’s an Amish guy in Michigan offering buggy rides for $5 which he calls an “Amish Uber”, although you don’t use an app to get a ride, you just wave him down and say you’d like a ride and hope he hasn’t already got a fare. And I thought, wait, isn’t that really an Amish taxi? It turns out I was wrong. An Amish taxi is something completely different: it’s when a non-Amish person provides a ride for the Amish who need to get somewhere and some have considered it a problem since at least 2008 when I’m pretty sure I still had a flip phone but that’s another story.

What stands out for me here is a not so subtle shift in terminology, not to mention technology. In just a few years Uber and services like it have become so uberbiquitous that “taking an Uber” is part of everyday conversation. I have friends who drove for both Uber and Lyft—they quit after a short time—and in spite of current controversies and crackdowns it seems like these services are here to stay. I don’t know if the traditional taxi is going the way of the dodo—personally I like riding around in an old-fashioned yellow taxi, or, in London, one of the large black models. Actually I like the idea and can’t tell you the last time I rode a taxi. It was probably when I was in college and some friends and I splurged to get to the mall and took the bus back even though the town’s public transportation was terrible, and, like Wallace Shawn at the end of My Dinner With Andre, we splurged on a taxi which, in a small midwestern town, was not a usual way of getting around. Even though Nashville a growing metropolis they’re an unusual sight in Nashville, even around downtown. They’re associated with big metropolises, and that show with Judd Hirsch and Danny DeVito. I think that’s part of why Uber and Lyft are becoming so popular. They’re not driven by professionals in distinctive vehicles, but by regular cars you might see in your neighborhood A local Nashville celebrity with a show on the cable public access station was the Bat Poet, whose day, and sometimes night, job was a taxi driver, and who passed away in 2011, long before ride apps would have put a dent in his business, which seems likely. In Nashville a taxi driver is almost as unusual as a guy in a painted Batman mask performing poetry on TV.

The word “taxi” is really a shortening of “taximeter”, the device used to measure the distance traveled and the fare invented in Germany in 1890. It’s literally a tax on the distance traveled, which makes me wonder how far I’d have to go to make a joke about death and taxis, but thats another story. Uber and Lyft as terms are therefore consistent with history. Taxis were named for the meter installed on their dashboards, and the ride-sharing services are named for the apps they rely on. Will Uber as a term replace taxi, the same way ride apps seem to be replacing taxis? I don’t know. Heck, there’s still a business in horse and buggy rides.

Up In Smoke.

Sometimes if I know it’s going to be a while before the bus arrives I’ll walk along the route. I like the exercise and it’s better than just standing around in one spot. I used to walk toward downtown, facing traffic, but there have been so many changes and stops that have been discontinued even though the bus still passes by them which makes no sense. If the bus still goes by why can’t it stop there, especially since, according to the MTA, you can flag down a bus at any corner? Anyway now I always walk with the traffic. Sometimes I stop at one corner and there’s a guy who occasionally comes and stands at the same corner and smokes while he’s waiting for the bus.

Now I don’t have anything against smokers. I even was one, briefly, back in college, because I hung around with a lot of theater people and there was a saying among them that all actors smoke because it’s the only way they can deal with the tension. I wonder if that’s changed now that so many places are smoke-free, a change that hasn’t bothered me because I was really only a social smoker. One night a friend and I were out of cigarettes and money and decided to go around asking random people for change but set ourselves the arbitrary rule that we wouldn’t accept more than ten cents from any one person. A couple of hours later as we sat on the steps of the student union puffing away we agreed that collecting the money for a pack of smokes had been more fun than the smoking itself, but that’s another story.

Anyway as I was approaching the corner I saw the guy standing there smoking and realized I was downwind of him. Again, no problem with smokers, although congrats to Grace of Ms. Graceful NOT on quitting, especially after her CO2 experience, but I try to avoid the secondhand miasma. So I decided to keep walking to the next stop. As I waited for a light to change I glanced back and noticed the guy was following me, cigarette dropped somewhere on the pavement behind him. He then joined me at the next bus stop.

“Soon as I saw you go by,” he drawled in a voice so husky it could run the Iditarod, “I knew the bus was gonna be late, so I thought I’d walk to the next stop too.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d moved on for the benefit of my heart, not to mention my lungs, but since I was now upwind it didn’t matter. Then, for some reason, he moved around to the other side of me and I heard the snap of his lighter.

Advertising Is The Pits.

The Wakino Ad Company drew attention Tuesday for renting ad space to clients on the armpits of female models. The company is owned by Liberta, a cosmetic line that sells products for the underarm in Japan.

The ads are only visible once the model raises her arm.

International Business Times

Scene: The conference room of Acme Advertising. KEVIN, company CEO, sits at the head of the table. Other characters will be named as they speak.
Kevin: Good morning. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.
David: This is our regular Monday pitch meeting.
Kevin: Lately I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut. I just haven’t come up with any new ideas. You may have noticed.
Lucy: Yes, we’ve gotten a lot of work done.
Kevin: Then I remembered something my father said to me when he left me this company. He took me aside and said, ‘Dolores, never lose touch with the common man.’ I thought he meant the stablehands, but he added, ‘If you’re ever at a loss for ideas go down to the streets. Ride the buses and the subway. See how normal people live.’ So I got on my chartered jet and went to London, the closest city I could think of with a subway.
David: We’re in New York.
Kevin: The weather’s been unusually warm there lately and one afternoon while I was riding a particularly packed train I stood next to a woman in a sundress who was holding onto the overhead rail and I became mesmerized, transfixed, and very interested in her armpit.
Michael: Why–?
Lucy: You don’t want to know.
Kevin: It was broad and flat and I thought, there’s something about that space. Where do you normally see armpits?
Sheila: Deodorant commercials.
Kevin: Exactly! Public transportation! You know, we’ve put a lot of advertising in subway stations, in subways themselves, on buses. Where else can we put them?
Denise: Well, you had that idea to put ads on the seats last year.
Kevin: Exactly! Armpits! Now we need to move quickly on this because this is strictly a summer campaign. I can’t think of anyone crazy enough to go around in a tank top in the winter.
Lucy: I can.
David: Well, you know the old saying: opinions are like armpits. Everybody’s got a couple ad some of them stink.
Kevin: Let’s look at our clients: deodorants, body washes, razors, soaps, yogurt…
Michael: Why–?
Lucy: Just let him go with it.
Kevin: Lucy, you seem especially on board with this.
Lucy: Like it’s the Titanic.
Kevin: That’s the spirit! You’ve all got some hard work ahead but if this goes as well as I think it will there’ll be some big bonuses in everyone’s future. And if it doesn’t go that well there’ll be some big bonuses in everyone’s future.
Lucy: That’s why we stick with you, Kevin.

Source: Giphy

Getting By.

Some days I drive to work. It’s a nice change because I can decide when to leave and when to arrive–more or less, since timing depends on traffic. Sometimes I get stuck behind a bus and have to stop and start which I know annoys most people but not me. Within a block or two it’s possible to pass the bus and I always figure that most other days it’ll be me on the bus, annoying some other driver, but that’s another story.
The other day as I came out of the parking garage I turned right into a long line of cars waiting to move. I could see the green light at the intersection so I couldn’t figure out why everybody’d stopped. Then gradually I could see the cars ahead pull into the left lane and go around a car that was stopped, and I was annoyed. What was the problem? Probably somebody looking at their phone, I thought, oblivious to the traffic around them. Then I moved up into position and I could see the stopped car was an old pickup truck. It wasn’t old in a cool, eccentric way, like an early model Ford or even the truck that Lamont drives around on Sanford & Son. No, this truck was ten or maybe fifteen years old, which is old since newer vehicles aren’t really built to last, and it had been rode hard and put up wet. There were holes in it and large rusty spots and the rear gate was held in place with duct tape. And I saw the driver: white hair, deeply lined face, and he was looking around anxiously.
As soon as I was through the intersection I pulled into a parking lot and stopped. My plan was to go and offer the guy some help, maybe give him a hand schlepping his truck into a spot where it wouldn’t block traffic. Maybe I could give him a lift, or at least help him call someone. Mostly I wanted to help because it was the right thing to do. We were next to the Vanderbilt hospital where he was either an outpatient or visiting someone. I could only hope that medically his news had been good but vehicularly I knew the prognosis wasn’t good. And if there’s one thing a lifetime of reading fairy tales and myths has taught me it’s never to pass up a chance to do a good deed. You never know when the help you extend to a stranger is going to come back around to you and even if it doesn’t, well, like I said, it’s just the right thing to do.
By the time I parked and the light had changed so I could cross the intersection a phalanx of garage security guys had surrounded the truck and they were all helping move it along. The old man stood on the sidewalk talking into a phone. I hurried back to my car before one of the security guys could notice that I was parked in some doctor’s reserved spot and decided to ticket me, although I hoped that if that did happen he’d let me explain the situation and would agree that giving me a free pass in this case was just the right thing to do.

Walking In History.

One hundred years and one week ago the deadliest train crash in U.S. history occurreed here in Nashville at a now mostly forgotten spot called Dutchman’s Curve. Officially the death toll is 101, although historians think that’s low, and since most of the victims–68 in the official count–were African-American there probably were many who weren’t counted, or who died later. Most of the victims were African-American because they were forced to ride in old, dilapidated train cars–many from the Confederate era, part of the history of oppression that didn’t end with the Civil War, and that, in many ways, still hasn’t ended. There’s a historical marker for Dutchman’s Curve on White Bridge Road–an ironic name, considering the tragedy. Local author and historian Betsy Thorpe has written about the tragedy in her book The Day The Whistles Cried.

At the time it happened the tragedy was overshadowed by World War I, but the centenary was marked by speeches and walking tours. Decades ago the path of White Bridge Road was altered slightly, and a new, higher, wider bridge was built. The old bridge is gone but has been replaced by a footbridge. Nearby, next to a transformer station, is the Richland Park Greenway. People can walk by Dutchman’s Curve today. History and nature are preserved side by side.

The new White Bridge can be seen from the old one.



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