Adventures In Busing.

I’ve seen the “Please Let Me Merge Before I Start Crying” sticker several times now, including one version that had musical notes around it which made me think there was a song with that line in it. However I couldn’t find one. There should be a song. What I did find was that some people are annoyed by the sticker, which I don’t understand. Every time I see it I feel sorry for the driver and think, well, of course I’m going to let you merge. Then I realize the only reason I’m seeing it is because they’re in front of me, probably because I’ve let them merge. That makes me feel a little better. I’ve done a small thing to keep someone from crying. Of course I also avoid driving on interstates as much as I can—I’ll take the slightly slower stop-and-start traffic of regular roads simply because anything over 60MPH makes me nervous. I’ve also done the math, or rather the maps. In most cases the hassle of getting to the on-ramp, going down the interstate, and then getting to the off-ramp wouldn’t save me more than a few minutes. My morning commute would actually be longer if I took the interstate, at least in part because of all the traffic. Most of it would be the trucks getting an early start on their long hauls.

On the subject of bumper stickers I used to work in customer service for a company that provided truckers with fuel and other costs on the road as well as their paychecks. Most of the time the truckers I talked to were nice and grateful for the help but once in a while something would go wrong and a few got really, really angry. One day as my coworkers and I were sitting at our stations answering the phones the higher-ups handed out bumper stickers with the company logo. We all smiled politely and quietly slipped them into the trash. The last thing we all wanted was for some angry truck driver to come up behind us on the interstate and take out all that frustration on our car.

Most of the time while driving, though, I don’t really notice bumper stickers, or, if I do, they’re too small or go by too fast for me to read them and I’m focused on driving. Sometimes while parked and walking somewhere I’ll see a car with a fun collection of bumper stickers that makes me want to stop and wait until the driver comes back just so I can say, “Hey, I really like your style.”

That may be a little bit too forward.

Fake gravestone for Penn & Teller at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, California. They had this installed as a setup for card tricks. Source: The Dead Conjurers

I lost my work ID card. It was a stupid thing to do and it’s even worse that I’d managed to hang on to the same ID card for almost fifteen years. The picture on that ID is of a very different me from a very different time when I didn’t need to pull out my ID so often but since COVID there are a lot more locked doors where I work and going somewhere for a meeting or even just to find a quiet place away from my desk to have lunch can mean swiping my ID half a dozen times. So it didn’t take me long to realize I’d dropped it somewhere and retracing my steps was hampered by a number of locked doors. I also needed it to get my car out of the parking garage, though the people at the card office told me I could download a parking app, submit my information, and after a 48-hour processing period would be able to use my phone to get in and out of the parking garage.

Fortunately getting a replacement card was easy and only took about five minutes and twenty-five bucks and my new card does everything the old card did except show me a younger, slimmer version of myself.

For a long time my work ID card was also a bus pass. The place where I work has an arrangement with the local transit authority to provide free service to employees. It was really easy—I just stepped onto the bus, swiped my card, and that was it, but last year someone decided that instead of allowing us to use our cards we should use a smartphone app instead. This was implemented quickly without any warning and without a chance for feedback. Still I’m sure there was a lot of careful consideration, thought, and discussion put into this and that, after weighing the pros and cons, they decided to do it anyway.

A few months ago I decided to try the new bus pass app after downloading it, submitting my information, and waiting a week for the 48-hour processing period. Then when I got on the bus and tried to scan the QR code the app generated I got an error. The driver said “That’s happening to everybody. Take a seat.” When I contacted customer service the response was, “Oh, we forgot to activate your account.” Of course any new technology is going to take time to work out the bugs.

I’m very careful with my new ID. In fact I’ve checked my wallet three times while writing this to make sure it’s still there. With any luck it’ll last until I retire, assuming they don’t decide to replace employee ID cards with a smartphone app, which is possible, and which will probably be done without any warning or opportunity for feedback. Still I’m sure there will be a lot of careful thought and consideration and after weighing the pros and cons they’ll do it anyway.

There are several reasons I like parking on the roof of the parking garage next to my office. Most of them are practical. It’s the easiest place to find a parking spot and that has a related benefit that it’s less likely anyone will park around me. That makes it easy to get in and, more importantly, to get out in the afternoon. The one downside of that is it takes a little longer to go in and out but I don’t mind. It’s also easier to remember where I parked. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds but it can be useful. Routine can be limiting but it can also create a space where even a little mind can explore other ideas, other possibilities.

There’s also a psychological, or maybe philosophical, aspect to parking on the roof. It prompts me, every morning, to look out at the city and even, on very clear days, beyond, to imagine what’s happening in all those buildings out there—all the people going to work, all the people in hotels who are just waking up, or maybe just going to sleep. I can see at least half a dozen restaurants that don’t open until lunch. In the mornings I know they’re not open for business but busy-ness is still going on: all the prep work that can be done is being done. Dough is being prepared for pizza crusts and bread, frozen items are being pulled out to thaw, griddles are being heated. In offices people are just starting to trickle in; computers are being turned on, emails that came in overnight are being read, replied to, most likely deleted. There’s always construction work, and that’s usually just starting when I go and work.

In the afternoon I also take time to stop and look and think about all the people who are leaving work, going on to whatever’s next. In those same restaurants the lunch rush is over but there’s so much to be done for dinner. The construction crews are still going, cranes swinging back and forth, and sometimes I can see the electric glare of welding, sparks competing with the sun.

In the winter there’s a practical reason too: the sun warms my car throughout the day. In the summer it’s not so great. Then I might change my routine enough to find a shady spot, but in the winter it’s nice to not have to wait for the heater to warm up.

Today, though, was a little different. I could have probably safely parked on the roof, and it looks like some people already did, but I decided I’d rather not risk sliding around and instead allowed the change to be the focus of my little mind.

It was dark when I left for work and still dark when I got to work. There were bits of ice on the car and light snow was falling. It was nice to get a white Twelfth Night. The rain doesn’t really raineth every day, despite what Shakespeare said, but I did like seeing the weekend rain transition to snow. The down side was, of course, going back to work in it. I’d taken just enough time off over the holidays to get used to sleeping until after sunrise, feeding dogs, going back to sleep, and having a leisurely breakfast later. Now I have to relearn my regular work routine of getting up before sunrise, feeding dogs, getting showered, and getting out the door and on the road hopefully ahead of the worst of the traffic.

On my way in a funny memory popped into my head from one summer at Camp Ozone. Maybe my brain was trying to keep me warm by conjuring thoughts of summer but also I remembered a specific summer, I think when I was thirteen, when one of the camp counselors was an exchange student from Spain. Her name was Gabriela but she was from Montserrat and for some reason that led to all of the kids calling her “Mons”. Mons was really funny and a fun counselor, and she taught us all some Spanish which I really enjoyed. She also sang some Spanish songs and taught, or tried to teach, them to us. One was a sad-sounding song sung by children who have to take a three-day holiday from school and they’re sad because they won’t see their teachers, they won’t have to do their lessons, they won’t have any homework, and the textbooks are sent to a pawn shop.

The slow, sad nature of the tune played nicely against the very funny premise, but after a few tries Mons realized it just wasn’t a great camp song. She switched instead to teaching us a Spanish version of the Chicken Dance song. Because that was the first time I’d heard it I thought for a really long time it had originated in Spain so I was always surprised when it popped up in the playlist at Czech family weddings. The original composer was actually Swiss but it belongs to the world now.

I haven’t been able to find the song about schoolchildren being sad about a three day holiday but the idea still made me smile as I was driving to work. By the time I’d parked the sky had gotten lighter. Street lights were still on but I realized we’re past the solstice now and the days are already getting longer. There will be a time when, even though I’m going to work, I’ll get up after sunrise. After all the sun it shineth every day.

They signed my order with a thank-you note which was a bonus.

I was picking up a takeout order at a restaurant. It was a chain place where they take your number and send you a text to let you know your order is being prepared. Then when you arrive you reply to the text with the number of your parking spot and someone brings your food to your car. That’s how it’s supposed to happen, anyway. It was a cold night and it had been raining and I wasn’t going to make some server carry a bag out to the parking lot just for me. I’d already been out in the cold and rain. So I went in and stood in the waiting area next to the kitchen where takeout orders are finalized and payments are entered.

I’d been there less than a minute when a guy in regular clothes whose gold nametag showed him to be a manager came in from the kitchen and asked, “Have you been helped yet, sir?” He was followed by a guy in a server’s uniform and a young woman in a server’s uniform carrying a bag that turned out to be my order. I stood there while the manager entered an order for the server guy. I quickly realized the server guy was checking out and getting his free shift meal, and I couldn’t help smiling because he was getting a prime rib sandwich. The restaurant where I worked many years ago had several restrictions on what you could get for your shift meal; I was glad the staff at this place could have the more expensive menu items. With steamed broccoli.

The server guy looked over at me and smiled too. “It’s like we’re all in here having this elevator moment, aren’t we?” he said.

I hadn’t thought of that but the waiting area was only slightly larger than an elevator so I said, “Yeah. And y’all all got in at the first floor because you work in the same office and I’m some schmuck who got in at the fifth floor because I’m only working a half day and I’m with a different company.”

They all laughed at that and the young woman holding my order said “I love how you just made a whole story out of that.”

The server guy’s order was finished and he and the manager went back to the kitchen, and the young woman with my order was busy entering my payment so I really didn’t get a chance to tell them that making up stories is something I do, though I surprised even myself there. Still it was a collaborative effort, only made possible because someone opened the door for me.

An insurance website has released a list of the most dangerous Christmas songs to drive to, and while I won’t copy the entire list I will say there are some surprises. The biggest surprise to me is that Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer wasn’t included, or at least didn’t crack the top ten. Maybe the idea of the elderly being hit by a careless sleigh driver makes drivers more careful, though.

I was less surprised that the under-appreciated melody Good King Wenceslas didn’t make the list either. Its toe-tapping beat might cause drivers to go up and down on the accelerator, but it’s not really a popular Christmas song anymore. I’d like to see it make a comeback since it tells the story of a king who goes out in heavy snow to spread some of his wealth around to those who need it. Maybe the legend is too obscure, and the song probably isn’t helped by being set on December 26^th, though I think there’s a solid message there that charity shouldn’t be limited to just the holidays. It’s also part of the funniest moment in Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas In Wales when a group of boys go caroling at what they think might be a haunted house and are suddenly terrified when a mysterious voice joins them singing Good King Wencelas looked out/On the Feast of Stephen…

I heard about this list while driving in to work because a couple of morning DJs were discussing it and offering up their own suggestions, including Jingle Bell Rock and I’ll Be Home For Christmas—the thought of getting home probably causes more than a few drivers to speed up. The list is actually based on an earlier study that found that any song, not just Christmas songs, with more than 120 beats per minute can have both psychological and cardiovascular effects that might lead to dangerous driving. And one of the DJs even said, “Yeah, any song with a rapid beat is probably gonna make you a little more reckless on the road.”

Then they played We Didn’t Start The Fire and I had to turn off the radio.

Source: SkyView app

Mars was rising. It’s famous for being the red planet, harbinger of war, home of countless science fiction monsters and villains as well as a few hapless and sometimes stranded Earthlings, but its color varies from red to pale yellow. The object I saw in the eastern sky was red and so bright I thought at first it must be some plane’s navigation light, but it wasn’t moving, and there were no other lights around it. I had to pull up one of my astronomy apps to confirm that, yes, it was Mars, which right now happens to be just under 78.7 million miles away from us. That’s slightly over half its average distance of 140 million miles. So Mars isn’t as close as it could get—our two planets will come within roughly 34 million miles of each other, but that won’t happen for over two hundred years.

I first spotted it through the trees. The red line in the picture is the horizon and, as you can see, it’s in the constellation Cancer. There was a satellite underneath it, drifting. We used to have a thick wall of trees behind our house but then the houses on the street that runs parallel to ours were sold. The houses were knocked down and most of the trees were cleared to make space for bigger, taller houses. It’s the way things are going. All around us older houses are being sold, knocked down, new ones are going up. An hour or so later I went back outside and Mars, still red, still bright, had risen above the trees.

Because Thanksgiving is this Thursday it’s a short week for me. The office is quiet, most people having already left regardless of whether they’re staying close to home or not. The holiday will be, I know, a flurry of activity, but at least for now everything’s quiet. There are a few work-related matters to wrap up but most of the real work will be at home, making asparagus casserole and cinnamon peaches—that’s two different dishes, though I’m sure there’s some nouvelle cuisine somewhere that’s combined asparagus, peaches, and probably even cinnamon.

Mars, the blood-red planet, was so peaceful and still in the night sky when I went out to look at it. A great horned owl hooted in the distance. And then there was a barred owl, calling out, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?”

With Thanksgiving coming we’re all cooking.