A celebration of writing and riding
On Monday, November 10th, 4Culture will host a launch party for Poetry on Buses 2014. There will be music and live readings by 36 local poets. See you there?
Hear My Bus a Comin'
On Monday, November 19th, at 11:10 AM there will be an unveiling of the bus shelter honoring Seattle's own Jimi Hendrix. The shelter is at 23rd & Massachusetts (in front of NAAM), which is roughly half a block west of Jimi Hendrix Park.
In the Bus Bag
An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States, by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz
Tag Archives: 8
The three of us (Chick, Chicklet, and Busling) are putting on shoes, jackets, and et cetera, preparing to head out and catch the 8. Chicklet, who has no rival in the dawdling department, is (per usual) taking forever. She resists instructions to take a preventative trip to the restroom, puts her shoes on the wrong feet, pauses to play with dinosaur figurines recently strewn around the entry, and manages to misplace one of her mittens.
While I’m zipping Busling’s jacket, she disappears into the bedroom. I call for her to come back and put on her hat.
Not too many years ago, the bus I took most often was the 48, also known as “Forty-late,” “Dr. 48” and “the Tiger Woods* of the system.” I rode it south to Judkins Park (NAAM), Columbia City (dentist/homegirl), and Rainier Beach (friend visits), north to 23rd & Union (church, beauty shop), Montlake (545 transfer), the U District (pseudo-intellectual/artistic coffee joints, various readings and events), and Green Lake (Friday play dates).
They don’t call it Metro’s heavyweight for nothin’.
Green beer and pinching are all well and good, but that’s just the warm-up to March’s most important holiday. Folks, tomorrow, March 18th, is the day to say thanks to all the hard-working men and women who do what it takes to get you where you’re going. Some manage to do it while adding a little flavor or humor to the ride. Others while (no disrespect to my Bus Nerd) looking ridiculously good. There’s an 8 driver out there who really needs to be in some sort of calendar. And while we’re on the subject: Why …
A young girl (around seven or eight) is sitting near the back with some young adult caregivers (camp counselor types), chatting about her interests, friends, and et cetera.
Adult 1, in (a rather inexplicable) response to the mention of a particular friend: “Are you going to marry Casey C?”
Girl: “No! You’re supposed to marry a boy.”
Hmm. Guess they picked the right route for that conversation.
8 to and from the Nutcracker (16)…
+ bus-free cooking and …
When I was pregnant with Chicklet, folks I met on buses and at stops regularly inquired about the gender of my bus-bundle-to-be. Some of them (almost always middle-aged to older women) were sure they already knew. “It’s a girl,” they announced confidently, almost to a woman. “I can tell because of the way you’re carrying/how tired you look/the curl in your hair.” (OK, they didn’t mention my hair, but I’m pretty sure my fingernails came up a time or two.) Back then, I knew they were right (since I’d chosen to find out Chicklet’s gender) and was duly …