Saturday, December 20, 2008

I picked J up at the train station. Actually, I went on the bus, egad, public transportation because driving in Seattle in an effing snow storm is suicidal, to parse. I grew up in terrible weather and I learned to drive there. Black ice, mountains of snow, etc. So those who are clueless get in their 4 wheel drives (or not) without chains and think a drive to the Safeway is a good idea. No, it is not. The 11 o'clock news is gleeful with car smack-ups, sliding into guard rails, backwards down hills, sideways on sidewalks. So, sensibly, I took the metro, vehicle of the people and it worked out fine.

Well, except for the frozen walk to the hall where the Messiah was being performed and we carried J's luggage. So what if we looked homeless. I was wearing a sequined top that belonged to my grandmother and I felt glamorous, even with a runny nose. We had dinner, we listened to Handel's old chestnut like good Americans...and then there was the issue of getting back to the house. So...

The bus, only now it is almost midnight and like the night bus in Harry Potter, the passengers were sketchy. We lumbered on with luggage and found seats, ah ha but we lurched only a few blocks and had to change buses. The second bus had some issues with the door not closing and a girl with a flashlight when with lights went out and some gangbangers in the back where we were. Then a large gentleman got in, covered with bling and carrying a cigar and a bottle of champagne, which he proceeded to open and take large slugs from. Um, well, he began rapping, rather drunkenly and making clicking, whistling sounds which I thought were signs of Tourettes. I made the mistake of looking at him so he decided to issue threats along the line of "busting heads" and "assaulting you, what you looking at, etc" We disembarked the bus, dragging luggage, a bit earlier, like 6 blocks earlier but it was a lovely night and sparkling cold and we weren't interested in busted heads. All in all, a brilliant public transportation experience.

Oh, and while I was sitting there, I was across from some "Poetry on the Buses" posters and, well, yetch. They made my teeth hurt. Call me a curmudgeon but why does poetry have a bad name? Because anything passes for poetry and it is dreck. Poetry is HARD to write, it takes skill, no, not everyone can write poetry. Ok, I said it, so put me in jail. Study poetry, read a lot of poetry,


Plumb-bob said...

But everyone can write an ancient epic, a novel, a series of short stories, a three hour play, a piece of cinema...why not a poem?

Dana said...

It sounds like a lovely way to spend the evening. (And I, for one, have always wanted to be covered in bling.)

Radish King said...

In defense of the Poetry Buses. They were not meant to be art for artists. They were meant to be art for the people, (poetry that is vox populis) and in those terms the Poetry Buses have been wildly successful over the years, exposing people who would never read a book of poetry to poems written at many skill levels. At least half of the poems on the buses are written by grade school children.

Valerie Loveland said...

The sequined top sounds awesome.

Is there a subway system in Seattle?

beth coyote said...

PB-yay, you're blogging, yay!

Dana-the boa is a perfect fashion accessory, you know.

R-You're right. I was being cranky, probably sour grapes. It was the effect of the whole experience.

VL-It's rainbow-y and has little hooks and eyes all down the front, a completely impractical piece of clothing.