Hey, dude that doesn’t have bus fare ready! I need to get to fucking work! I don’t have time to sit for 3 minutes while you dig in all your goddam pockets for the appropriate change! You’ve been sitting at the bus stop for 15 minutes! You’ve had ample time to use your crack-riddled brain to count out $1.75. Christ! 

Hey, dude talking with your outside voice on your Bluetooth. Yeah you. You know who you are. With your hip fucking sunglasses and overly product-filled hair. Shut the fuck up. This is a public bus. No one gives a shit or wants to listen to you babble about the new hot chick at work or how your backpacking trip to Amsterdam changed your life. 

The handicapped access ramp is for people in wheelchairs, old ladies with walkers, and Rascals only. It was not designed for you to board your shopping cart-sized basket containing all of your worldy possesions. Now I gotta sit here for five minutes while you ineptly maneuver your house through the aisle. Then I gotta shimmy my fat ass around said basket to get out. 

Point of clarification: I’m never upset if handicapped people have to get on or off the bus. They’re in a wheelchair. I’m not. Thank God. I have utmost empathy. I just which the loading ramp was faster. 

Hey strung-out tweaker on your way to the methadone clinic that verbally accosts the one-legged wheelchair lady for making you late. Shut your meth hole. You’ve got both of your legs. She doesn’t. She can’t help how long it takes for her to get on the bus. I know you’re totally jonesing for that body high, but you can walk. I’ll sacrifice two minutes of my time to be able to walk. You’ve made the conscious decision to kill yourself with drugs. Whose lifestyle is healthier, really? 

Hey, mom with two kids aged 4 months and 13 months. I know your life is hard and providing for your two little ones is demanding, exhausting, and soul-crushing. I understand. I really do. I sympathize. But is there some way you can get the kids to stop crying at the top of their lungs? I’m a bit hungover and my head hurts. Thanks.

Hey, dude that decides I am more interested in talking about nothing than reading the book into which I am obviously balls deep. Yes, this is Jurassic Park I’m reading. I’m aware that it was a good movie. No, I just never got around to reading it when I was younger. I’m not sure if it’s better than the movie. I’m only 30 pages in. Again, I have no judgment of the narrative as yet. I’m only 30 pages in. Shut up and let me read some of it and I’ll give my critique later. 

Hey, jagoff that sits in the aisle seat with an empty window seat while the rest of us are forced to stand in the aisle. Really? Are you really that unaware of your surroundings? Or do you just think you’re better than us? We’re all in this together. And this woman right here would like to sit down. Move your ass. 

Hey, wannabe gangster pumping Big Willie Style on your Discman. a.) You’re using a Discman. 2.) You’re listening to Will Smith circa 1998. d.) You’re useless. I would give you a little more respect if you were listening to 36 Chambers or The Score. But Big Willie Style?! Really? Your eardrums are much too precious to damage listening to Just The Two of Us. 

Hey, cute girl. You know you’re cute. I would really prefer if you sat next to me instead of the fat, sweaty guy that got on behind you. Keep walking back here. That’s it. The seat next to me is nice and cozy. I’m harmless. I’m showered. I’m respectful. And that fat guy is grossing me out already. There are only two seats left. You’re gonna be either next to me or Captain WarCraft [can’t take credit for that name, unfortunately] in the trench coat. Oh, C’mon! You chose that kid? You gotta be kidding me! Oh, Christ. Now I have to listen to the labored breathing of this monster for 25 minutes.



Okay. So. Pull up a chair. It’s been a minute, yeah? How are you? How are things? Did you catch Lost last week? Pretty fuckin’ epic, right?  How are the folks? Good? Good. Well, listen. I just wanted to make you aware that the format of this blog [that no one has read for 6 months] is changing. This is due to an enormous, life-changing, paradigm-shifting routine that I’ve been experiencing for almost a year now. Did I come to Jesus? No. Did I start volunteering at the old folks’ home? No. Did I start an ultra-hip synth-rock band  called “Fixed Gear” and start wearing guyliner and girls’ size small jeans? No. What I did start doing was riding the #358 bus into downtown Seattle every day.  Holy shit. It has changed my life, and, as an extension, my view of humanity in general.

First thing’s first. I’ll give you a little background. The 358 connects the town of Shoreline [where I live] and downtown Seattle [where I work]. Now, Shoreline is an okay little burg. It’s relatively safe, relatively quiet, and relatively harmless. And that’s why I hate it. Plus, it’s moderately far from some of my good friends and if I need to get anywhere, I have to jump on the whore that is the 358. 

Shoreline and downtown are about 4 or 5 miles apart. Shoreline is nice. Downtown is nice. But the stretch between the two is an absolute shitfest of Buy Here/Pay Here auto lots, seedy ‘Hourly Rate’ fleabag motels, and an enormous cemetery that takes up ten city  blocks. The people, and I’m really not judging [okay, well, I’m judgmental. Sue me], that inhabit this stretch of society are, well, how to say this diplomatically? Interesting. They are very interesting people. All walks of life. All shapes and sizes. All colors and languages. Which, I will definitely admit, is a good thing. I’m a strong proponent that everyone should be forced to deal with epic levels of diversity at some point in their day.  But for every 10 normal, respectable, quiet people that ride the 358, there’s at least 1 [maybe even 2] absolute shitbag crazy and/or rude and/or disrespectful and/or walking sewer of a human on the bus.

And this is the nexus of my new format. Not sure what to title it yet. I can’t really boil its essence down to a simple catchphrase just yet, because every ride, every day, is completely different. Some days, the crazy people are awesome and make my ride much, much more entertaining and enjoyable. Other days, I have to sit next to the guy with the one solid dreadlock and no teeth or the junkie beanpole who doesn’t mind sharing her experiences as a stripper and what a relief it is to hit that sweet, sweet methamphetamine after eight hours of grinding on boners.

What I will say, though, is that the 358 has done wonders for my self-esteem. You know that Lewis Black joke where he says that IHOP is his health club because, no matter what, at IHOP there’s always somebody 200 pounds heavier than him? That’s how I feel about the 358. No matter what [and anyone that knows me knows that I’m the furthest thing from an egomaniacal, cocky man] I am consistently the best looking, best dressed guy on the bus. Any cute girl that wandered into the Venus Fly Trap that is Metro Transit, must, in my head at least, think I’m pretty dreamy when I sit next to dreadlock guy. So I guess there’s that. 

But, my goal with the new format is to chronicle some of the bonkers shit I see on the bus. Does anyone really care about my experiences on a bus? You tell me. But, in my humble opinion, some of these things need to be recorded for posterity’s sake. We’ll see where this road takes us [appropriate figure of speech?]. Get your bus fare ready. Let’s head downtown.

A few things that have happened recently:

My friend Brandi and I were leaving work to catch the bus.  The bus was scheduled to arrive in less than 5 minutes, so we really had to skedaddle [I can’t believe I just typed the word skedaddle.  My apologies.  Stay with me].  We were approached by a homeless woman who asked for ‘a dollar for a hot dog’ from a nearby vendor.  We had absolutely no time to spare, so we politely [well, Brandi was polite…I didn’t say shit] declined and kept walking.  About 30 seconds later, I realized that I had forgotten my smokes at work, so I told Brandi “Go ahead…I gotta run back.”  “Well, I’ll go with you and I’ll buy that lady a hot dog while I wait for you.”  We crossed the street and ran into the hot dog lady.  “C’mon, hun, I’ll buy you a hot dog.”  “LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN! I CAN’T HAVE THE HOT DOG!” replied Hot Dog Lady [HDL].  I was about 5 paces behind Brandi and HDL and saw HDL lean in close and say something quietly to Brandi.  After the short exchange, Brandi said “If you want a hot dog, I’ll buy you a hot dog.”  “But it’s coming out all lumpy!” yelled HDL as Brandi and I hurriedly walked away.  I ran inside work and grabbed my smokes and then ran back outside.  By this time, we were becoming very late for the Metro, so we had to make haste and literally sprint for it.  We caught the bus as it was pulling away, flagged ‘er down and hopped on.  Out of breath [I’m a smoker], I asked Brandi “what’s coming out lumpy?”  “She told me she didn’t want the money for the hot dog.”  “Of course.  She need that crack rock.”  “What she told me was that she needed the money for feminine pads because her, you know, was coming out lumpy.”  “Oh my god!  That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard,”  I replied.  So now, when my brain becomes dormant and no grand thoughts dot my cranial landscape, I hear HDL screaming “But it’s coming out all lumpy!”

So fucking gross.  I still don’t believe here though.  She seems like she’d sacrifice a lumpy flow for the sweet, sweet nectar of the crack rock.


About a week after that, my buddy Vagelis and I were at the same bus stop when a dude with a backpack stood next to us.  He started to make conversation about the weather [it’s been a long, shitty winter.  More like June-uary] and such when he pulled out his pipe, took a fat rip of the crack, coughed it all out, offered us each a hit [which we quickly, vehemently refused] and put it back in his sack.  We looked at each other and both said “Oh, Seattle…” 

Oh, Seattle, indeed.  Fuckin’ a.  

So, over the weekend, I moved into a 3 bedroom house with my brother and the latest Seattleite, Blake.  It’s been pretty sweet so far.  We have a pretty nice house ina quiet neighborhood with ample places to sit and a large, fenced in backyard in which Zoe the Beast can let loose (and believe me, she can get fuckin’ bonkers).  I am now demanding that everyone I know has to visit withing the next six months.  It is a sweet house and there’s more than enough room to crash 4 to 5 people.  So hurry up and bring your jukebox money. 

You know what I hate?  People who don’t obey the right-of-way on sidewalks.  You know…those people who walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk and don’t get out of the way when you approach, forcing you to walk on the left side, heading straight into oncoming foot traffic.  The sidewalk is just like the road…stay on the right side, goddammit. 

And, man, am I getting sick of crazy people.  Not just quirky people with odd idiosyncracies.  I mean, certifiable, unmedicated, talking-to-God loonies.  I can have some compassion and empathy, but everywhere I go in this town, I end up in an uncomfortable situation dealing with nutjobs.  I was outside of my work and I saw this unkempt, dirty dude walking my way.  As he got closer I heard him muttering to himself.  When he got right in front of me, he continued his diatribe about ‘the bitch in the sausage shop’ as if I were there, or had, at least, heard the beginning part of his story.  I just kind of nodded my head, hoping that he would just keep moving, but no.  He continued his tale of bitches n’ sausages, adding a very unlikely twist.  “That fuckin’ bitch was giving away sausages to the goddam NIGGERS!  I asked her ‘why you gotta give all these NIGGERS these sausages when all I want is one GODDAM sausage?’  Jesus Fuckin Christ!  I’ll tell that cunt what’s up.  I’ll put a fuckin’ hole in her goddam brain.”  Suffice it to say, I was very uncomfortable.  People were walking by as this man was looking me straight in the eye and screaming the word ‘nigger’ at the top of his lungs.  So, I just packed it in, went inside without a word as my new wacked out friend continued to mutter about sausages.  Sheesh.  Leave me alone, loonies.  I just want some peace and quiet.  And a goddam sausage. 

Check it…


Things I think are lame:

-Faux hawks [self-explanatory]

-‘Devil Horn’ hand gesture [no longer cool.  Soccer moms and grandmothers throw the horns.]

-Insane Clown Posse [(Juggalos also included)  A. the music sucks.  2. they paint their faces.  D. why all the goddamn faygo?]

-Wine by the glass [just buy the damn bottle.  You know you’re going to have more than one glass anyway]

-‘Mash Up’ club music [a mash up I’d like to hear:  ‘Material Girl’ on top of ‘Hammer Smashed Face’]

-Longboards [let’s see you try a fakie kickflip on that thing, you yuppie.  Go back to San Diego!]

-Dr. Niles Crane [Frasier also included.  But I kind of like the dad.  And the dog, too.]

-Carnival rides [slow? dangerous? run by meth-heads?  No thanks!]

-Cedric the Entertainer [you know how Morgan Freeman makes any movie better?  Ced is the antithesis]

-Fishing [better alternative: watching old people fuck]

-Razor Scooters [unless you’re a midget, then it’s just adorable]

-TMZ [get a life, paparazzi scum]

Things I think are awesome:

-Tuna Salad



DK’s Top Ten Hip Hop Albums [Remember- they may not be the BEST, but my FAVORITES]

1.  Bone Thugs – E. 1999 Eternal

2.  Notorious B.I.G. – Ready To Die

3.  Del The Funky Homosapien – Deltron 3030

4.  Snoop Doggy Dogg – Doggystyle

5.  Jurassic 5 – Quality Control

6.  DMX – It’s Dark And Hell Is Hot

7.  Dr. Dre – The Chronic

8.  Nas – Illmatic

9.  OutKast – Aquemini

10.  Master P – Ghetto D


DK’s Top Ten Songs by The Smiths

1.  This Charming Man

2.  There is a Light That Never Goes Out

3.  Asleep

4.  Pretty Girls Make Graves

5.  Girlfriend in a Coma

6.  Ask

7.  Sweet and Tender Hooligan

8.  Hand in Glove

9.  Half a Person

10.  William, It Was Really Nothing

I encountered a book called “The Game:  Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists” at the library recently.  It looked like an interesting read and, who knows, maybe it would give me a few pointers on the ‘art of seduction’.  While at first it seemed like it would be a fine read chock full of tips and tricks, I quickly realized that this book was laughable and ridiculous.  I can pretty much sum up the entire book in one sentence.  Dress and act like a complete and utter douchebag, and you’ll be a ladies’ man.  This book is full of insider terms and phrases (it has a detailed, multi-page glossary of pickup artist terms) and stories of ‘successes’ in the field (i.e. bars and nightclubs).  The ‘artists’ never use real names.  They know each other and refer to themselves by self-appointed ‘player handles’ such as Style, Papa, Tyler Durden, and other such hilarious varieties.  I’ve read about half of the damn thing and have put it down.  I can’t bear to finish it.  The author of the book comes across as arrogant and omnipotent in all things woman, when really I sense a deep depression that is filled with a pumped up sense of self and ego.  The other main ‘artist’ documented in the book is Mystery.  If any of you recall the show “the Pickup Artist” on VH1, then you’ll also recall the tall, ugly, ridiculously Canadian idiot who hosted the show.  That is Mystery.  Enough said.  What a waste of time this is.  If you can’t be yourself, how can you ever hope to achieve anything substantial with a woman other than a one night stand?  I’ll stick to dressing my own way and behaving with a sense of respect toward the opposite sex.  It’s been working alright for me anyway. 

The most beautiful song released in the last couple years is “Caroline and I” by Kentucky Nightmare, a Bloomington, IN band.  I first heard the song at one of their shows about 6 months ago.  I couldn’t get it out of my head, and still can’t.  Plus, the bassist that sings the backing harmony is an absolutely gorgeous woman and a hard partier.  Fantastic!  I had sort of forgotten about the song since my move, but found it online today and it renewed my love of its’ simplicity, harmony, and overall quality.  So check it out.  I dare you.  Use Seeqpod or MySpace or whatever.  I dedicate it to you. 

Til next time.