Taking the Temp Road

Ah, Seattle in October. The city is bustling with energy and aliveness as its citizens squeeze the very most out of the last of the sunny days. Tales of the season of cold, wet grayness that will soon be upon us I try to ignore and stay present. It is nice, now.

I am at work, looking out the window onto the busy street with the space needle perched above the billboard advertising Smart Cars. Closing the downtown store can be slow, and I cannot seem to pick up a wireless network anywhere. So, here I am; with Microsoft Word as my canvass and a blank page before me.

It is kind of an odd twist of events that I am even forced to use Word as my entertainment for the afternoon. I rarely use Word because it has been almost two years since I have written a research paper. Most of my writing is done online, it various emails or blogs. It is odd because this morning I had to take one of those online assessment exams for a temp agency to reveal how computer (il)literate I am. I scored an 82% on the Microsoft Word portion. Microsoft Excel was a little scarier—73%. I am not really a spreadsheet kind of guy. I am really not sure what all this is to determine. In real life, there is a help menu that tells you exactly how to do whatever function you might be unsure of, and being able to find the information you need is a much more valuable resource than already knowing it.

So, the test—the first I have taken in while—humbly put me in my place as a mediocre computer user. So, sorry if this post is mediocre. I don’t know how to make it otherwise.

The whole purpose of this exercise in jumping through the white man’s hoops is to hopefully get my foot in the door at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. It is a relatively new non-profit organization started by some guy who is apparently famous around here. Whatever. I am pretty sure that he invented the spreadsheet that an absolute genius can only effectively operate 73% of the time. Good one, dude.

However, his Foundation intrigues me. They are at the forefront in the battle against global malaria. They have dozens of projects, both domestic and international, that deal with poverty and sustainable futures for those at the losing end of globalization. When I moved up here, I had a desire to work for a non-profit that crusaded for a cause I could feel good about waking up in the morning to fight for. This one definitely fits the bill. However, it is hard to get a job there. If you did not graduate from an Ivy League school, or have twenty five years of experience managing a non-profit, pretty much all positions are temp to hire. Hence, my appointment with the temp agency tomorrow.

While I enjoy my job at Uptown Espresso, I have been pulling shots of espresso for yuppies for years. Granted the yuppies here are more intriguing and more generous than the people I used to serve down in Texas. But, it’s the same shit and eventually it is time to move on. I notice that my body no longer takes too kindly to waking up at 4:30 am. In my younger days I could close the bars down at midnight, catch four hours of shut eye, get to work (still drunk) and work the whole shift without batting an eye. Now, I would sleep till noon and not even hear my alarm or the phone calls trying to rouse me.

Something a bit more adult, a bit more 9 to 5 with benefits, sick days, vacations, and a 401 (k), has an alluring appeal that is hard to place, but certainly present. While I still plan on socializing into the wee hours on the weekends, a ten o’clock bed time during the week sounds pretty good. But alas, when your work schedule is all over the place, so are you. I wonder if I will miss the days of very little responsibility, late nights, early mornings, answering to no one except myself, and if I will return back to this land after a stint in the “real world;” only real because that is what our wage slave society requires its citizens to believe to continue thriving.

It is all a new adventure, and I am up for the challenge. Come what may, as they say. Ultimately I just appreciate living somewhere new, somewhere larger, gayer, more liberal, less intellectually challenged. A blue state, close to Canada for a quick getaway if the shit hits the fan, or if I need health care. Let us all tip our glasses to what the future holds and enjoy the last few weeks of autumn before everything dies and we all go into hibernation.

I live in Seattle, and I'm better than you.

Since moving to Seattle five weeks ago, I have very much enjoyed my time here. I am learning my way around the city and meeting new friends. I have a job, go to a gym, know my bus schedule, have made out with a hot guy, know which Northwestern microbrew I like the most, and have a permanent residence...finally.

But, there are still many things that have to happen before I truely settle in and become one of the crew that calls Seattle home. I am not sure if all of them will happen.

Seattle is an incredibly green city. I spend a lot of time trying to determine if the box my mac and cheese came in goes into the trash, recycling, or yard waste bin. It takes less time to eat mac and cheese. Each household is given a color coded chart that conquers images of the Bush Administration's color coded terror level scale to determine which items go in which of the three trash containers each household must maintain. Just how dangerous is the mac and cheese box for the environment?

When you come onto the bus with a take out box from a restaurant that is Styrofoam, people want to know where you got such a horrid container so they can write a letter to the editor or something. I just tell them not to worry, that I have a whole bunch saved up at home and we'll be having a bon fire with them later tonight.

So while there is not a lot of smog, there is a whole lot of smug. I am not even sure that people intend to come across this way, but it is hard to get around when you are from Texas and know how the rest of the country thinks. Getting rid of my car WAS my good deed for the environment. Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

You will also find a blossoming community of compassionate vegans here in the Northwest. I would like to take this time to extend a huge middle finger to all of them. I am so goddamn sick of you. I hope that when you die, Satan forces you to drink a big, huge glass of skim milk. I cannot tell you how many times a day people will ask me at my low responsibility job at the coffee shop if any of the pastries are vegan. I do not even know what this means or how a person would determine this fact about a pastry. They don't seem impressed with you when you tell them that there is no meat in the blueberry muffin. I really should look up the word 'vegan.' I do know that there are plenty of vegan restaurants around, that I will never set foot in one of them, and that these people should go there.

Rice and soy do not have nipples. Therefore, rice and soy milk is a misnomer. I am pretty sure that rice milk is the water that turns a milky color when you are making rice that is not quite ready yet. At least that it what is tastes like. People drink lattes made with this stuff, when they could save two dollars by drinking an Americano instead. I am pretty sure that espresso and water is as yummy as espresso and grain water. Maybe they have a rice fetish, but it is an expensive, unnecessary habit.

While I was living in my August house, I had the joy of shopping at the most elite grocery store in the city. The PCC. It was the only grocery store within walking distance of where I was living, and so it was my grocery store. Apparently people in Seattle have orgasms about these chain of stores, but I was a little less thrilled. It has a small town feel and the only products that they offer are all natural, organic, local, and expensive. A batch of groceries that should have cost fifty bucks cost twice that much. I had to reach inside my g-string to make up the difference.

One night, as is the case with all people that think too much about things, I had heartburn. Shit, I need some Tums, I thought. So, I walked two blocks at 10:30 pm in order to get some relief. The clerk had never heard of Tums. I am not kidding. I explained my dilemma to her, and she directed me to their all natural pharmacy section in order to get the kind of relief that you could only find in Amish country.

I finally explained that what I really needed was some calcium. Tablets, if they could find some, or liquid if they couldn't. I walked out with half a gallon of milk and some Parmesan cheese. Tums have a lot less fat.

One more funny thing about Seattlites before I close. Last month, while I was still living with the guys in the sublet house, one of the roommates said to me that he simply could not believe that George W. Bush had been reelected in 2004, or that John McCain even had a chance at the White House. I said to him, "Have you ever been to Texas?" Because it is not a mystery to me. In fact, I know enough about the middle of the country to know that anything is possible, and that smart people will have to live with their decision if enough of them get out there to vote.

This past week, during the Republican National Convention (which will get its own entry, by the way), I went into a bar just as Sarah Palin was giving her acceptance speech. I watched the whole thing later online, but it was fun just to sit back and watch the reaction from Joe Schmoe in the bar up here. They simply could not believe that mystery woman behind door number two was going to be the Republican VP candidate. They were not impressed. In fact, the whole convention was a mystery to them. Who ARE these people? What is wrong with them? Were they raised in a barn? All I could say was that some of them probably owned a barn, and many people up here have only seen pictures of barns. Heard about barns. Where farm animals live.

I love Seattle and I certainly belong here, like I am home. I may live here for the next twenty years. But, I am from the South. There is no denying it. Regardless of where a person relocates later in life, you cannot forsake your roots. I despise the Republican Party, but I understand them. I no longer set time out of my day to watch the NFL, but I have spent more time in my life watching football than peeing. I have fired multiple guns, ridden a horse, helped to raise a barn, been blinded by a dust storm, attended Jesus camp, and harvested cotton. Yee haw.

I look forward to the next twenty years. May they be even more full of blessing then the last twenty. But, regardless of how long I live here, I will not forget where I am from. I might learn how to recycle. I might learn to have the same righteous indignation for Styrofoam as the rest of King County. I might get a cool haircut and sit around talking about the latest electric car. But I will always chuckle at tree huggers, self righteous vegans, people that have never heard of Tums, and the politically undiversified. It's funny, and I'm just along for the ride.

Another One Rides the Bus

In 1979, my parents had just married. The Soviet Union had just invaded Afghanistan. Jimmy Carter was president. Margaret Thatcher had just become the first female Prime Minister of Great Britain. And the rock band Queen had just recorded their hit single "Another One Bites the Dust."

At the time my mother's former college roommate, who I grew up knowing as a friend of the family, was convinced that the lyrics were "Another One Rides the Bus." This fact I do not believe she has ever fully been able to live down. However, if it had been the name of the song, I would have been the inspiration.

Since moving to Seattle I no longer own a vehicle and I ride the bus on a daily basis. I have been all over the city on various buses at all hours of the day and night. Public transportation sounds very hip and environmental conscious. People who drive cars always talk about how they should take the bus to work, if only the public transit systems were better. Well, in Seattle it is pretty damn good. It does not run on time, but it runs frequently and all over town. Regardless of how efficient a public transit system is however, there are some things that just come with the territory when it comes to riding the bus.

There are three main things that can make or break your bus experience on any given day.

1) The individual riders that are sharing the bus with you.
2) The time of day.
3) The neighborhood you happen to be in or going to.

Let's go through each one, shall we.

First, the people that are on the bus with you can make all the difference as to what the next thirty minutes of your life are going to be like while you get your ass downtown.

I am absolutely floored by the number of people that do not wear deodorant and seem to be completely unaware of the fact that they should. In fact, that it was invented for people just like them. I have been guilty of leaving the house in the morning without slapping it on, but this happens very rarely and is always an oversight. I am very self aware when it come to the fragrance that I am exuding out into the world, but I believe this to be a quality that is not shared equally amongst my fellow human beings.

A crowded bus just has that smell. It is hard to pinpoint exactly, but every one's body odor is a little different. When it mixes all together it creates a smorgasbord of musk that hits you like a ton of bricks. This generally only happens when it is raining and every window in the bus is closed. The very best way of dealing with this is to commence mouth breathing. In and out, in and out.

Also, almost without fail an inebriated person will get on the bus. It's two in afternoon. You can only pray that the only empty seat is not next to yours. This person will talk to you. Or slur to you, rather. At two in the afternoon I am not in the mood to put up with this shit, but you just have to turn your ipod up and bury your head a little deeper in your book. That is what you see a lot on the bus: people making a very concerted effort to make it very clear that they are not open to conversation. The first few days I took the bus I thought this was a bit closed off, even rude. After a month, you understand. Because it is never the pleasant people that will try to strike up a conversation. It's the pre-happy hour drunks.

Which brings me to point number two. It's all in the time of day. I do not mind talking to drunks when I am also drunk, coming home from the bar at one in the morning. They're your peeps, your homeys, and it is an appropriate time to be drunk. Context. Its all about context. The bus drivers are also a bit more inclined to help their passengers during the wee hours of the morning by making the regularly scheduled announcements telling you which stop you are at and which connecting buses come to the same location. There is a real camaraderie on the bus at one in the morning. It's beautiful and it makes you believe that there is hope for humanity. That someday we really will all live in harmony, if only we could all be simultaneously shitfaced on Northwestern microbrew.

Point number three in predicting the quality of bus riding experience you will have has to do with the neighborhoods you will be traveling through. Capitol Hill at 9pm on a weekend is thus far my personal favorite. Capitol Hill is the gayborhood of Seattle, and is much larger and much more diverse than any gayborhood in any other major city I have been to, save San Fran. Around 9pm on the weekend the drag queens, on the way to their shows or just to support the team, begin getting on the 49 bus down Broadway Ave. Some have their face painted up in an extravagant display. Some have their scarfs just so place to hide their protruding Adam's apple. On comes a bear, off comes a twink. The picture is not strange to anyone else except the white boy from Texas.

Downtown, for about 20 square blocks, there is a "free ride area." Now the bus only costs $1.50 round trip, and even less if you have a prepaid card, so I would say that a free ride area is largely unnecessary. But it is there, just in case. The City of Seattle most likely intended it for tourists, and as long as you stay close to the water that is generally what you will find. Husbands and wives arguing about which stop will get them closer to the Space Needle. Knowing the wife has it right, but also knowing better than to get involved.

I think that they should rename this area the "homeless ride area." The panhandlers go from one end of the free ride area, work their way to the other end, and then catch the free bus. It really is the perfect gig. Unlike in other cities that I have been to, the homeless here are really very sweet, well meaning people. They will ask you for money, you will tell them no, and then you can have a fairly descent conversation with them. Very meek, very humble. The State of Washington within the last 10 years cut many public mental health benefits, and as a result there was an immediate increase in the homeless population in Seattle. This is what happens when Republicans are in power. It comes with the territory.

Riding the bus is an exhilarating experience. I wake up every day and think, "I wonder what crazy characters I am going to come into contact with today." Because you will, and I do. Everyone here, at some time or another and with varying degrees of pleasure, rides the bus. It is part of the culture, but that means it involves EVERYONE. And, as we know, not all people get along, or want to be in a closely confined vehicle with Jim Beam at two in the afternoon. Perhaps Freddie Mercury was a musical genius of our time, but he could have had one more hit had he only written a song about all the people on the bus.