The Bart Blog Part One

Into BART LAND I Go! (From 12th St City Hall)

Sweet - not my favorite catch phrase, but making the transition from Colma to Daly City, the connecting point to Hayward, today’s destination in the field, is right on the money. Colma - 7:20, Daly City - 7:22, walk across the platform to pick up my connecting train 1 minute and 41 seconds later. Factor in the rain, and I am more than glad not to fight the hour’s drive in this season’s late, but welcome rainstorm. . . . . I suspect my brother will be off for one of his only ski trips this weekend.

Instead of reading the Chronicle, or doing a crossword, I have the luxury of my laptop, and I can journal life on the Bart. Early morning is always my favorite time to write. This East Bay, way East Bound train, is peopled with a different mix than my original Rockridge clientele. In Rockridge, everyone was beautifully groomed, primarily upscale, middle-class (a non existent oxymoron perhaps) and there were lots of suits, - women too, not just men. Some were older business types, but mostly they were yuppies, ear budded into ipads, iphones, kindles and such. An occasional tablet, not too many laptops like mine.

Fremont bound folk are much more blue collar, an occasional suited gent, 50% playing games on their iphones and the others sleeping, reading the occasional paperback or newspaper, or stilling their minds as the tunnel transport whines away. Some earbuds, but also fellows who sometimes sport ‘cans’ for their outdated headphones. Afternoons folks always chatter away. Spanish workers making their way home from their labor, laughing carrying on. I had to ask the young Hispanic about the huge ‘Minnesota Fats’ framed poster he had.

“Hunh? . . . Jackie Gleason.”

“No, Minnesota Fats from the movie the “Hustler” They remade it with Paul Newman as the Jackie Gleason character. Tom Cruise –“The Color of Money”.”

“Oh, cool. I just got it for my friend. It reminded me of that Twilight Zone.”

“Tell your friend. He’ll want to see that movie. The definitive pool flick.”

“Thanks.”

Next fellow was soliciting for a petition, the millionaire’s tax, meant to save California schools.

“I’d sign, but I’m not registered in San Francisco yet. I moved from the Central Coast. . . .And I was a teacher – laid off.”

“Oh, I can help you with that, too.” So Joe, or whoever the heck this young kid is – a musician, a drummer, - very Anglo, short modified flat top, day-old growth of beard, cute- who plays tablas, who’s into dance music and wants to learn the sitar – is ‘going my way’ and hops on the train to get me signed up to vote in San Francisco. I am an easy mark and he has probably 10 petitions he wants me to sign. Millionaire’s tax, and Jerry Browne’s tax (“But that’ll split the vote if there’s that many issues on the ballot,” I tell him. “One tax initiative is good enough for me.”) another to get rid of GMO foods (“That was the original reason I started doing this.”he tells me. “I Think I signed this one last week,” I say, and “I’ve probably signed all of these online too.” “That’s okay, this’ll really get them on the ballot!”) make Marijuana legal, (“No, that one’s full.”)get rid of the three strikes law, (“Hey I worked at the prison. You should’ve showed me that one first.”)put the state government on a 2 year budget deal. Being my bleeding heart liberal self, he gets me to sign four or five of them. (“You got your quota with me,” I tell him. He’s made $5 in 10 minutes - $30 an hour beats what he can make playing tablas. As soon as he’s scored my signatures, he hops off at the next stop