The Monitor

I am the Monitor.

Some people want to pretend I don't exist. That's alright by me.

99% of my job I do silently. So it isn't surprising that my presence would be dismissed.

Then there are the people who call me God or The Wise One or sometimes even Satan (yes, I can get a little cheeky). Pretty bizarre when you think of it - all that power from the brain of an overgrown ape. Can you spell ego? Fine, I thought you could.

Mostly I just listen anyway. Sometimes I nod. Do you recognize me yet?

I know your innermost thoughts; your darkest secrets. Because they're mine. I am you, or the mirror reflection if that's easier. You've got to admit you love me more than you love yourself.

Let's face it, I'm someone to talk to. You have to have someone to talk to during your miserable little existence. Don't worry, I'm not judging you - you and me, we travel as a package, so anything I say about you I'm saying about myself (and vice-versa, by the way). I'm just trying to get your attention here, so humor me a tad of cynicism.

Believe it or not, I'm not engaging in pointless ramble here. You already know I don't speak out of turn lightly. If your mirror could speak to you, what would it say? (And no, I don't refer here to the witch story - that's been played through already).

I want to tell you that you're lovable.

Except I can't - not a for sure promise, anyway.

You see, aside from me (and this one too is qualified) no person can ever love you completely.

You're going to need a bath sooner or later - we all will. The difference with me is that I can't leave you even if I want to. I can't beat you bloody. I can't make you see my point with force. I can't argue with you until I'm blue in the face - I don't have one. Not unless you decide to give me one.

But you're lovable.

The reason is simple.

Nothing you can DO or NOT DO can make you LOVABLE or UNLOVABLE.

If I wasn't writing, I'd say it twice for effect - so read it again.

Neither you nor I are a human DOING. We (well, at least you) are a human BEING.

Oh, I know the arguments.

Life doesn't really work like the (ideal) description. Every person has to figure out some strategy to carve their survival out of this hellhole of a planet. You could do it with good looks if you're lucky enough. You could work yourself to death, and make it play out. Forget the bath - EVERYBODY is subject to IT. And whether you want to believe it or not, therein lies your salvation.

Because it's everybody.

The only real resource you have in this world is about 7 billion other people.

That's another one I'd read twice if I were you (and we've already established that I am).

So do us both a favor.

Love ME even if you can't seem to love yourself. The only thing I can promise you in return is that I'll be here as long as you are. Not much, I admit, but we're all we've got. Well us and those 7 billion others. It could certainly be (about 7 billion) worse.

Poverty

It isn't just about money - but you wouldn't know that by looking on the surface. Poverty is what you make of it.

I ride the bus - not because I'm poor, but because I might as well be. WHY a thing is so doesn't change its meaning. Witness.

Clearly stranded - that's my best assessment. She's sexy in her own way (a bit on the chunky side, seriously drunk, but that's never out of the question). She's in a one-piece bathing suit (it was pretty hot that day in central California), but she's definitely missing a beach - this is hospital row, about 2 miles north of downtown Stockton. Stranded because she obviously can't decide where/what to do/go next.

I'm across the street, sitting on the bus stop bench (aside: they don't all have benches; that becomes a prized commodity - particularly for the homeless - become a "non-consumer" for a minute sometime, and try finding a place to sit or take a crap - an education, believe me).
She's (first noticed) at the gas station across the street. She's off on foot. Doubles back. Off on foot again. This is pacing. This is somebody pissed off or confused. Or both. To my combined hope and horror, she's crossing the street, and sure enough, there she is, sitting (right) next to me on the bus bench.

I can hear (sort of), but you have to help me understand. It's called life. The only thing I can decipher from her transmission is "f**k" - over and over again. I did what I always never do - stoic silence, just waiting to see if anything useful happens. It only lasts about 90 seconds. I believe her parting comment (back to the gas station) is something like "You're a prick." OK, I can own that.

It also seems I can (if I wanted) own the clearly inadequate knit sweater she left on the bench. But I don't want to own it (she's vanished, permanently, it seems - I guess she'll miss the sweater later, then again maybe not). The bus driver (finally) does his part - is that yours? Nope.

I said someplace, (and I paraphrase myself) "Lose everything. Then you'll know the value of money." I meet a lot of people at bus stops who've lost "everything." I can't escape the feeling that maybe I'm one of them. I try to take solace sometimes in the concept that I'll probably have lots of company coming down from the "middle class" pretty soon. It doesn't work though. I can feel pain no matter who has it. Life again.

Poverty is what you make of it.

LifeWrecked out.

Gong Me - Stupid 101, or The Folly of Confidence

Last night I missed my bus. The following observations are pertinent:

a) I was at the bus stop on time.
b) The bus came on time.
c) I was awake.
d) I saw the bus.
e) I got up to get on the bus.
f) The bus driver waited for me.
g) I sat back down and missed the bus anyway.

I don't know if this sort of thing happens to other people, but I suspect it's more common than most of us would like to admit. They say the devil is in the details, so here are some details.

This bus route is San Joaquin Regional Transit District's answer to servicing a large area that has significant but sporadic ridership. What they've done to accommodate this area is "split" the route in a "Y" configuration, with with two buses - one starting on an "arm" of the Y, the other starting at the base, passing each other at the junction, with the "base" bus serving the other arm of the Y, then both turning around and reversing roles. A little crazy sounding perhaps, but to the credit of the route "committee" (I'm very sure) it does get the job done with minimal resources.

Noteworthy: I live right next to a convenient stop at the junction (middle) of the Y - the place I normally catch the bus to go toward a) downtown (South) or b) the malls (North). Needless to say, it matters greatly which bus I get on to get where I'm going.

One more pertinent detail and we can move on to my personal idiocy attack.

The route number is 61. Not 61 and... Just 61. So to catch either bus, you catch bus 61. Good thing the buses are modern, and have these wonderful marquis that tell you the route # and where the particular bus is (hypothetically) heading (DTC - downtown center, or Malls). Of course, it's a task of the bus drivers to change the marquis when they turn the bus around at either end of the route.

Now I'm sure you can guess where the fly most often gets into this mechanism - and let me assure you that I've known about this and experienced it multiple times, which is why I decided last night that I really do deserve the title of Official Moron. Don't worry about my self-esteem though, as I don't have the slightest doubt that I share that title on a regular basis with all 4 (or whatever it is now) billion fellow inmates on this dusty muddy space rock.

So last night I'm waiting for the bus going toward the mall (it's the last one for the day, BTW), and right on time, here comes the bus with the sign saying "DTC". These buses often come to this stop (junction of the Y, remember?) very close together in time, so this is (stupid, stupid, stupid) no big worry for me. The only thing I can assume the driver thinks is that I'm a bum just resting on the bench (look at my picture at the bottom of my blog page and vote in comments if you agree or not with the driver - I'm thinking maybe so). BTW, I'm the only person at the stop.

Now since this is the junction of a Y, it's pretty easy to tell (in depressing retrospect) which bus you MISSED - since the one going North (Malls) turns left at the light, and the one going South (DTC) goes straight. This "DTC" bus turned left. Recall that it's the last bus going North.

I must have done it a thousand times before this moment. Ask the driver, ask the driver, ask the driver! Never ASSUME anything. Trusting any human system or intent (including my own) unreservedly is sheer folly. I KNOW this. Now I could say I've finally learned this lesson. Yep, I could say that. I'm very sure it'll stick for at least a couple weeks.

Welcome to my humility zone.

Cheers,
Paul S

Hearing in the Recovery Zone, Dear Alcohol

About time I subjected you weary blog travelers to a new test of your sensibilities.

As many of you know, I've been in treatment for recovery from alcoholism, and I'm happy to report 38 days clean and sober as of this writing - thanks to several blessings and opportunities; AA, my supportive friends/family/co-workers, and an excellent detox and outpatient group therapy program at St. Joseph's Behavioral Health Center.

I'm currently on short-term disability leave through Sep 29th, expecting to be back at work Sep 30th. I await my (approved) disability check/deposit with bated breath - living on serenity and faith (with some food stockpiled) currently - anticipating the regular pay cycle this Friday, but I'll be checking with HR on Monday. :)

Hot news - as of last Wednesday, I'm sporting a brand new pair of Phonak BTE hearing aids (top end - better be for $5800 - and no, Virgina, I don't have that in pocket change!) These are very clearly (pardon the pun) better than the Siemens I tried a few months ago - and the telecoil feature actually works. I'm experiencing (personal assessment) very close to 95% speech recognition (SR) in ideal situations (directional, low ambient noise) and vastly improved SR in noisy situations. Best I've heard in a long time, and though only time will tell as my base hearing varies, I'm quite happy with these aids currently - and we (audiologist and I) haven't finished "tweaking" them yet (my right is a bit "hot" - that ear tends to distort loud voices - but I'm still getting overall improvement).

I'll close this post with a "term paper" assignment from my outpatient therapy - I'll be reading this on Monday as I get "coined out" of the group...


Dear Alcohol,

It's not easy, but it's time for us to part ways. For 34 years now, you have been like a companion, sheltering me from pain and loneliness when I felt a need to hide from God and my fellows. You waited in the wings through most of my troubled marriage, but like a jealous lover, you burst onto the scene to destroy it. Had I but known the vengeful pain you had in store for me, perhaps I could have resisted your beauty - perhaps not - as you regularly gave me ample warning in our early days. Now, as if waking from a troubled dream, I find I must dismiss you, lest you lead me into oblivion.

We first met when I was only 15, a child struggling to become a man. You had the power to instantly turn a shy, ungainly boy into a confident young man - but even then you charged a bitter tax for your service. The tax soon forgotten, I'd return again and again to you over the years when I wanted to forget the pain of now.

Make no mistake, you are a beauty unmatched - for with a gentle whisper, you can bring the mightiest empire to its knees. Better men than I have, and will, die in your embrace. Today I choose life, and so I must leave you alone. I have changed because you never will - and for that change, I thank you. Perhaps if you weren't there, I'd have never had the desperation to seek treatment, and ultimately growth.

Of all the life challenges I've faced, you were the most insidious. It wasn't until very late in our long relationship that you began to show me your true colors. At first it felt like love, but in the end, I learned your mission was to destroy me utterly - all that I was would be lost, and anything that I might become would be drowned by you.

My first indication that you were plotting my death came in the form of regular and frequent hangovers - much like a cold or flu, but in some ways worse, as my sickness was self-imposed by my "happiness". This cycle went on for years and years. Then a few years ago, I was confronted with you and some of your henchmen (don't deny it, for I was still partly awake) as my now former wife fell (back) into your (and their) arms. The agonizingly slow destruction of a marriage that was never meant to be should have driven me away from you. But you knew from the start that you had captured me years ago, even though I felt free (delusion). All you needed to do was slip your noose gently over my head by allowing me to re-experience the loneliness of my youth - and the false comfort you'd bring me to con me back into your clutches.

And then came the day that my desire for you became need. You would greet me in the early morning on that day, and many days after - in fact, the distinction between early morning and late night became blurred - truly the clock spins in endless circles, and what is an hour? If I didn't pick you up in the morning, noon, evening, anytime, at intervals growing smaller by day, a shaking, jittery sickness would overcome me, and pitifully, I did know just how to cure it - temporarily. For this you didn't judge me - only condemned me without judgment or prejudice, just as you would anyone who tried to control you.

You didn't just beat me up physically either - you missed no opportunity to bring me misery, the better to ensure my demise - even if it were to be at my own hand. You cast me into the pit of depression, a place the most modern medicine could not reach, as your grip is more powerful than the strongest of the doctors' chemistry.

You cast a fog across my brain, making clarity of thinking and decision-making a distant dream. Though we've been apart for many days now, I haven't yet fully recovered my faculties, but with God's grace, I may (though by no means certain).

Bad decision-making fuels bad decisions, and bad decisions fuel broken finances. Today I'm $50,000 in debt, and likely to be bankrupt soon, as a direct result of my belief in you and in my ability to conduct my affairs while wandering aimlessly in your fog.

You caused me to isolate - because, harsh mistress that you are, you refused to share me with anyone at all. You took me from my family, my friends, my co-workers, and worst of all, my Higher Power - the loving God who would have been happy to bring me serenity (as he does now) and a guiding light through and beyond the destruction you engineered.

If there is good to be found in my relationship with you, it is this: My Higher Power was with me, watching over me through the worst trials you created - though I was ignorant and even tried to deny his existence, not to mention his love. I know this now because when I finally cried out to him in pain, he brought friends into my life who would gently push me (some tough love) onto the road to my Recovery. And on this road, I shall stay, moving always forward, even if my steps seem slow and halting at times.

I'll never again believe the lie that you told me about myself - that I'm unlovable, and that I can never know true friendship. Baloney! When I got real and honest with the people around me, and practiced humility, I found love and better friendships than I had ever before dreamed possible. You see, when truth shines its light, darkness is banished.

I found out in time. Your game is up.

Goodbye, dark mistress alcohol.

I think I won't be missing you.

Loneliness Is: HOH

I stated in the last blog post that I drink to kill the intellect. While that's certainly true, there's yet another reason that matters.

The loneliness of being hard of hearing (HOH) is probably another big driver of my "situation".

The thing is, though I can still do a one on one, face to face conversation fairly well. I just can't do groups.

Now perhaps you think this is a minor thing, a blip in the radar. But if you think that - you're wrong.

We are a social species. Both our survival and our thriving are related to how we manage our relationships with our "local" peers. I parenthesise local because we can now, indeed, have peers across the globe, thanks to the Internet.

Yesterday, I had an actual JOB REQUIREMENT, to attend a minor league baseball game (Sacramento Rivercats (home team) vs. Memphis Redbirds)

A "Team building exercise" it was called.

And build it did - no question, so don't consider my words here a disparagement of the event - it was a fun afternoon, for all, including me.

When you're HOH (hard of hearing) things work out a little different.

I'm in the situation where if I can face a person directly, read their lips a bit, and get them to talk slow, I can understand them - but a group conversation is impossible for me.

As it turns out, the group socialization is probably more important to the individual psyche than most one-on-one interactions (perhaps the exception is the "significant other").

I can't begin to express to you the isolation (loneliness) I felt (again, as usual) in this group of about 9 people, as I couldn't comprehend more than about 20% of the "chatter" among the group. Should I laugh when everyone else laughs? I chose not to. I've grown to loathe "faking it".

The loneliest moments in my life are when I'm in a group of people chattering away. I don't have a clue. I don't have a hope of comprehending. I'm the outsider. I'm the one probably a lot of people consider "standoffish" because I don't respond. I can't respond. Not appropriately.

OK, so it's existential bitching. Well, welcome to my blog - where existential bitching is the norm. It's my blog, so I'll bitch when I want. ;)

Next time you encounter an HOH person, may these words burn in your memory, and may you treat them as you would treat a beloved friend. That's all.

Paul S (AKA - LifeWrecked)

The Alter Ego Speaks

Ok, first things first, just so you don't get hopelessly confused: Love is Pain. And yes, I love, so I have pain. I'm sure it's the same for you. You're probably reading this message because I Pain you.

I saw a video the other day done by an amazingly brave BBC reporter; showing how the big (Israel / U.S. sponsored) armored vehicles (think DUCKS, but, bigger, armored, and with cannons) were shooting up women and children in Palestine. Terrorists all, I'm sure. God, I hope nobody loved them.

In a world gone mad, I'm Mad as Hell. So sue me.

Back when I used to pay taxes (well, I still do, unfortunately - I can't stop them from taking it, but I'll be DAMNED if I'm going to put my name on it anymore - check it out, I can get 3 squares a day, a cot, a toilet, and probably a regular rear-end tryst with a huge dude with tattoos covering his whole body - and all on YOUR dime!); there was a point here, but somehow I think I made it without actually making it.

I drink to kill the intellect. I don't want it anymore. It knows too much. It looks into peoples' eyes and it figures out exactly what's going on in there. STOP. I don't want to know. Knowing means I have to LEAVE and be RESPONSIBLE at the same time. Let's face it. If you KNOW a thing, where is your morality if you just get up and walk away? Ethanol is a moral anaesthetic. It works wonders. You can also run your car on it. Such a deal!

Did you know that we're about to RUN OUT of corn for human/animal consumption? Even the GM stuff. Why? Because it's getting DIVERTED to FUEL ETHANOL production! It's the future of the SUV!!! Love it while you can. At least we'll solve the obesity problem in the U.S.! BTW, dreams die hard, but you can't drink the fuel C2H6O - it's "denatured" by mixing it with none other than our good friend petrol. Now THAT'S a cocktail!

Ok, that was a bit of a side-slide, I admit - but strangely related, in a singularly American way, no?

I may have written about this somewhere else before, and if so, forgive me being repetitive - it comes to me again as I'm actually PLANNING on a fun experience in what most rational people would call a nuthouse. I'll be sharing the dorm with addicts to who knows what, "cutters" (they cut themselves - one of the purest addictions - let's face it, I have to envy them their lack of need for chemistry), and then, well at least last time, there's the person (and I say "person", because I STILL don't know, to this day) who's not 3, not 4, but about 6 fries short of a Happy Meal. And as I KNOW I've told you elsewhere (my blog, probably), I am, by definition, this person's BEST FRIEND (whether I want to be or not). I can hardly wait.

Actually, I don't regret meeting the last of "those" - I got one of my deepest realizations of truth from watching this person, and then what happened (or didn't) to them.

We go through life with a "world view" - it's the collection of theories we have about the world, and especially about people. At the time, I knew I was in pretty deep need of help, and I was counting on these folks to help me - and they came through, no question. But I had a world-view shattered in the process; you see, when I went in, I thought I was going to a "first tier" thing. Certainly everyone going there needed significant help. Certainly the staff would do their best to help. And "certainly", if they couldn't help, and the person just couldn't stay there (due to behavior problems, etc.), they'd send that person off to the REAL nuthouse. You know where this is going.

"Girlfriend" (and I use the term advisedly) had a natural fit one day right before the "lunch march". The reaction of the staff present convinced me of one thing that really stuck with me since then. When it comes to my personal well-being and safety, there's nobody who will be responsible for it except me.

Plexiglas is amazing stuff, and the staff used it well - all cowering in the little central Plexiglas office cube. Then came the "orderlies" (in pubs, they're referred to as "bouncers"). It took 4 of them to subdue dear heart (she's not fat, but she's BIG).

None of this (yet) represents my deepest revelation. Those of us who were allowed to march off to lunch did so - Ghetto Fabulous stayed behind, of course. We get back, and there (she) is, in THE ROOM, strapped down, and apparently "appropriately" medicated. Here was my thought: "Oh, (she) won't be staying here anymore - they're going to ship her out to..." Uh, yeah, to...

Next day, GF was at breakfast, just as if nothing had occurred.

I realized, in that moment: The facility I think they might ship (her) to - THIS IS IT. I'm in it. You can't imagine how (mental) health-promoting that revelation can be. I was feeling so much better, so fast. By the next day, I was the picture of mental health, and sent home.

Ok, so I'm the alter ego. I have a role to play in this thing called Paul. Except you already know: I'm not perfectly real.

I'm not any more or less real than any other aspect of that person that maybe you love, but might never fully understand. It turns out, I'm the same guy who'll drop $500 on the SWC Silent Auction, (and God help me, I honestly can't remember the 50/50 outcome - I'll trust the consensus on that one). But go back to the top and read again.

I believe that folks who get a MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) diagnosis don't actually have any more personalities than you or I do. They just have amnesia. So maybe somebody won the 50/50 and actually got it. If so, it probably made for a pleasant trip home (yes, I remember that, and I know I had cash; and well, I just had cash).

And see, the cash isn't the point. Money only gets its power through movement. If it's not moving, it might as well be so much dust and scattered leaves. I'm not spouting platitudes here. I truly believe and live that. No, it hasn't always been so. Get nothing to lose. Repeat for emphasis. GET NOTHING TO LOSE. Then you'll understand the value and the purpose of money. I'd rather give it to SWC and the kids with cancer and the researchers for breast cancer and the Center for Skeptical Inquiry (yes, Virgina, this Alter Ego is a skeptic) - all of those and more, than to King George's War.

And so it is.

Rounding it up, finally, to the top thought: I'd like to say to you that the love is worth the pain. And I guess it really is. Since none of us get out of it alive, it might as well be. So love. Be in pain. And live, as best you know how. That's what I'll be doing. It's all we can do.


Peace.

Paul S (AKA: LifeWrecked)

When Little Things Become Big Things

(Written about 6/30/08, posted when it says)

"Oh darn, I'm out of bread.", "Rats, my watch battery just died.", "Stupid new cell phone! It won't go a day on a charge!", "Great! - FSA refund checks! Now I just need to go cash them!"

Things like the above are all part of a normal, everyday life experience, and fall under that famous slogan (and book) "Don't sweat the small stuff..."

That is, until you become "transportationally disabled" by intermittent/severe vertigo attacks (and "routine" balance issues).

So for the safety of society, and yourself, you decide to stop driving, and rely solely on public transit, friends, etc., to get you around.

Suddenly, something strange happens to the "small stuff" - in flagrant violation of the premise of that famous book, it becomes big stuff after all. Allow me to explain...

Most folks don't use public transit (PT) for several (possible) reasons, not least of which is the fact that you're forced to conform to their schedules rather than what might be optimal for you. Of course, that's assuming that their (PT) schedules can even come close to matching your need. And THAT was before the (California) legislature, at the bidding of the governor, recently slashed the PT budget, resulting in the further thinning out of already thin transit services.

So now consider: You need the battery in your watch replaced. Experience tells you it's a pretty good idea to have a jeweler or at least a savvy electronics type familiar with changing watch batteries do it (and buy the battery from them, hopefully). It's more than worth the money to avoid the hassle and possible damage you might do attempting it with inadequate tools and knowledge.

So all you need to do is go uptown to the local mall where you bought the watch originally, and where the gentleman who sold it to you assured you he'd happily service it any time. A quick drive, a few minutes for him to handle the job; pay the man, and you're done. NOT.

In reality, you're staring at a minimum, 2 - 3 hours of WEEKDAY time in the face. Weekday. Hmmmm. What do we like (sic) to do on weekdays? Oh, that's right - it's called working for a living. Why is it 2 - 3 hours? Enter PT (public transit, in case you forgot).

In Stockton (CA), there is (happily) a bus that travels from very near my residence to said mall. So far so good! It runs (now) every 1.5 hours on WEEKDAYS (it also runs weekends, every 2.5 hours). Now do the math.

I catch the bus at the appropriate moment (assuming it isn't late), and merrily roll along to the mall. I exit the bus, go see the man, etc., etc., and now it's time to go home. That took me (counting travel) maybe 30 minutes. Great. Now I can proceed to wait at the bus stop (weekdays) 1 hour. On a weekend, I can wait 2 hours. Are we having fun yet?

Sure, you say, but why don't you maximize your time at that mall?

Exactly. And that's why my watch, today, is still precisely correct exactly twice a day. Because I'm not going to get it fixed until I have collected enough "necessitators" to make that trip worthwhile. And that, my friends, is the life of a non-driver.

And again, all of the above "math" assumes that said buses are running on schedule. That in itself turns out to be a rather fanciful assumption. Anyone who has ridden PT for awhile knows that the published schedules represent the EARLIEST times you can expect the bus/train/whatever to appear at the designated stop. Yeah, yeah, most people would say what's a few minutes here or there. Except it isn't always a few minutes. Sometimes it's more than a half-hour. Sometimes (for all practical purposes), it isn't AT ALL.

So back to the watch battery. Let's say I decide to take the late bus right when I get home from work (on my commute bus). Compelling question: What are my odds of getting home THAT NIGHT? To be honest, they're probably better than 90%. What would you decide to do if you had, say a 10% chance of not making it home? No, it's not huge, but remember - if you lose the bet, you DON'T GET HOME.

Well why don't you just get a friend to give you a ride? (I hear you thinking). Sure. And believe me, I do, all too frequently. It's just that there's this thing called schedules, and independence. Other people have busy lives, full of "small stuff" just like me, and they're dealing with it, albeit at a somewhat faster pace. When you ride the bus, one thing you learn very quickly is patience. Time is not money, time is molasses. My friends who help me on occasion know how deeply I appreciate it, because I'm always very certain to let them know directly or in some reciprocal way.

None of that can fully mitigate the fact that in a driving society, the non-driver (for whatever reason) is seriously disadvantaged (for example, why isn't it the law that ALL public roads in incorporated areas shall have sidewalks? A: Pedestrians are an unavoidable nuisance).

This all leads naturally to the (mostly self-imposed) transit fiasco I suffered over a recent weekend.

I'd been invited to my sisters' home in El Cerrito (SF bay area) - about 50-60 miles from my home in Stockton. The good news is I'm experienced at (most of) this trip. I know well that there's an Amtrak train that runs regularly (weekends) from Stockton to Richmond (a near stones throw from my final destination) - and it's way cheaper than driving would be (if I did that).

All I have to do is get myself from my home to the train station - on the other end, my sister will pick me up; but there's a catch. My sister and her partner have an obligation to tend to, very shortly after my train is scheduled to arrive - so if it's late, I'll need to get a cab. None of this represents any "transit stress" - I can certainly handle it, I assume. I've got my "trusty" cell phone with me (containing all the needed phone numbers, addresses, etc.) - the battery indicator says it's fully charged (and was, recently - do you hear the "Jaws" theme playing yet?)

Now, I'm really proud of myself that I've learned how to manage the Stockton (city) bus schedules like a pro. My train leaves at 9:00 a.m., so I'll take a 7:30 near my house to downtown, then hook up with an 8:00 that will take me directly to the Amtrak station well before my departure time. And indeed, it all goes off without a single glitch.

And Amtrak is in Stockton on time! This is going way too well to please Murphy.
I'm rolling along the Delta, toward the Bay Area, and my sister texts me asking how the trip is going (on time?) - I'm pleased to report back that everything looks like a "go".

Then, just past Martinez, the train (as trains sometimes do) comes to a full stop in the middle of nowhere. The pilot or captain or engineer or whoever it is lets us know we'll be losing about 5 minutes waiting on some freight train or something.

I decide it would be a good idea to let my sister know I'm probably going to be a bit late, and perhaps she could arrange the cab for me. I open up the cell phone to find the "sad battery" (flashing) logo (and an appropriate message). "Odd," I think, since it was showing full charge not 3 hours ago, and it's done nearly no work since. I change my mind about texting my sister and turn OFF my phone to conserve what little battery life may remain - for an emergency should it crop up.

Fast forward to my arrival in Richmond. The train is late as expected, and my sister is nowhere to be found. Not a problem. I'll just call a cab and give them the address I stashed in the cell phone. Phone on (phone off). Phone on (phone off). The battery is DEAD. My sister's address is new. So here I am at the Amtrak station in Richmond, no cell phone, don't know my sister's address (nor her phone number), and don't know another soul in the area who I could call (on a payphone). Nor did I know the number (in my phone) of an out of area person who could serve as a "relay".

So I reviewed my options. Then I reviewed them again. Just to be sure, I reviewed them a third time. Yep. I had exactly one.

There's a novel I've read; so long ago I can't remember either the title or the author, but it describes a sure fire method of finding anyone you're looking for (assuming they're ambulatory, etc. - and looking for you) - it's called the Advanced Theory of Search. It's actually the most recommended method if you're lost or injured in a remote area. The Theory in short: Stay Put. Since they're looking for you, moving around does you no more good (and can actually make you harder to find) than staying in one place - and it wastes energy you may need later.

So I made myself as comfortable as one can do on one of the lovely concrete benches in the parking lot waiting area, and hunkered down. I mused on the good news that it was neither raining, nor particularly cold or hot. I mused on how peculiar some people are who will drive up, stop, look like they're waiting for someone and then leave. I mused on the stupidity of someone who would travel without essential contact information written on paper (a resolution was submitted by this particular committee, and accepted in full by the Board of Directors).

Two hours later, the Advanced Theory of Search was empirically proven, and my sister showed up, full of the obvious questions and relating concerns of trains crashing, etc.

The visit was delightful, and the trip home, uneventful.

The point of writing the above is NOT to grumble and gripe about the lousy state of public transit (or the stupid state of people like me who'll rely on high-tech when low-tech would do the job better and more reliably).

No, the point is that this was a day in the life of a non-driver. As a non-driver, you are:

- At the mercy of transit schedules, whatever they may be.

- At risk of being stranded wherever you are.

- An expert at finding the nearest local watering hole (to bide the time, as appropriate).

- A victim of "Yellow Cab, Inc." - I'll say nothing else here.

- As patient as a librarian working the math-science section.

Am I obsessed with a need for vengeance on the system?Am I an activist seeking to make public transit humane?Am I just another pundit, seeking to make my living trashing public facilities?

No.

What I want to convey here is the sensibility, the understanding, that when someone doesn't drive, the world runs at a slower place. We take our time, and we get there when we do. Meanwhile, if we're savvy, we bring our necessities with us - always.

Hooch? We've got that!

It makes the wait much more endurable.

Criticize as you must. Wait 2 hours at the Richmond Amtrak/BART station. Now criticize again.

That's my point.

This is a very long post - if you've read it from beginning to end, I stand in awe of your persistence/patience. I do think it's done.

Peace,LifeWrecked (AKA Paul S)