Tuesday, April 15, 2008
T.A.P. - Totally Against Paying
Define honor. When people say things like “I am an honest person,” they are usually lying assholes. When people say “I’m not religious, but spiritual,” they hate God. When people say they are honorable, they are usually shameful and ignoble. Except for me. I am an honorable person. So why would I have any grievance with the “honor system” that is a hallmark of the mass transit experience?
I’m honorable, but I can’t speak for any of these characters.
On the surface, this is not really an important issue, however beneath the surface, it cannot but help define the world us travelers inhabit. As trains take us back and forth over the city’s fault lines, honor is the clean energy source that fuels our journey under this great metropolis. It is on these trips the true honor of the travelers shine. It is the honor you see when a man in his twenties sits in a priority seat while a sixty year old housekeeper stands with a bag of groceries. It is the honor of the teen not concealing his blunt rolling talents, underneath one of those apparently unmanned cameras in the black half-sphere. Or what about the homeless woman that takes up two seats, one for her, the other for her portable latrine?
Honor is quite an elastic term. Two hundred years ago, my quadruple great grandfather, Hiram Traveler shot a tax assessor in a duel on the banks of the
…Today, honor draws little water in
Those caught not paying the fare face up to $250 fines, which should balance the karma and Kapital scales. To apprehend them are two to four sheriff’s deputies, sometimes with dogs, always with chewing tobacco, at various stations for surprise inspections of the passengers. They show up fairly unexpectedly, like the cold sores of our subway. The manpower used in this sting seems to exceed what is necessary. I guess they are not needed elsewhere.
The TAP card does not necessarily combat the negligence of scofflaws, rather it is an attempt to add efficiency to the evasion. As sheriffs materialize (usually at Sepulveda on the Orange Line), all it takes is a flashing of the TAP card. Matters not how much money is on the card, a week, day or month, they will not check it. When you purchase the TAP card, you are warned that inspectors will have equipment to check the card. Nobody I know has seen one.
This is just more code enforcement through paranoia. Their word is honor, but it is more akin to fear. It is similar to the feeling you get when that old shoplifting bug comes back on you. You weigh the likelihood that Ralph’s has cameras in the liquor aisle, and ultimately the paranoia forces you to leave for a bodega with a smaller selection.
Human beings are brutish and nasty, brought into heel by rigid laws and turnstiles. The delusion that us travelers operate on some code of honor is foolhardy. I hate to admit it, but the windy apple has us beat. One glass booth, gates and a fare system that provides efficiency and accountability is what is needed in
These are dishonorable times and our system needs to come to terms with this reality. Hiram would be sad, but he’s dead so who cares.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Blues Line
The first time I rode the blue line, a man with two glass eyes asked me for change. To elucidate the dire circumstances he finds himself in, he removes an eye, holding it in the palm of his hand. I glanced but mostly stared at his face, trying to catch him looking down at his glass eye. If he were to do that, then I would know he's faking it and really wasn't blind.
After a few seconds, he assured me he wouldn't use the money for cocaine.
This trip always brings out the worst in me. The frequency of terrible experiences on this line assures that you will be stressed and annoyed; by the woman hitting her kid, the jerk with the guitar, the conductor and his stupid safety warnings. Like I need any of those things.
The Blue Line in Los Angeles is one of the nation's busiest and deadliest. It' is at times quite exciting, cutting through south central only to make it to Long Beach of all places. This makes the travelers on the blue line an odd crew. They are selling candy, avoiding eye contact, threatening each other and (of course) sleeping. To gaze out the window is your only escape, but escape is what most people try to do around here.
As the train reaches the Slauson station, you get a bird's eye view of the most unplanned, organic part of Los Angeles. Sprawling lumber yards, junk and scrap metal heaps, a few factories and low flying airplanes are common sights in this area. Homes are sprinkled in to fill up available space, with many cul-de-sacs and road forks to discourage any exodus.
Not many people get off either. Of course some do, but most are just passing through. There has been very little reason for people to get off and explore any of these neighborhoods because its the wild west. As soon as they step off the train, the likelihood that they will be shot rises to 1000% percent. Bullets cut swaths in the factory air, hitting innocent schmucks like yourself.
Why do people think they will be killed if they go certain places? The reason is because it is difficult to convince people that they are not important or interesting enough to be murdered. Don't flatter yourself, it's a neighborhood not a thrill kill cult. But if all you see is from the news, I guess it can be expected. You don't need to see a place up front, the news took you there. Good enough.
As little Tokyo gentrifies into a faux hawk, more crime and poverty will be swept from skid row down into these communities. Not much of a fighting chance, considering the existing poverty, but we must make Los Angeles look like New York. If we do look like New York, they will finally love and respect us. When that happens, we can get on with our lives and solve some problems, like homelessness, public transit and preventing a football team from coming here.
Once downtown looks exactly like Tribeca and Staples Center become Times Square, we may be forced to push further south, toward the sea. Everyone must get away from the cliff. Hell, even move the blue line if necessary.
Wish I had a glass eye.
After a few seconds, he assured me he wouldn't use the money for cocaine.
This trip always brings out the worst in me. The frequency of terrible experiences on this line assures that you will be stressed and annoyed; by the woman hitting her kid, the jerk with the guitar, the conductor and his stupid safety warnings. Like I need any of those things.
The Blue Line in Los Angeles is one of the nation's busiest and deadliest. It' is at times quite exciting, cutting through south central only to make it to Long Beach of all places. This makes the travelers on the blue line an odd crew. They are selling candy, avoiding eye contact, threatening each other and (of course) sleeping. To gaze out the window is your only escape, but escape is what most people try to do around here.
As the train reaches the Slauson station, you get a bird's eye view of the most unplanned, organic part of Los Angeles. Sprawling lumber yards, junk and scrap metal heaps, a few factories and low flying airplanes are common sights in this area. Homes are sprinkled in to fill up available space, with many cul-de-sacs and road forks to discourage any exodus.
Not many people get off either. Of course some do, but most are just passing through. There has been very little reason for people to get off and explore any of these neighborhoods because its the wild west. As soon as they step off the train, the likelihood that they will be shot rises to 1000% percent. Bullets cut swaths in the factory air, hitting innocent schmucks like yourself.
Why do people think they will be killed if they go certain places? The reason is because it is difficult to convince people that they are not important or interesting enough to be murdered. Don't flatter yourself, it's a neighborhood not a thrill kill cult. But if all you see is from the news, I guess it can be expected. You don't need to see a place up front, the news took you there. Good enough.
As little Tokyo gentrifies into a faux hawk, more crime and poverty will be swept from skid row down into these communities. Not much of a fighting chance, considering the existing poverty, but we must make Los Angeles look like New York. If we do look like New York, they will finally love and respect us. When that happens, we can get on with our lives and solve some problems, like homelessness, public transit and preventing a football team from coming here.
Once downtown looks exactly like Tribeca and Staples Center become Times Square, we may be forced to push further south, toward the sea. Everyone must get away from the cliff. Hell, even move the blue line if necessary.
Wish I had a glass eye.
Security Check
When the Red Line arrives at its ultimate destination, be it North Hollywood or Union Station, the doors seal shut for a few minutes after the riders exit, but before anyone can board. Ostensibly, the reason for this a security check, but in reality it is your run of the mill bum sweep.
For the past three weeks, Metro cops have interrupted this rut to inspect every car in the train for security breaches. Their biggest obstacle is not finding mysterious powders or vials of Mercury, but booting the transients from their bunks. It is, however dubious to have security checks on a Los Angeles subway at 11 p.m. A subway in Los Angeles seems like the absolute last place a terrorist will strike. It's kind of a secret, not just world wide, but ask around. People in this city don't even know about the subway. In fact, I'll bet nothing wrong will ever happen to any of us in Los Angeles, ever. It would be idiotic for the terrorists to target our subway. I guess stupid terrorists make stupid governments.
We sure do have a lot of bums though. So many that we now have to use our terrorist fighting resources to annoy the shit out of them.
The cops remove every bum they encounter and send them to the platform. A bum with morning breath smells like an old sock soaking in a pickle jar. When the inspection concludes, older residents and new tenants of these cars board. The bums just set up shop all over again, in the same place the were before they were so rudely interrupted. They go back to sleep, the rest of us have lasting images to end the day with that will make us hug our job in the morning.
New York has mole people living in abandoned subway shafts, but LA just has bums. Before the abundance of caution by the Sheriffs and Metro police, ten to 15 homeless would either be sleeping or yelling at themselves in just one car alone. 25% of the line was full of vagabonds, some reserved and suffering, others sponge bathing. Us travelers witness these rituals night in and night out. We're mostly security guards, cooks, maids and students, worn by the weight of the day. The last thing any of us want is someone trying to spoon us on our way home from work.
There are 82,000 homeless in Los Angeles County on any given night
These public Pullman cars shuffle the deck night in and night out. Currently, many see fit to hide this enduring problem underground. The opponents of turnstiles will cite how unfair it will be to those dead enders who ride the subway to get escape from the elements, as sinister a plot as making the benches harder to sleep on. This is all part of the stubbornly persistent notion that the best way to fight homelessness is to accommodate it, rather than, you know, ending it. It is fair for Metro to either block their entrance completely, or fluff their pillow. The status quo of this Rumsfeldian sleep adjustment accomplishes little than the prevention of too much coziness.
I just hope the turnstiles keep out the bums, put them on the surface, let the car people see them. Hell, they're the ones with money.
For the past three weeks, Metro cops have interrupted this rut to inspect every car in the train for security breaches. Their biggest obstacle is not finding mysterious powders or vials of Mercury, but booting the transients from their bunks. It is, however dubious to have security checks on a Los Angeles subway at 11 p.m. A subway in Los Angeles seems like the absolute last place a terrorist will strike. It's kind of a secret, not just world wide, but ask around. People in this city don't even know about the subway. In fact, I'll bet nothing wrong will ever happen to any of us in Los Angeles, ever. It would be idiotic for the terrorists to target our subway. I guess stupid terrorists make stupid governments.
We sure do have a lot of bums though. So many that we now have to use our terrorist fighting resources to annoy the shit out of them.
The cops remove every bum they encounter and send them to the platform. A bum with morning breath smells like an old sock soaking in a pickle jar. When the inspection concludes, older residents and new tenants of these cars board. The bums just set up shop all over again, in the same place the were before they were so rudely interrupted. They go back to sleep, the rest of us have lasting images to end the day with that will make us hug our job in the morning.
New York has mole people living in abandoned subway shafts, but LA just has bums. Before the abundance of caution by the Sheriffs and Metro police, ten to 15 homeless would either be sleeping or yelling at themselves in just one car alone. 25% of the line was full of vagabonds, some reserved and suffering, others sponge bathing. Us travelers witness these rituals night in and night out. We're mostly security guards, cooks, maids and students, worn by the weight of the day. The last thing any of us want is someone trying to spoon us on our way home from work.
There are 82,000 homeless in Los Angeles County on any given night
These public Pullman cars shuffle the deck night in and night out. Currently, many see fit to hide this enduring problem underground. The opponents of turnstiles will cite how unfair it will be to those dead enders who ride the subway to get escape from the elements, as sinister a plot as making the benches harder to sleep on. This is all part of the stubbornly persistent notion that the best way to fight homelessness is to accommodate it, rather than, you know, ending it. It is fair for Metro to either block their entrance completely, or fluff their pillow. The status quo of this Rumsfeldian sleep adjustment accomplishes little than the prevention of too much coziness.
I just hope the turnstiles keep out the bums, put them on the surface, let the car people see them. Hell, they're the ones with money.
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