Of MUNI and Mustached Men

Muni, get it together! In this past week, I've had to get off the train on two separate occasions because neither of them would go anymore. The first time, I was on the J aboveground, and about to go into the tunnel when we just stopped and sat. And sat. And sat. Finally the driver announces brilliantly that "there appears to be some sort of delay." So for 15 more minutes I just sat there. We then start moving, oh sweet motion, I'm going somewhere and hooray--fuck. We go maybe the length of one car, lurch to a stop, and the driver says, "everyone's gotta get off. there's a bomb threat at Powell." 50 minutes later, I get to work after walking and bussing it. No mention of the Powell bomb threat in the day's news.

Same thing happens the next morning, sort of. At least I got into the tunnel this time, but at Powell station we just stop and sit with the doors closed. There's a homeless guy across from me, raving about getting Chinese food from Gavin Newsom, who, by the way, "looks gay. That fuck. He IS gay. Gay as a bluejay. Fucking Gaving New-Some. Fucker.' Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit. I finally go ask the driver what the hold up is and he says there's a medical emergency on the train ahead. I ask how long it will take to clear. He says he doesn't know. I ask if he could at least open the doors so people could get off and he looked at me like I'd just asked him to part the Red Sea with his eyes shut and while riding a unicycle. But he did open the doors, and I walked the rest of the way.

What does all this have to do with mustaches? Nothing!

But last night I went to a bar where the "winner of the Hustler mustache competition" was hanging out. His mustache was gross and weird. He gave me his phone number and my friends laughed at me. I really attract the winners, literally. Oh yes I do.

After that at Tosca I found myself drinking too much too fast. Overplayed my part. Taxied home and dreamt my way to today and hangover city.