Saturday, May 18, 2002
AINT NO COMMUTING HERE IN CALIFORNIA
So anyway, I'm stuck here for some time, getting bored in suburbia, and have nothing but pity for the people in this state who have no automobiles. (Do people still call 'em that?)
California is too big and too spread out to have a commuter-friendly mass transport sytem in place. Sure there are buses (that never follow their schedules), and rail transits, and in some places, taxicabs. But there's just no easy way to get around. Hence the primordial need to drive and own a car. Truth be told, at this point in my boring life, I'd rather not have another piece of machinery that loses value every year and adds to expenses. But that'll probably change when I have to get to places I can't easily walk to.
I've been to L.A., and as the Bacharach song says, it really is a "great big freeway." Freeway undulating and connecting to yet another freeway in an endless knot of routes and highway numbers. 238. 880. I-5. I-440. Exits and tolls and diamond lanes for car pools, and the spanking new fast track system. And baby, how do you traverse these freeways without a car? Amtrak? Greyhound? Woe is the American commuter.
Everything's so far away here. So spread out. Truly, there is an excess of land here in the largest state of the first world.
Suddenly I miss the dingy, cramped, hectic kaleidoscope of New York where the grime and the rudeness remind me of my mythic Manila.
So anyway, I'm stuck here for some time, getting bored in suburbia, and have nothing but pity for the people in this state who have no automobiles. (Do people still call 'em that?)
California is too big and too spread out to have a commuter-friendly mass transport sytem in place. Sure there are buses (that never follow their schedules), and rail transits, and in some places, taxicabs. But there's just no easy way to get around. Hence the primordial need to drive and own a car. Truth be told, at this point in my boring life, I'd rather not have another piece of machinery that loses value every year and adds to expenses. But that'll probably change when I have to get to places I can't easily walk to.
I've been to L.A., and as the Bacharach song says, it really is a "great big freeway." Freeway undulating and connecting to yet another freeway in an endless knot of routes and highway numbers. 238. 880. I-5. I-440. Exits and tolls and diamond lanes for car pools, and the spanking new fast track system. And baby, how do you traverse these freeways without a car? Amtrak? Greyhound? Woe is the American commuter.
Everything's so far away here. So spread out. Truly, there is an excess of land here in the largest state of the first world.
Suddenly I miss the dingy, cramped, hectic kaleidoscope of New York where the grime and the rudeness remind me of my mythic Manila.
Friday, May 17, 2002
THE SILENCE & PHLEGM OF SUBURBIA
I'm not used to this silence. I'm writing from Fremont, California, in a quiet subdivision of a quiet town. ANd the silence is definitely killing me. Having gotten used to the rowdy neighbors in my apartment complex in Makati, plus the noise of all the vehicles coming in and out of said complex... this quiet is literally deafening. Nothing beside this house but other empty houses. Residents all gone to work. No crying babies, no women on cellphones talking about showbiz tsismis, no noisy car mufflers. Agh.
To top it all off, the weather-- which I am not used to-- has given me a case of really solid phlegm. It's coated my vocal cords and reduced my speaking voice to a froggy croak. I try spitting it out, but it rebuilds itself. Last night, for the first time in decades, I took some cough syrup to ease the phlegm out. And, boy, did the bitter Robitussin syrup ever bring back memories of childhood's scraped knees and the Bee Gees!
There isn't much to do here in Fremont. But the weather is relatively nice and there's a used CD Warehouse down near the commercial area. And if my phlegm ever lets up, I'll sing you a "Home on the Range"....
I'm not used to this silence. I'm writing from Fremont, California, in a quiet subdivision of a quiet town. ANd the silence is definitely killing me. Having gotten used to the rowdy neighbors in my apartment complex in Makati, plus the noise of all the vehicles coming in and out of said complex... this quiet is literally deafening. Nothing beside this house but other empty houses. Residents all gone to work. No crying babies, no women on cellphones talking about showbiz tsismis, no noisy car mufflers. Agh.
To top it all off, the weather-- which I am not used to-- has given me a case of really solid phlegm. It's coated my vocal cords and reduced my speaking voice to a froggy croak. I try spitting it out, but it rebuilds itself. Last night, for the first time in decades, I took some cough syrup to ease the phlegm out. And, boy, did the bitter Robitussin syrup ever bring back memories of childhood's scraped knees and the Bee Gees!
There isn't much to do here in Fremont. But the weather is relatively nice and there's a used CD Warehouse down near the commercial area. And if my phlegm ever lets up, I'll sing you a "Home on the Range"....
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
STALE AIR IN RENO
So anyway, the UrbanCommuter has finally found himself on different shores. Right now, I am writing from Reno, Nevada in the United States. The static electricity is killing me. I enter a casino, zap! I exit the casino, zap! I grab the hand rail in the rest room, zap! It's like they don't want me here.
On the way up here we stopped by Donner Summit and I had my first taste of snow. Actually, it was too dirty to taste so I just discreetly placed a hand on its tender regions and came to the conclusion: SNOW is like the crushed ice you pour milk over in a halo-halo. Ah well. Maybe one day I'll see snowflakes.
Well, Reno was just a fake city built in a clump of nowhere land. And on top of this land, they created humongous, gaudy buildings with bright lights. They carpeted these buildings, stuck slot machines and dealers' tables in them and then let in the smokers. End result: stale cigarette smoke and ching-ching-chings from the insane slot machines. Video game sounds. Coins entering slots. Chatter chatter chatter. And me in the middle of it all wondering why people are stupid enough to waste their money on gambling.
Nakaka-hatsing. Masakit sa mata ang usok ng sigarilyo.
Didn't gamble at all. Not even a single quarter in a single machine. Sus! inipon ko na lang at bumili ako ng Dairy Queen blizzard na strawberry-banna flavor, at hinati ko sa pinsan ko. Eh di masaya pa kami.
So I didn't really enjoy Reno. Don't go there unless you want to gamble. Or maybe go to a girly bar.
So anyway, the UrbanCommuter has finally found himself on different shores. Right now, I am writing from Reno, Nevada in the United States. The static electricity is killing me. I enter a casino, zap! I exit the casino, zap! I grab the hand rail in the rest room, zap! It's like they don't want me here.
On the way up here we stopped by Donner Summit and I had my first taste of snow. Actually, it was too dirty to taste so I just discreetly placed a hand on its tender regions and came to the conclusion: SNOW is like the crushed ice you pour milk over in a halo-halo. Ah well. Maybe one day I'll see snowflakes.
Well, Reno was just a fake city built in a clump of nowhere land. And on top of this land, they created humongous, gaudy buildings with bright lights. They carpeted these buildings, stuck slot machines and dealers' tables in them and then let in the smokers. End result: stale cigarette smoke and ching-ching-chings from the insane slot machines. Video game sounds. Coins entering slots. Chatter chatter chatter. And me in the middle of it all wondering why people are stupid enough to waste their money on gambling.
Nakaka-hatsing. Masakit sa mata ang usok ng sigarilyo.
Didn't gamble at all. Not even a single quarter in a single machine. Sus! inipon ko na lang at bumili ako ng Dairy Queen blizzard na strawberry-banna flavor, at hinati ko sa pinsan ko. Eh di masaya pa kami.
So I didn't really enjoy Reno. Don't go there unless you want to gamble. Or maybe go to a girly bar.
