Smell-O-Vision

What do you call a city bus packed to the gills with people and no air conditioning on an 85 degree day?

I call it the Route 28 bus, but some people might call it revolting.

I can honestly say that I never again wish to stand next to a guy who has been drinking and smoking and probably hasn’t showered in the past 3 days.

Hacked

Webster’s dictionary defines hacked (in one instance) as an intransitive verb meaning:

1. To chop or cut something by hacking.
2. Informal
   • To write or refine computer programs skillfully.
   • To use one’s skill in computer programming to gain illegal or unauthorized access to a file or network: hacked into the company’s intranet.
3. To cough roughly or harshly.

Let me just say that today, Monday, May 12, the website that I administer for work was informally hacked. Now, I say informally because, apparently, Websters thinks it is an informal verb. However, as the person who built this from the ground up, it was very formally hacked in the truest and most malicious sense of the word.

Who might hack a website that contains no personal information? I can only guess, but their IP address pointed to a server in China. Luckily, our host had off-site backups. However, I will admit that if I had kept up my own backups, the problem would have been eliminated immediately.

Lesson #1: Back up every Friday night, even if the host backs up also.
Lesson #2: Never talk about work on the weekend. Apparently, I jinxed myself yesterday saying how smooth my job is day-to-day.
Lesson #3: Trust no one online…especially if their IP address is China.

When Bus Riders Attack

When I wrote the post When Bus Drivers Attack, I didn’t think I would have a whole series of “attacking” posts. However, in retrospect, it only seems appropriate that I cover all bases.

Last Saturday night, I boarded the bus after my night shift at the IU School of Medicine Library. (I am a deranged Librarian in training, hope to be fully deranged by May 2009.) The bus was fairly crowded for a Saturday night. By Ohio Street and Capital Avenue, the majority of riders exited to catch other busses and few riders remained. This would change shortly.

The next bus stop is Ohio Street and Illinois Street. On this night, there is a large group, mainly teenage girls, crowded in the shelter and spilling into the street. They are loud…excessively loud. In fact, after everyone boards and the bus pulls away, I noticed a police car swoop behind the bus. I can only imagine it was to help deaden the shrill laughter, shouting, and general noise wafting from this area. It was deafening, but most of the noise boarded the bus and immediately went to the back.

I was sitting in the middle, next to a window; but it felt like I was sitting in the back with the noise. I was a teenage girl once, but I was never that loud…or rude.

At Ohio Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, we pick up a couple extra people, one of which was a drunk middle-aged man. This man was equally as loud, but for different reasons. He egged on the girls. The noise level increased. I wished that I could leave, but I now had someone sitting next to me.

And then Hell broke loose…

The drunk middle-aged man called one of the girls a “Ho” and this girl ran to where he was sitting and began hitting him. The bus stopped. Cell phones opened and 911 was dialed. The bus driver had no control over the situation and many people were stuck in the middle, literally, between the group of girls and the drunk man. It was insanity at its finest.

We sit. We sit so long that the drunk guy had yet another opportunity to mouth off again…this time to another middle-aged man sitting in the noisey section with the girls. This man chased the drunk man off the bus, but we continued to sit. As we waited for the Police, the drunk guy showed up and began kicking the bus and hitting its windows. It was like being on a demented amusement ride, but this one didn’t seem to have an end.

Finally, the Route Supervisor and the Police arrived. The Route Supervisor boarded the bus and reprimanded the girls. I kept thinking to myself, “Kick them off. Just kick them off.” No such luck.

There is one thing I’ve learned when dealing with teenagers, they fear nothing. Idle threats do nothing to squealch their behavior. In their world, there is only black and white…on and off…yes and no. There is no gray area and idle threats are gray.  For some reason, the bus driver did not feel empowered enough to kick them off the bus. Sure, calling the Route Supervisor was a great idea. Calling the police was an even better idea, but the girls should have been removed and their parents called. Detain each girl until their parents come to pick them up, teach them a lesson about how to ride the bus, and how to act in public.

Interesting note, the drunk middle-aged man was picked up by police for public intoxication. The girl that hit him was free to roam and ride the bus another day.

I boarded the bus at 9:07 that night. I exited the bus at 10:11. I was never so happy to be home.

When Busses Attack

A few weeks ago, on a blustery Saturday, I sat at the intersection of Indiana Avenue and 16th Street waiting for the traffic light to change. Diagonally across the street, there was a guy jumping and waving his arms wildly. Ocassionally, he would lurch into traffic, making drivers stop quickly. Looking around, I saw the bus slowly starting as it had also been stopped at the light. I figured to myself that the guy wanted to board the bus.

As the bus passed the intersection and approached the guy, the bus stopped. At the same time, my light turned green and I also passed through the intersection.

I drove past the bus and noticed that the guy was now laying in front of the bus on the asphalt and the bus’s front windows were shattered. I pulled my car to the side of the road and stopped to help.

I talked to the bus driver, who said the guy jumped in front of the bus. This didn’t surprise me since his behavior had been so irratic. The guy laid howling in pain, other drivers stopping to call the police, gawkers slowing traffic to a crawl.

Next, without warning and with a mention of the police, the guy jumps up and runs to the sidewalk where he falls down. He jumps up again and begins to run down the street. By running, I really mean hobbling as he was clearly hurt and bleeding from his head.

One of the onlookers jumps into her car and follows him down the street, where he apparently jumps into the backseat of an unlocked car. At the same time, the car owner opens the front door of her house and brings the guy inside. The ambulance and fire truck show up and go down the street to the address in question…the police still have not arrived.

People are whispering about the oddity of it all, me included. Thirty minutes later, the police arrive. They talk to the driver, they talk to the IndyGo route supervisor. By now, I am the only witness remaining, but they do not ask to talk to me. One officer goes down the street to get the man out of the house. I leave my name and phone number with the route supervisor, just in case.

I have heard the phrase “throwing oneself in front of a bus”, but I’ve never seen it in action…strange things and strange people.

Miss Manners

My momma raised me to have manners. Dictionary.com defines manners as “the prevailing customs, ways of living, and habits of a people, class, period, etc.; mores.” The longer I live, the longer I have realize that we don’t really teach or require manners in our current society.

Growing up, I couldn’t leave the house without my mom saying, “Remember your pleases and thank yous!” By the time I was eighteen, I had heard this phrase so often that I would recite it along with her. It was her mantra for her children and it has become my mantra through life.

When I leave a voice mail, respond to an email, or am engaged in general conversation, I use “please” and “thank you” as often as I can and when appropriate. I know that with overuse, they become ineffective. However, I’ve discovered that some people do not have these words in their vocabulary.

For example, this morning while riding the bus into work, a gruff looking man switched seats by saying to an equally gruff looking woman, “Move over!” My first thought was, “I hope they know each other.” Apparently, as they exited the bus together, they did know each other; but the fact remains, there was neither a please nor a thank you in his imperative statement. On a somewhat crowded bus, this stands out.

People. They make me scratch my head and wonder.

Pax tecum

A funny thing happened on the way home today. I stepped onto the bus and entered church. It wasn’t just any old, non-denominational church. It was hard-core “you can’t be alive and not love Jesus” church.

It started before I was picked up at North and Alabama and was in full-swing by 10th and College. There was shouting, name calling, accusations, judgement, belittling, and an occasional “Amen”. It was a religious shout-fest between three completely unrelated individuals, two innocent, one pugnacious.

It was uncomfortable for the two women involved and even more so for the 20 others sequestered by the bus walls. In the few months I have been riding the bus, I have never witnessed such a mass exodus (no pun intended). People requested a stop, sometimes several blocks before their normal locations, and wasted no time pushing through the doors.

 I now understand the religious unrest in the Middle East a bit more. Yet the bus argument did not involve multiple religions, just multiple interpretations of the same religion. It was disconcerting and painful.

All I can say is peace be with you.

This weather ain’t right.

What is this crazy weather…torrential downpours, tornadoes in winter, 80 mph straight-line winds? What will be next, dogs living with cats?

Typically, I am a early to bed, early to rise kind of girl. With the crazy weather we’ve been having in the loverly state of Indiana, I’m either waking up at 4:30 AM to the crashing and clapping sounds of thunder or going to bed late due to said thunder and tornado sirens.

As a born and bred Hoosier (please don’t ask, no one knows!), I have become accustomed to the air-raid style siren at random times, day or night. It’s like every child’s See ‘n Say came equipped with the phrase “the warning siren goes whhhhiiiiirrrrrrrr”. Whatever happened to “the cow goes moo”? Instead, I find myself frantically herding cats into the basement, collecting the “just in case” essentials, and staring at the television while my favorite weatherman, Kevin Gregory, describes the storm’s path in detail. And I wait.

As I write this, I am still waiting. I’ve released the cats from their basement hell (their words, not mine) and I can still hear the rain and an occasional rumble of thunder. For the most part, the storm has passed.

There will be others.

Perdí mi voz.

At least once per year, I lose my voice. How it happens is anyone’s guess.

 Am I sick? No.
Have I been yelling? No.
Have I been talking too much? No.

Whatever the cause, I woke up this morning and it was gone. I mean, I don’t even sound like Peter Brady going through puberty or Phoebe Buffay with her sexy voice. It’s more or less air and an occasional squeak.

It’s going to be a long weekend.