A few weeks ago, I was heading downtown to meet my dad. Zooming through the MUNI tunnels with my nose in a book, I finally noticed we were zooming faster than usual. In fact, “I can’t stop,” said the conductor apologetically — and said again, with rising panic, as we whizzed through Civic Center and Powell, finally screeching to a stop in the tunnel just past Montgomery, where we all got out and walked back to the station.
Fast forward to today, when yet another bus whizzed merrily past me as I stood at the bus stop fruitlessly waving my handsome, man-sized hands. (“I can’t stop!”) Which caused me to be late for my appointment, which caused me to reschedule, which means tomorrow I’ll be rushing from my meeting with a rough-and-tumble union organizer straight to my fancy fashion lunch for dogs. Which will require either a wardrobe more convertible than Barbie’s or else machinations on the level of a French farce.
These are but two files from my cabinet of anecdotal evidence which, considered as a whole, proves that MUNI is ruining my life.
Very well, I shall know how to act.