Witness to a Nasty Sidewalk Spill + The Closing of Winterland

The Monday-morning commute is one time of the week when you don't want to run into any trouble. And while there's never a good time, Monday morning, a time when most of us are struck dumb by the oblivion of how we live our lives, is definitely the worst.

The train I was riding on came to a standstill in the tunnel between University Street Station and Pioneer Square Station. There it stayed for at least 15 minutes, maybe 20. An elderly gentleman who I have noticed before because of his multi-colored yarmulke and poor queue etiquette eventually got up from his seat in the adjoining car and began pacing. A woman's recorded voice kept being repeated over the PA telling us that the train was being held due to traffic ahead.

Finally the train got moving again, but very slowly. It moved at reduced speed for the entire run out to SeaTac, making me mindful how important motion is to relaxation. When the train was still or inching along slowly I could not indulge in my customary nap from Chinatown to points south.

At SeaTac I was the first one off the train, but I was not the first one to the bus stop. Another guy who was on the train made the wise decision to ignore the stoplight at 176th Street and cross International Boulevard when there was a momentary break in the traffic, hopping over the dirt and gravel median in the process. I'll usually do the same, but being out of sorts from the bizarre train delay, I played it safe and waited at the stoplight with a young woman. Then I saw my bus coming. Traffic was thick and fast three lanes north and three lanes south. It looked like I was cooked. But then suddenly a small opening appeared. I went for it and made it.

After being let out at the stop near my office building, a nice-looking middle-aged woman who was jogging along International Boulevard tripped and fell on the sidewalk in front of me. She smashed her knee and shoulder. She wasn't bleeding, just badly bruised. She was in a lot of pain. I tried to comfort her, but she said that she didn't need any help. She rolled around a little on the concrete sidewalk and grimaced. I handed her the hotel room plastic card key that shot out of her hand when she fell. She assured me again that she was okay. Then I left.

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All afternoon Sunday I listened to the four-disk live album The Closing of Winterland (2003) by the Grateful Dead. Recorded on New Year's Eve 1978, it was the last concert at Bill Graham's Winterland Ballroom. Interestingly, The Blue Brothers warmed up (none of their songs nor any New Riders of the Purple Sage, who also appeared, make it on album). I'm coming to terms with the Dead. They were ubiquitous growing up in the Bay Area and Southern Oregon and then going to university at Berkeley. So I couldn't stand all the sloppy lazy Hippie self-indulgent excess that seemed to surround them and their shows. But little by little I'm softening up; that, and I won't be able to come to any resolution on Hippies vs. Punks if I don't immerse myself in the San Francisco Sound. Basically, you don't have Hippies without the San Francisco Sound.