Why Am I Still Here?

My Beloved girls, three generations once absent

Somewhere along this bloggish path, I've lost the mojo. Lacking confidence. Used to be, people shared my posts. They struck chords and resonated. Now, they languish mein an ether of yesteryear. Did my writing become the dated rants of the operator who sours after a third of a million miles in the seat? Likely so, but I thought for a while these words were relevant.

And yes, they were. People read, commented, shared and debated the points I discussed. Management disliked it, but did not dissuade me. I hit them hard, like Babe Ruth at bat. Like Refrigerator Perry slammed running backs when the Bears were beastly. I was full of passion, only to tell OUR story like nobody else was. I'm proud of doing so.

I guess that's what I'm left with now. It's okay. I made a promise and kept it. People all over the world who do our job once read my words and gave me immense support. Our late ATU International President Larry Hanley (RIP) supported my book in the ATU magazine and personally endorsed my blog. He offered words of support and appreciation for what I wrote. Today, his successor doesn't even reply to my notes or emails. Thanks, Brother President.

Over the past decade I have been especially vocal in my support of #BANDTOGETHER. It's a silent protest of the abuse transit workers worldwide suffer at the hands of an often-violent passengers. At first, we felt the movement growing exponentially as attack against us exploded. The past few years, only the most dedicated have joined, even when we saw Thomas Dunn of Tampa, Florida have his throat slashed and he died while bringing his bus to a smooth and safe stop. We screamed in pain as  Shawn Yim of Seattle was stabbed to death in 2023. Leroy Ramos of Atlanta, Georgia shot to death in 2024 over a $2.50 fare dispute.

Where are you, in all this tragedy, fellow Operators/Transit Workers? Have you become so lost to social media that my empathetic anguish is just a footnote of history? Well hey\you guys, we're STILL being attacked. In horrific numbers, despite our transit agency's downward-adjusting the numbers in an attempt to lure people back into our earnestly-driven rolls despite their lame media "safety" orgasms.

Either I'm relevant, or simply a sidebar to when people's stories were relevant. Now, only the most ghastly clutch a click. Fuck your apathetic asses if you're too stupid to realize we're ALL in danger and your voice doesn't matter. Your apathy will get you, or someone else you work with, even love, killed.

This disconnect brought upon us by the cellphone craze, has murdered the written word. Y'all will spend hours glued to a screen, but if what you're presented with is more than 10 words, you apathetically scroll past. Even if it describes the hell you share with me and hundreds of thousands of others just like you.

Maybe you're a newbie (two years or less) and think your being here will change the outlook of what you believe to be crusty old hardasses who need to be pushed out. It's easy to think that, given that you are newbies now. You haven't worked here more than five minutes according to Trainer Bishop. And he's absolutely correct. Y'all don't know sheeit from shinole. If you hope to last more than another 10 minutes, get your head outta management's pretty clouds and let your union brothers and sisters drag you back down to the real world. It's mean, it's petty and full of potholes to explode your pie-in-the-sky outlook on how your simply being here will change attitudes. Plenty of great people before me told me so even when I didn't want to believe them (thanks Hernandez and Lamoreaux, both no longer here due to dirty deeds not their own done dirt cheap).

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This bloggish disconnect spilled over into my creative writing. I thought re-publishing JUST DRIVE-Life in the Bus Lane might give me a boost. People asked where they could buy my book, then didn't. Oh, perhaps a dozen and a few but not what I hoped. So be it. There goes the story of a writer who drives a bus for a living. Now I'm at a dead stop. wondering whether I should pursue the life of a keyboard artist. Probably I must, if only to inspire my grandchildren. Maybe they, or their offspring, will discover what Papa has to say here. 

Long ago I promised to tell you my story, the one of this bus operator's journey. Twelve years and counting now. Tried to stop writing here about six years ago, but the blog is like an addictive drug I couldn't kick. Just had to keep telling y'all how I felt. The sad part? Most of you will scroll past with maybe a "like" or "love" emoji without even reading.

AAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH! I didn't just spend 90 minutes slaving over this post for THAT!!!

If you think I'm still relevant in any way, please share this post. Gimme me some love. Otherwise, what's the point? I apologize for seeming to beg. But that's where writers stand these days. Y'all aren't reading more than a paragraph, if even that. Hey, I'll even post the negative comments, if you're brave enough to state your name. I still love you, and I promise to keep at it as long as it remains relevant. I have battled this new keyboard erasing my strokes and popping up menus I dgaf about too long to be anything but dedicated to this story. 

Peace be with you, and safe travels wherever you go.

 of you seemed to give a damn anymore. Still, I felt the need to keep pecking away here. 

I once told you this blog has been my self-therapy. It remains so. If I write only for myself, your loss. I know what you're going through because I live it daily. Stopping my artistic roll could hurt you if only because it's one of management's ONLY avenues to your soul and mine. Anyone who knows me will tell you that's just not possible. They've read my ramblings enough to tell you how many times I tried to stop this drug and couldn't. Just like the junkies who set up donated tents downtown just so they can smoke meth/fentynl/their own shit in privacy. They don't sleep because of it. Neither do I because of the nightmares I've lived sneak into my nightmares and wake me screaming.

So fuck ya. I'll keep writing this goddamn blog. It's what I do. I write transit. For me, for you, for those who give a fucking damn. 

I love you all. Heading to my ATU757 union picnic. Gonna hang with people I love and who (hopefully) still love me. Roll safe, motherfuckers. I'm there with you every stop.