The El Rides Into The Sunset

Another repost from the photo blog...

This was taken from the Allegheny station of the SEPTA Market-Frankford line on 11/04/11 (on the crossover between the eastbound and westbound sides).

Health Update: #cancerisabitch

So, yes, I am officially a PWC. Person With Cancer. The tumor that was removed from my brain is called a glioblastoma, a grade 4 tumor. It's the most aggressive form of malignant brain tumor.

More on that later. For now, let's step back in time in case you haven't been keeping up on social media with my medical odyssey. And this is going to be long, because it's the first time I've set down everything that's gone on in the last three months. If you reeeealllly need to just get to the cancer detail, click on this "after the jump" link.

I sat down and started eating dinner on April 8th when I noticed the left side of my face becoming numb, followed by spasms or twitches in the same area. I called my brother Andy to ask him to take me to the emergency room, and as soon as I hung up with him the spasming stopped and the feeling returned to my face. The whole thing lasted maybe five minutes. Thinking it was perhaps a food allergy, I didn't go to the ER that night. I saw my primary care doctor the next day. He said it was probably a transient ischemic attack, commonly called a mini-stroke, and told me I needed to see a neurologist. Late that afternoon, I woke from a nap and it happened again. It didn't last as long but I knew I had to go to the hospital. Of course, being me, I took the bus (SEPTA route 84 to Aria Torresdale).

I was admitted and an MRI was done the next day. The diagnosis was that I had a small stroke. I was put on aspirin and plavix, a blood thinner. In addition, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. So that meant two more prescriptions (glipizide and metformin) as well as checking my blood sugar daily and changing my diet to limit my intake of carbohydrates (which converts into sugar in the body), and they put me on lipitor for my cholesterol (which I have never before been told was a problem). Adding to the synthroid I've been taking for a couple of years now (underactive thyroid), that makes six different medications daily.

(A diabetes note: I'm not 100 percent convinced I have it, or at least that I need that much medication. I feel like the numbers on the A1C test, which gives a record of your blood sugar over the last 6 months, were unusually high because at the end of December I went back to work at LIHEAP and, with the travel time on SEPTA being so long, my eating habits became much worse than they already were. I'm having follow-up blood work done next week and then seeing my primary doctor, so we'll see how it stands.)

The spasms in my face continued on a daily basis, even multiple times daily, at varying intensity but always brief. The doctors felt it might be muscular in nature but saw no other reason to keep me in the hospital. So I was released after a three-day stay. For the next two weeks they would ebb and flow, sometimes seeming like they were fading away entirely until a stronger one would hit. On April 25, a Saturday, I had an episode about noonish, and then a second, stronger one while I was out having lunch and shopping. At around 5:30 it happened again, but even stronger, and at first it didn't seem like it was going to stop. I got really scared and called 911. The operator had trouble understanding me because the spasms affected my voice. I was telling her "I think I'm having a stroke" and she had no clue. I tried yelling "STROKE! STROKE!" but it sounded like Scooby-Doo was saying "ROKE! ROKE!" She connected to (I think) the dispatcher and, as they were sending an ambulance, the spasms finally stopped and I was able to be understood again. As soon as they hung up, the ambulance arrived.

The neurologist who saw me in the ER was not there in person but via video feed. (Gotta love the health system where one specialist has to cover multiple hospitals from a camera.) He said the spasms were actually focal seizures, seizures in one specific area as compared to grand mal seizures than someone with epilepsy has, and that they can occur when someone's had a stroke. This time I was released the next day and put on keppra, an anti-seizure med. (Medication list increased to seven items; in my most recent hospitalization they put me on blood pressure medication but now I'm off the plavix and aspirin for good so we're back down to six.)

On May 19th I had an outpatient visit with a neurologist, who doubled my keppra dose because the focal seizures hadn't really been affected by the initial, more mild dose. I was scheduled for a followup in early July. After a while, the spasms in my face were not as strong, and not happening as often, and some days didn't happen at all. It seemed like things were going well. My speech still sounded a little funny, though, and then things got worse as we got into the middle of June.

My left hand became weak and I had a sensation of lost feeling in my fingers. I couldn't hold on to things, especially small items such as keys. Every time I was going into my house, I'd have trouble grabbing the keys out of my left pants pocket, and then holding them once I did get them out. Turning doorknobs or water faucets or lids on bottles with my left hand got more and more difficult. My speech seemed to get worse. I lost the ability to type. I constantly hit the wrong keys with my left hand. Using my cell phone, awkward enough to begin with because of its size (Samsung Galaxy Note 4), became a problem. I had trouble holding it with my left hand while tapping the screen with my finger on my right hand, and when trying to grip it more securely my thumb and forefingers on the left hand moved to the screen and inadvertently hit icons, and generally interfered with whatever I was trying to do. Or if I was on a phone call, my arm would slip and the phone would move away from my face.

On Tuesday, June 16, I called the outpatient neurologist and asked if I could move up my scheduled July appointment. By some miracle, they had an opening the next day. That afternoon I tried filling out a form (in the old-fashioned way, with a pen). I was constantly misspelling words, reversing letters and making a general mess of the form. I went to the neurologist the next day and he said I probably had another stroke. He wrote out instructions on his prescription pad for me to get an outpatient MRI and to start physical therapy with Moss Rehabilitation Center, but because they thought I might need a referral from my health insurance company, I had to go home and wait first. Walking to and from the office, bus stops and my house, I noticed my left foot was dragging. I wasn't taking full steps the way I was with my right foot. I got home and fell asleep in front of the TV. When I woke up, I saw that I had a voicemail. It was the neurologist's office, saying that they didn't need prior approval from my insurance and asking me to call and get the phone numbers to schedule the outpatient MRI and rehab. I had trouble even placing the call -- hit the wrong buttons and even dialed a wrong number once. When I did dial correctly, the office was closed for the day.

I knew I couldn't wait. I was getting worse and who knows how soon that MRI could've been scheduled? I called my brother and went back to the ER.

The hospital protocols, for some reason, do not allow for MRIs to be done for people in the emergency room. You have to be admitted first. So they did a CAT scan, and once they saw that result I was admitted to the Neuro ICU. (This meant I was constantly hooked up to a heart monitor that wasn't portable and a blood pressure cuff that recorded my BP hourly, as well as regular checks of my temperature and blood sugar. Sleep was very difficult at first, although it got a little easier each night. Every time I needed to use the bathroom I had to let the nurse know so they could unhook me. That was a pain, but the worst was yet to come. I had great nursing care up until the last night.) The MRI the next day confirmed that I indeed had a tumor that had to be removed and there was edema, or swelling. But first I was put on a steroid, administered through the IV line, to reduce the swelling, and taken off the aspirin/blood thinner meds for 5 days before the surgery.

This diagnosis actually made me very, very happy. A stroke? Going through therapy to try and function and "re-learn how to do things" and whatever would be awful, time-consuming, frustrating. A tumor (cancerous or not) causing all my issues? Cut it out and I'll get back to normal? Awesome! I was already noticing improvement just from the steroids reducing the swelling.

On Monday, June 22, the afternoon of my 5th full day in the hospital (and the 6th anniversary of the establishment of this blog, although with the lack of posts recently...), after doing another MRI to create a detailed "map" of the area of my brain where the surgery would be done, I was whisked off to surgery. Various people were introducing themselves and explaining why they were there, and the anesthesiologist then took over. I went out rather quickly. I remember a moment where I was dreaming. It was nothing memorable, just some conversation, but it seemed pleasant enough.

A moment later there were bright lights and everyone screaming at me almost simultaneously. "JOE! SQUEEZE MY FINGERS! JOE! RAISE YOUR LEFT LEG! JOE! LOOK UP! LOOK DOWN!" and so on. And then I was whisked back to my room in the Neuro ICU. And I had a very uncomfortable sensation in my groin. As it turned out, while I was under they removed my shorts and underwear and inserted a catheter, which stayed in place all night. That night was very difficult. The next day the catheter was removed and I was allowed to eat again, and I was feeling better immediately. The followup MRI looked excellent. The neurosurgeon removed virtually all of the tumor. I was told based on the type and location that it was likely cancerous but it would have to be confirmed by the pathology report. But I could tell immediately that my brain was starting to fully function properly. I was able to hold things in my left hand longer -- even my phone. I could walk without my left foot dragging. I sounded more coherent. I could write words and spell them correctly.

So, if you've ever been hospitalized you know that besides the nurses, doctors are in and out almost constantly. I'm pretty sure some of these visits have no purpose but to get their names on the record so they get a cut of the amount being billed. Anyway, the following day (Wed. June 24), the entire morning and into the early afternoon, no one had come in except for a speech pathologist. She watched me eat and drink, and administered various tests -- word puzzles, brain teasers, memory stuff, then had me write down my name and address and write out a phony check -- to verify that my brain was working. It was, and still is (all you wiseasses can just shut up now). A little after two that day a neurosurgeon came in and examined me, and upon hearing of the speech pathologist's assessment, said that they just needed someone from physical therapy to watch me walk up and down steps, and once I passed that test they could move me to a regular room or even send me home. I was thrilled!

Except no one from physical therapy ever showed. I figured one more night wouldn't kill me. Just after 8 pm the nurse assigned to my room for that night came in and told me that because more patients were coming in and they needed the room, they would be moving me to the "step-down unit." I asked what that was. She said I would only need the blood pressure checked every two hours and they would put me on a portable heart monitor, so I could get up to use the bathroom. I asked if it was still a private room (like every room I was in during my three hospitalizations) and she said she wasn't sure, but I could sort of tell it wasn't. I told her I had the possibility of going home but the physical therapist didn't show, and that if I was not comfortable in this step-down unit that I was leaving, against medical advice if necessary. (Around this time my brother Tony texted me that he was on the way over to visit and I told him he might get to take me home.)

The nurse disappeared for a while. Finally she and an orderly returned to wheel me to the step-down unit, a short way down the hall. It was a larger room which could hold two beds, with curtains for privacy and a shared bathroom. The other side of the room was empty, so I decided it was okay. Five minutes later they wheeled someone else into the other side.

He wasn't a problem, although he got chatty with every nurse or aide who came to see him. He was in a bad auto accident and hadn't really gotten out of bed yet. But in the unit across the hall were two men. One moaned in pain and called out for help or for his mother or for others constantly, while the other begged and pleaded for him to shut up. This went on ALL. DAMN. NIGHT. Between that and the nurse's aide coming in to check my vitals I could not fall asleep. I became more and more annoyed and even listening to music on my phone (with headphones) did not help.

Note above that I said "nurse's aide." I had a nurse assigned to me but other than when I first got into that unit, the idiot only came to see me twice. The first time was at 4:30 am. Just when I finally started drifting off into what might have been an hour or two of sleep, I was startled back into consciousness as she stood at the foot of my bed. "I noticed that they wrote down for you to use these compression wraps on your legs for your circulation." (I had these in the other room. They're plugged into a unit that compresses and decompresses them regularly to keep your blood flowing. They didn't move them with me to this unit.) She continued: "We could put them on you for the night and during the day--"

"I will NOT be here during the day. I am getting out in the morning no matter what it takes."

"Oh...um, well, they also wrote down that you could wear compression stockings, which go on your legs--"

"I don't need those. The wraps will be fine."

She left -- and never brought back the wraps or the stockings! She interrupted my final, desperate attempt at sleep for nothing! She did return one more time, before her shift ended, with some paper. "I brought you some information on synthroid." Why she picked that, and not any of the other meds, including those they put me on just since June 17th, I have no idea.

"I've been on synthroid for years. I don't need that."
"Oh...well, it's just because of the government."

At this point I wanted to completely explode, and perhaps throw her out a window. Somehow I managed to stay composed and told her "just leave it if you have to." She did, and I never saw her again. I used one page as a bookmark for the "Afterlife with Archie" graphic novel I read later in the morning, and left the rest behind.

Finally, the day nurse came in for the first time and before she could do anything other than introduce herself I immediately began my controlled rant (not these exact words, but close): "I could have possibly been sent home yesterday except no one from physical therapy showed up, and then I was moved into this unit where the man across the hall moaned all night and the other man kept telling him to shut up, and I did not get ONE SINGLE OUNCE OF SLEEP all night." (I may have mentioned the other nurse being a moron. I'm not sure.) "So this is what's going to happen: I'm going to eat breakfast and get cleaned up. Then the physical therapist will come and see me walk on the steps, and then the doctors will discharge me and you'll take all this stuff (heart monitor leads, IV lines) off and I will leave. This will all happen by noon or I will walk out and you will not stop me. This is not up for discussion or debate. I am leaving by noon."

They got the message and I was out by noon.

So in the last week and a half I've gotten stronger and stronger. My hand is nearly fully functional. (Just look as all this typing!) I am very close to 100 percent back to normal. My speech still sounds a little off, but I certainly can be clearly understood, and there may be a little droop remaining on the left side of my face but that's it.

Dilworth Park, The Councilman and I

(UPDATE: Eventually I was unblocked by Jim Kenney's Twitter account. I voted for him in the May 2015 mayoral primary and will vote for him in November 2015 in the general election.  Original post follows.)

If you follow me on Twitter you know that, besides the various things I get obsessed with (#EverySimpsonsEver) or angry about (#FireRuben), I can also get silly and snarky. However, I can also be quite sincere.

Let's face it: there are lots of problems, here and around the world. Members of Congress (especially Republicans). The Pennsylvania state legislature (ditto). The worst PA governor in my lifetime, who thankfully seems to be on track to be the first one-term governor of the state in over 40 years. The lack of funding for public education, especially in Philadelphia (see above re: PA governor and legislature).

The economic "recovery" in which so many people still struggle because the minimum wage isn't nearly high enough and huge corporations have seemingly every advantage thanks to the aforementioned Republicans and their servants on the Supreme Court. The health care system, slightly improved by the Affordable Care Act but still wildly inadequate and too expensive (just ask my friend Kurt, and while you're at it could you sign his petition, and maybe make a donation to help him get his new laptop? Thanks.)

The moronic fight against immigration reforms. The increasing havoc that climate change is having on our planet. Russia's efforts to take over Ukraine. Everything going on in the Middle East. And hey, did anyone #BringBackOurGirls or find Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 yet?

Yet, as pessimistic as I can be about, well, everything, I also realize there are still good things happening. For example, there was another victory this week in the effort to make Philadelphia a nicer, greener, more lively and fun city. Already we've seen success on the Delaware River waterfront with the Race Street Pier. This summer brought the (seasonal) Spruce Street Harbor Park (with the hammocks!) and the (permanent) Washington Avenue Pier. And yesterday, Dilworth Park opened.

Mailbox And Mural

Some more random photos I took last month. The first two I took as I was on my way from the Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month Celebration in Franklin Square to the Rittenhouse Row Spring Festival on Walnut Street. Photos from those, as well as the Trenton Avenue Arts Festival/Kensington Kinetic Sculpture Derby, all of which I hit on the same day, will be posted some time before I die. Anyway, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. I believe this was on 16th Street south of Market Street...

Then, a week later, I took the SEPTA Regional Rail train home instead of my usual El/66 combo. On weekends you can use the regular Transpass on the Regional Rail lines, so it's like a free ride. At my stop, the Torresdale Station, I noticed yet another mural from the city's Mural Arts Program. I love seeing these murals so much...

Sucker-Punched On SEPTA

So maybe a few people are curious about what happened the other night, although you wouldn't know it by the number of responses I got on Twitter and Facebook. Last week I was helping my friend Kurt pack his things in semi-orderly fashion so he could move on Friday, so I was at his place a few times during the week. On Thursday night I caught the bus from South Philly to Market Street to catch the Market-Frankford El at 8th. I was lucky in that I managed to catch both the bus and the El with little or no waiting. Or so I thought.

I was standing next to the doors on the opposite side of the doors that opened to the platform, because there were few seats available and I was carrying a laundry bag with some stuff in it, and I didn't want the bulky bag on my lap or disturbing the person next to me. So there I stood, reading the paper.

There were 2 or 3 young black guys -- teenagers or a little older -- in the seats on the same side as where I was standing. They got up as if they were getting out around the York-Dauphin station, but instead stood near the doors, and then were joined by another couple of guys who arrived from the next car. The train arrived at the Allegheny station at almost 8:35 pm, and they all left the train except the guy directly in front of me, who stayed on and had his arms outstretched as his hands were on both poles by the doors.

There was a brief delay for some reason -- the train's conductor later said he thought the others were holding the door open -- and then, just as the computer voice began to announce "Doors are closing,"

Mystery Box, Mystery Water

Remember when I wrote about this box on a pole near the spot where I catch the bus to begin my long trip to work every day? I still don't know what it is, or what the equipment inside does, but not too long after I wrote that post it was covered again. The panel that had been lying on the ground was now back on the box, secured by some sort of strap or band wrapped around it.

Cut to Friday, March 10th. I got to the corner and...

The panel was back on the ground. The last pic is a closeup of the label on the inside. A day or two later, the panel was gone. It's not back on the box, and it's no longer lying around. Did someone take it or did the wind just blow it away somehow? Anyway, as of now the top cover that's sticking up in the first photo is back down on top, but it's still open, at least as of two days ago.

Meanwhile, I have another mystery. I took some video for the first time with B.T. (Baby Tablet, or my HTC Evo View 4G tablet with the 7-inch screen)...

The Trail Of Hair

Oddly enough, this is the second time I've seen a scene like this, and in the same place: Frankford Terminal. My assumption is two teenage girls got into a fight and began pulling at each other's hair/weaves. For once I'd like to get there as the fight begins, rather than see the sorry aftermath:



LOVE the Dunkin Donuts worker who has to clean up the mess outside their store.

By the way, like my musical embellishment? I edited it myself!

76ers: No Need To Play Out The Season

Ummmmm...wait, isn't this just a little bit premature? I mean, they're in first place with a 10-3 record (remember when they started last season 3-13?), but NBA champions?

Needless to say this gave me a chuckle on the way to work this morning.

A while back (like, months) I spotted a bus that had an "Eagles/Super Bowl champions" message. We know how that turned out...so perhaps SEPTA is the new Billy Penn jinx?

Picture With A Message

Today I took another one of those photos where the sun makes an appearance. I saw the sign from a short distance away and thought it might have been adorned with street art such as this. I was mistaken. It was a protest.

I was trying to show the image of the sticker placed on SEPTA's Route 23 sign but the sun may make the words difficult to see. It says, "Where's the trolley SEPTA promised?" Route 23 used to be a trolley line, the longest in the city and possibly one of the longest trolley lines in the nation. Twenty years ago it was replaced by buses, but there are people who want the trolley back. SEPTA has said in the past that they would restore it. Another line, the 15, had its trolley service restored in 2005.

Riding a trolley as compared to the same old bus is a pretty cool thing, especially if the weather's warm and the windows are open (although I don't know if the new trolleys on the route 15 actually have windows that you can slide up and down to let in some air).

What Does This Mean? (Plus An Update)

First, the update:

As you can see, this box that I wrote about finally has its door, or lid, or whatever, back in place. I'm not sure exactly when it was done. I noticed it on Thursday. Not sure who did it, but there it is, with some sort of band holding the cover in place. I think that's because it got dented while it was lying on the ground, most likely from being stepped on a time or twelve.

Now then, here's a photo I took last week. This has been on the wall at the 15th Street station on the El for as long as I can remember. Someone wrote a message on it, and for the life of me I have no idea what it means. It's not just regular graffiti. There seems to be a message, but I can't figure it out...

Click on the photo for the large version and tell me what you think the writer is trying to say. The only part I really understand it that it was someone's mother's 116th birthday. Is it possibly some form of street art?

...Also, We Think You're Stupid

In this Q&A about the St. Petersburg Times newspaper's plan to change its name to the Tampa Bay Times, I'm struck by the last sentence in the first answer...

Q. Why is the Times making this change?

A: Tampa Bay Times is a name that better reflects the newspaper it has become and the region it serves. We have been Tampa Bay’s favorite newspaper for several years. We expect that advertisers, readers and subscribers, who might not have been inclined to consider the "St. Petersburg" Times their newspaper, will take a fresh look.

So, basically, the people of the Tampa-St. Pete region are not capable of advertising in/buying a paper that doesn't specifically say "Tampa Bay" on it. By the same token, I can no longer ride SEPTA because it stands for the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority and I live in Philadelphia and it isn't called the PTA like it used to be.

To me this feels like a desperate move by a newspaper. It might not hurt, but it certainly isn't going to help. Sadly, the newspaper business is a dying industry and I'm not sure there's a way out.

The Bow-Tie Bench

This is almost turning into a photo blog. Maybe I should write soon about the movie "The Change-Up," which I saw a week ago. Anyway, these are the benches that SEPTA, in its infinite wisdom, have placed on their platforms at the 8th Street station on the Market-Frankford El:

Why? Why have benches that are bent out of shape like this? Artistic reasons? They look as if they've been grabbed in the center by the Incredible Hulk while he was sitting there and...never mind, we won't go there.

So when it's really crowded on the platform there's not enough seating. You can't sit on about 40 percent of each bench. If anyone knows the point of these things, enlighten me.

The Voice DID Wear Me Out

Another post I'm finally getting around to: it was almost two weeks ago that I accompanied my friend Kurt as he went to the New York auditions for season two of "The Voice."

The "New York" auditions that were held at the Izod Center at the Meadowlands complex in East Rutherford, New Jersey, that is. The ones that required he be there at 7 am. And, as we are both financially challenged, there was no realistic way to swing a hotel. So we took the Greyhound bus from Philadelphia to the Port Authority terminal at 3:20 am. I had gotten up at 9:30 am the previous day. With SEPTA's overnight service the way it is, I had to leave my house well before 1 am to get to the terminal and not be rushed. I didn't bother to even try to sleep beforehand, and I couldn't sleep on the bus ride either, as I was not comfortable at all. The bus may have had air conditioning but it wasn't hitting me.

We arrived around 5:30 am and then had to wait for the first New Jersey Transit bus that goes by the Meadowlands. That would be the 6:50 am bus. Our one advantage was that, by being there that early, we were at the front of the line to get on the bus, and it was packed. Many people were using this route to get to the Izod Center, but we got to sit.

At about 7:05 am the bus dropped us off. Not in front of the Izod Center. Oh, no. That would have been convenient, after all.

The Guy On The El

This is the story of a conversation I had today -- the type of conversation that, if you weren't there in person, you'd think it could only happen in a movie or TV show. (And anything I show in quotes may not be exact, but they're to the best of my recollection. Now that I think of it, I really wish I would've somehow secretly recorded it with the video camera on my phone.)

I was on the Market-Frankford El to make my way home from Center City a little after 5 pm. I had a seat open next to me for a while, until at one point a guy in a t-shirt and jeans got on and sat down next to me. Dark hair, masculine good looks, in good shape, not too old but not very young, maybe around 40 or so at most. A real blue-collar, macho guy. He immediately started to talk, and pretty much didn't let up the whole time.

He started by complaining about the rain, which he wasn't aware was in the forecast. (I don't know where he gets his weather from, but the reports I heard were calling for a chance of late-day showers and thunderstorms.) He's a roofer and you can't put the rubber coating on a wet surface, so not only did he have to stop work on the roof he was on, but he had to go check the roof on another job he had been doing. Then he asked if I was finished with my newspaper because he had a long bus ride to take after he got off the El at Frankford Terminal -- the route 58 to Neshaminy Mall, because he lives in Feasterville and normally doesn't take the bus. (I wasn't really done but I skimmed through the rest of it as we talked so he could take it. There were a couple of regular columns that I figured I could read online, and I skipped over the rest. That probably says as much about how much actual news is in the Daily News as anything else.)

The El train runs through the Kensington section as it makes its way to the terminal. Kensington is where I grew up, but it has really gone downhill over the years. There's a lot of poverty, crime and drugs. It was at one of the stations in that area where he got on, and he talked about the guys on the corners begging for money and having their girlfriends walk the streets. All drug addicts. He was a Marine and was in Iraq and Afghanistan for six years, and was amazed at how much worse it was out there since he came back. His attitude is that they're young and should "get a job!" but he said he realizes it's easier said than done.

He introduced himself as Anthony, and then asked if I was headed home from work. I told him I wasn't, just hanging with a friend downtown. And then it got interesting.

Maytag Repairman, Meet The Apple Security Guard

On Saturday night I was returning to my hotel room after the Camac St. block party, part of my softball weekend. I was staying at the Sheraton at 17th and Race. Walking along Walnut St. towards 17th, I passed by the Apple store that opened up a few months ago. I couldn't help but notice it was rather bright inside the store. For a moment I thought it was open. Then I saw that it wasn't, obviously, and I noticed the one person who was inside -- the security guard. Playing around with an iPad. Now that's a job for me...if you can guarantee no one would ever try to break in and shoot me in a robbery attempt, that is.

It was a pretty fun weekend, although our team lost 4 out of 5 games -- we went 1-2 in the round-robin portion on Saturday, then lost twice more (once Saturday, once Sunday morning).

A few more odd pictures. Well, the first two pictures aren't odd, but the reason I took them is.

This is, as you can see, Suburban Station. All SEPTA Regional Rail trains pass through here (the train platforms themselves are actually underground). So you'd think it's quite a busy place.

Busy enough, in fact, that you'd think the doors would be open for anyone trying to catch a train.

You'd be wrong. At least on Sunday.

The 700 Club

The title of this post may bring me some hits from people looking for information on that sleazy Pat Robertson garbage TV show. (It actually refers to the fact that this is my 700th post.) With that in mind, I should probably post a bunch of nude photos of every imaginable type. However, this blog is not rated X. Other than a rear end or two, there's no nudity. So, I think they should enjoy this, instead:

There. That, and my oft-repeated line that God is a black, Jewish pro-choice lesbian, ought to rile them up.

(Sigh. That "Glee" episode is still on my DVR. I've watched it in full twice, and I've repeated this scene a couple times more.) 

Anyway, I've got a minor SEPTA complaint. I understand that traffic and other circumstances can cause a bus to be running late. But it should not happen when you're waiting for the bus at either end of the route. A bus should at least start out on time on its journey. Tuesday I was waiting for the route 84 bus at Franklin Mills Mall. They changed this route so that, on weekdays, about half of the runs on the route start at Franklin Mills instead of Bustleton Ave. and County Line Rd. When the bus ends its northbound run at the mall, the driver has a short period of time until the return trip to Frankford Terminal. I've noticed they usually drive to one of the nearby parking lots to take this break.

Apparently the driver of this particular bus took a nap or something, because he was 5 minutes late coming to the pickup area. The bus was scheduled for a 4:02 start, and he didn't even get there until 4:07. I wrote down the bus numbers and I'm notifying SEPTA.

Still have to get to those blog posts I mentioned yesterday...stay tuned.

Eye Yi Yi!

I was up much too early this morning because I had an appointment with my ophthamologist. Before we get into that, though, let's discuss our favorite public transit system.

My appointment was for 8:40 am. I got down to Frankford Terminal to catch the El around 8:10, giving me plenty of time to get to Allegheny station and either walk or take another bus to the office. However, when I got up the stairs to the El platform, there was chaos. It was filled with people waiting for a train, and some were getting quite disturbed. I got my phone and logged onto the mobile version of SEPTA's website to see if there were any advisories, and found...nothing. They have a Twitter account as well. I went on Twitter and found...nothing. (Later I checked and saw that their Twitter account hadn't been updated in 3 days until this afternoon, when there was an announcement about a book drive.) Thanks for nothing, SEPTA.

I thought about waiting to see if a train was coming from somewhere, but I saw that one of my fine Twitter peeps, PhilthyBlog (the actual blog is here) posted that he was sitting on a train that was stuck at a station for 15 minutes. So I left the El platform and caught a bus instead, and ended up only a few minutes late.

So, about my eyes...

I've been to the eye doctor's often over the last two-plus years.

Bad Day To Miss The Eagles

If you follow me on Twitter you already know that I went to play softball this morning (after a couple of skip weeks, one due to bad weather). This was the only week so far that the schedule threatened to cause me to miss part of the Eagles game. The other weeks either my games were scheduled earlier or the Eagles didn't play until 4 pm or later. Today, however, the softball games were set for 11 am and noon, and the Eagles started at 1. So I figured I'd miss a little of the game but go to a bar and watch it. If I went directly home I'd miss the first half, at least.

I got to the FDR Park entrance at 10:30 (these fields are actually convenient for me despite being all the way down near the stadium complex, since the Broad Street Subway is right there) and took this picture of the WIP pre-game show hosts, as this is their broadcast location for home games. It wasn't very crowded around their stage at all at this point, 2 1/2 hours before kickoff.

There were two problems today: the softball teams were scrambling to have enough people to field teams (apparently a fair number of players either quit or just didn't show up), and the games either didn't start on time or ran beyond their alloted time. Thus, my first game didn't start until almost 11:20, and the second one was similarly delayed. I didn't get out of the park and back to the subway stop until 1:30, then had to wait 10 more minutes for the next train to arrive (thanks, SEPTA).

Two things amazed me at this point. One:

Quick Review: Where The Wild Things Are

With the transit strike over, I was finally able to get out to see a movie again (without taking a long walk, which would have been good for my health but uncomfortable in poor weather and much too time-consuming). Although "Where The Wild Things Are" has been out for a while now, it ended up being my first post-strike movie. Why? The bus I was waiting for never arrived after 40 minutes of waiting, so I had to take a different route to the mall. (Why is our transit system called SEPTA? Because everyone gets where they're going, SEPTA you.) Thus, I missed out on my initial choice.

I wasn't overly keen on seeing "WTWTA" but it was more interesting than I expected. It's a bit revised and very much fleshed out from the book. Young Max acts out at home, runs away and (in his imagination) makes his way across the ocean to the land of the Wild Things. Upon meeting them, he becomes their king and declares a "wild rumpus." That's pretty much it for the book, but the movie goes beyond that. Each of the creatures has issues, corresponding to the issues Max is dealing with in his life (as seen at the beginning of the movie). So the movie becomes a little psychological study. I'm not sure kids could sit through it -- it's certainly not flashy and loud like so many animated films -- but it held a definite charm. My grade: B-plus.

Everyone Has Public Transit SEPTA Us

In less than two hours SEPTA, our public transit system, will be shut down due to a strike by the local Transit Workers Union. The buses, trolleys and subways in the city will be out of service. There's a Regional Rail system (commuter trains) that will be running because those workers are under a different union. Those trains, however, only make certain stops inside the city, and with the rest of the system down, it will be much more crowded.

This means that I'm limited in where I can go, and when. Those commuter trains can get me downtown, but that's it for anywhere I go on a regular basis. If I had tickets to a sporting event or concert (as it happens, I was at the Flyers game earlier) I wouldn't be able to go unless I had a ride. The largest of the movie multiplexes I frequent is also now impossible for me to get to now.

It might be worse if I had a job, though. So many people will be more adversely affected than I am. People should be able to get to work, school, etc. even if they don't have a car or aren't able to drive.

As much as I tend to support labor unions (outside of the "unions" for baseball and football players and other professional athletes), this should not be allowed. Between the economic situation and the environmental impact caused by cars on the road, public transit is now as crucial as the police and fire departments. Strikes by police and firefighters are banned by law (at least here, if not everywhere) as a matter of public safety. Their contracts are finalized, if negotiations fail, through binding arbitration. This same law should extend to transit workers as well. It would take a state law, and our legislature is pretty worthless, so I doubt it'll happen any time soon.