The 232


The 232 bus is a demonic entity. Every day a different driver – where do they go? The same buses arrive on the same side of the street at the Mariposa stop, what I’ve come to call “moon base one,” yet each goes a different way. If you take the wrong one, either by not reading the sign correctly, or that the driver forgets to flip the damned switch, you’ve got a two-hour wait and some amount of walking. Sometimes there are three in a row going in the same direction. How is it possible?

To add to it, the environment isn’t made for human beings, it’s made for machines, for their ease of access. The human there is made to feel cold, mechanical. There are no comforting aspects, no communication with them, no schedule or sensible time-table or sense when the bus will arrive. Who today, can wait an hour for a bus? Even the homeless feel oppressed. The hours I’ve spent under their drafty sheds! Why the half-structure? Why not a simple rock pile or pile of brush? If it really doesn’t matter, have the buses run once a day. People can just stay where they are, or drift to random places.

When I do catch the bus, I’m going to forget about waiting. I refuse to be reduced. But the next time I travel this fair city, I’ll bring these items, as a defensive gesture:


1. a book of voodoo spells

2. MRE’s and bottled water

3. Samuel Beckett

4. a watercolor set

5. a camp shovel

6. 1,000 squares of paper to fold into swans

7. a radon gas detector

8. an underwater watch

9. surgical gloves

10. a sign that says “232 Long Beach” for demonic rituals

11. deer horns

12. a prayer mat

13. a range hat and goggles

14. a jar full of fireflies

15. flypaper

16. tibetan incense

17. a lemonade stand

18. a spark arrestor

19. a Rubik’s cube, without the manual

20. nunchucks


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