Why we can't have nice things

I hate to sound like a grumpy old man, but as one of the great maxims of writing states, "To thine own self be true." I think that refers to writing. Or maybe it was my doctor rationalizing my occasional Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Nevertheless, I'm going to engage in some freestyle grumpiness.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on the Metro, LA's finest version of a subway. It should be stated from the beginning of this little journey -- I love Trains. I was headed to far-off Duarte, in Foothill country, to complete the sale of my Mustang Mach E, the best looking EV in the semi-utilitarian small crossover category.

Having negotiated what I thought to be a fair price and concluding all that mishegas with car dealers, the scummiest people on the planet next to GOP politicians, I was in a jolly mood. That is until I boarded the E-train. 

Within seconds, at a very early hour of the day, I was surrounded by stoners, loaders and potheads. Granted it lent itself to a very mellow atmosphere. Every passenger was sporting AirPods or headphones and was gently rocking to his or her own tunes. But by god, that smell!

There was a time in my life when cannabis produced a pleasant aroma. Perhaps because I was anticipating the sharing of said cannabis and an escape from the confusing curriculum of Calculus 298 and 19th Century English Literature. But those days, like my hairline, are long gone.

Last week Ms. Muse and I wisely avoided the parking dilemma and the flood of festival goers, and took the train from Sierra Madre (The Foothill's best kept secret) to the South Pas Eclectic something and something Festival. Once again we were overcome by the odor.

It was thick. And dank, as the kids would say. Not only that, I was certain, some of the ne'erdowells aboard the train were actively smoking the marijuana while ON THE TRAIN.

By the time we were approaching the Willoughby-like station in South Pasadena, I had my nose pressed up between the crack of the doors, gasping for some fresh oxygen.

The LA times recently reported that train ridership had sunk to new levels. And that troubled Metro executives were considering a new flashy marketing campaign to lure riders back to pre-Covid levels. 

Save your money (my money and yours, fellow taxpayers) and put some damn cops on the trains.

I may be suffering from some latent nostalgia, but it seems to me when I rode the NYC subway system in my long past youth, there were NY's finest aboard every car. Or every other car. Or maybe just hounding miniskirted women on the platforms. 

The point is they had a presence. 

And a deterrence factor.

Likewise, when riding the subways in Paris, it was not unusual to see police. Everywhere. Partout. Moreover these police were shouldering machine guns. Nothing says, "don't even try to smoke weed on these trains and make me un-holster my machine gun!"

If however the Mensas at Metro follow suit and do decide to whip up another useless marketing campaign, I'm more than willing to come out of semi-retirement and oblige them with my services. 

But don't be surprised if any and all of the concepts include something about machine guns.