Sometimes, there are heroes: people who extend themselves to extraordinary lengths and fight the suffering of others. Heroes are rare. The human condition, the pursuit of self-interest, and capitalism all run contrariety to the heroic instinct. Martin Luther King was a hero, so were the guys on the 9/11 flight that crashed in Pennsylvania. I’ve always thought of Thomas Jefferson as a hero because democracy is good, and it’s one thing to preach it, but it’s something else all together to make it happen.

Firefighters, policemen, and commandos are also heroes, but it is their job, and it is somehow less extraordinary when they rise to the occasion than when one someone off the street takes the weight of the world’s problems on their shoulders.

I got to see a hero in action last week, and to benefit from his benevolence. He was my bus driver.

My line starts in downtown and goes west to the coast. I stood at the halfway point between downtown and the ocean waiting for my bus to arrive, but it never did, nor did the next one. I stood for a full 40 minutes and no busses came. I was despondent, late for work, and I had no chance of making the transfer until the 328 Limited came barreling down Olympic Boulevard.

The bus approached at a ridiculous speed. It leaned awkwardly over the sidewalk exaggerating the convex of the road, and looked relatively unstable when it crashed to a halt next to me. The bus was a brimming cattle-car of limbs, bags and coats. People were packed in so tightly that there was barely room on the first step. The driver beckoned me, "C’mon. Get in." I did, and we hurled down the road with reckless abandon.

The driver sweat adrenaline. He was slightly crazed, notably daunted, and devoted to a single cause. This man was going to get these people to work. He shouted to anyone who would listen that a funeral for a policeman had attracted thousands into Downtown Los Angeles resulting in a traffic disaster. Busses were turning back and people were left stranded, but my driver would not abandon his loyal passengers. He understood their plight, and he braved the traffic even though had been permitted to turn back. Most impressive, he defied physics by cramming the entire population of the Los Angeles metro into his 30-foot bus.

Inside the bus, it was a jerky, shifting tide of bodies. Deceleration was an afterthought. At each stop, you were pressed shamefully up against the person in front of you. I’m sure that any devout Catholic would have left that bus ride obligated to marry.

In bold deviance of The Man, the driver stopped collecting fares, and had people enter in the back door. He was resolute, and his objective had nothing to with commerce. You could tell that he was proud, and assured of his ritiousness. His pride was contagious, and we were all proud for him. Exchanges with bus drivers are usually tacit and dismissive, but as he dropped people at their destinations they were effusive. It was a beautiful thing. People cried. The driver had touched greatness, and we had been in the presence of a hero.

It's hard to sleep when TV is so good. Why do they make it so good?

The sublime is a sensation of awe created from the experience of art. That’s my best definition without going to a dictionary, but I think it’s close.

It is a feeling that artists try to create with their work. Usually, they try for a sensation of pleasure from beauty. For example, a sweeping vista on a movie screen might take your breath away, or a really good novel might leave you tingly when you put it down.

There’s also a sensation of the sublime from images of horror. That’s how some people explain the attraction of slasher movies. Personally, I like the guts.

I experienced an overwhelming feeling of appreciation today that I can only explain as sublime. I sat for 1 hour on Olympic Boulevard and only went a very short distance.

Ridiculous traffic is not uncommon, in fact, what makes it so wonderful is that it is the norm. Today, in the car, and paralyzed, is when it hit me, the kind of joy from fantasy brought to life, the suspension of disbelief, the acceptance that what is before me is unfathomable and yet exists.

I was impressed by the progress of mankind, and elated by the comedy of my pained, crawl of a commute.

LA traffic is both incomprehensible and material, it is boggling, and it is sublime.

I don’t really take my work home with me in any sense. By the time I’m in the elevator, if you ask me what I did that day I’d be at a loss – I’m that good. By dinnertime, I’m a little vague on my profession, and by morning it’s all I can do to find my way to the office. That’s why I was so amazed when Robin Wiatt bothered me so much that I couldn’t get her aggravated quibbling out of my head all weekend. Man, I hate her.

It is a standard fictional device to portray nature as a reflection of the psychology of a story. Often, an anomaly in nature will signify that something is wrong in the lives of men. A drought and plague torment the city of Thebes in Oedipus Rex, a storm rages at the height of King Lear’s insanity, and carrion birds circle incessantly over the castle of Macbeth.

Today, I woke up without an alarm and totally refreshed at 6:45. I hope I don’t die.