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.

If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you give a man a lot of fish, he eats for a lifetime.

Footnote: Fish should be doled out monthly and kept frozen until it ready to eat.

The Holidays take place indifferent to our will. Like war, the season is thrust upon us without anyone checking to see how we feel about it, and we are left only to endure, and summarize the best we can. The Second World War was a good war, and Vietnam was a bad war. Christmas ’83 was a bad Christmas, Thanksgiving ’98 was a good Thanksgiving. Also like war, while the ideals with which we approach the Holidays may be virtuous and good, on the ground, it’s a bitch.

Today, I took down my Christmas Tree, a largely unsung ceremony that truly captures what is good about the season. Memories. The thing that throws my sister into hysterics every year and drives most relatives to heavy drinking seems to be that things happen around the holidays. People go places, interact with people, and throw themselves into a generally unfamiliar orbit.

That’s a good thing. The action, the drama, the intense emotions. We live more during the late Autumn and early Winter than we do all year. While plucking the gaudy red balls from the tree I was struck by intense nostalgia for mid December. I remembered trekking out to some far away land to choose the perfect tree for my house – and boy did I get a deal. I remembered Jill’s academic discussion of ideal ornament placement. I remembered my sister, Kitty, calling from Hungary to say that my family is a bunch of crazy people and she’s glad that she won’t be around during the Holidays. I remembered my other sister, Lora, crying over the prospect of cooking a Turkey, and my dad threatening, in complete earnest, to disown anyone who is late to his Thanksgiving dinner. I think these are good things.

To quote a person, true character is only revealed in a time of crises. People learn about themselves and others. People’s relationships evolve, and sometimes people come out of the Holidays emotionally scarred for live. All good things. The Holidays tear down the protection that people build around themselves all year, and so what if you get a little fucked up in the shit. It’s not as bad as cancer.

Vic, in his infinite wisdom, is throwing a Super Bowl party at my house. I’m not sure of the details, but Vic never fools around when it comes to food. Whatever it is, it will be gourmet and probably incongruent with the viewing of professional football, but who cares. I’ll be there all day, but don’t come too early and fuck with my hangover.

There's an art show on the 29th. Here's the info:

AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL
invites you to the
unveiling of the
Juárez Mural

in honor of the disappeared and murdered women of Juárez, Mexico.

Curated by
Edgar Cetina and Lemuel

Thursday, January 29
7:00 PM

Headquarters
1654 Schrader Blvd. Hollywood, CA 90028

Parking in lot across street.