What can I say but thank you: to the lovelies who organized the whole thing, who invited me not just to take part but to be the closing speaker;

To the giants pictured above and elsewhere, for letting me crash their party and speak alongside (more on each of them here)!

To my friends who've TED talked before, who coached my speech into something actually worthwhile. Bill Bernat's talk about "how to talk to your depressed friends" crossed 1 million views a long time ago, and his comprehensive site (how can you resist a URL like stayawesome.com?) only scratches the surface of all his presence has to offer. Paul Currington has MC'd TED events, coached numerous TED speakers, and produces Fresh Ground Stories, the best event of its kind for many reasons. Both of these friends regularly give talks that have the power to change lives. Let's be honest here. Without Paul and Bill and their expert ideas and finesse, so generously given, I wouldn't be where I am.

To the people close to me, who kindly listened as I practiced it with them, innumerable times– at different volumes, paces, in different rooms, with music playing, while driving, while facing different directions... We did everything. I wrote the speech down by hand from memory. I recited it while turning around. While whispering. Shouting. With radio and television going. While groggy and sleep-deprived. While hungry. While needing to use the restroom. The better to simulate the circumstances: you may not know that a scheduling snafu on my end resulted in my giving the TED talk just hours after landing from a red-eye flight from Houston!

And not merely after a night of no sleep, but two nights of no sleep– I was only down there for twenty hours, and red-eyed it both ways. Why, Nathan? Why do you do stuff like that?

For the love of art and life, and everything in between.

I'm grateful for every person on the TED team who worked to make things easier, let alone possible, for me to participate in spite of my ridiculous schedule. Gosh, I love these guys (meet the team here). What an honor to be on the receiving end of such care and enthusiasm. How could I not give them my all? Practicing the speech while showering, doing crunches, cooking noodles, parallel parking...

My speech is about being kind to strangers. The strangers running the UW TED were so kind to me they stopped being strangers almost immediately, and it's thanks to their good graces that any of this happened at all.

And of course, the final thanks must go to you, who took an interest, came and listened, or watched online. We exist because of you. You take the ideas of these wonderful speakers and germinate them out into the world, sculpting them with your own experience. We'd be talking to ourselves in empty rooms were it not for you. Thank you.

The speech will be online shortly. I'll keep you posted.

Also, my book lives!! A third printing has just been completed!! More on that in a moment. I'm off to pick up the boxes now...

A number of you have been asking how to get tickets for this thing. Thanks for the interest! Here's the official TEDxUofW website, on which tickets are buyable. They're pricey. Don't feel obligated– in fact, I'd be remiss if I didn't share the following: on the day of the event (May 4), the same link will include a link to stream the entire event, including my talk, for free, from the comfort of your own home!

I'm continuing to stay off the blog as I fine-tune the speech, as mentioned in the post below. There are biffs, and then there are epic biffs, and fumbling a TED talk would definitely count as the latter... Pardon the pause as I work to avoid such biffing. The stories, meanwhile, are coming fast and thick, and there'll be a good backlog of great stuff to share with you (as there always is!) once May 4 has come and gone!

Thanks for your support and enthusiasm, as always! My book remains on sale online at Elliott Bay (and in-store, where it's still a bestseller! Eep! thank you!!), Phinney Books, Madison Books, and Third Place Books (Lake Forest Park)! 

I'm giving a TEDx talk on May 4th.

(!!!)

The details will be updated here, at the home page for TEDxUofW. 

I'll be very intermittent on the blog between now and then, but it's not because I don't love you all! I need time to finesse this thing so it can be worth your while. You know how I like to get these sorts of things right (check out the Speeches page for past public speaking appearances of mine!). 

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That's one update. The other update is that as of last night I'm finally back where I belong: on the fabulous, legendary nighttime 7/49. You won't have to read about me griping about lack of community on the 5 (although I've really grown to adore some of the folks out there; more on that anon). Instead, you'll hear me waxing poetic about the litter on my bus, pictured above, on one of the few lines where the route is instantly identifiable by the condition of the coach interior!

And sharing moments like this one, which happened on my first night back, and the number of similar incidents of which I've already lost count:

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Sensitive dark eyes glinting with a human spark after hours, deep in the southland interior. "Where you been, man?" he exclaimed. He had that certain middle-aged grin, easy, a face that still thinks it's a child from time to time, able to glow.

I smiled wide. "I been right here waiting for you!"
"Ha! Really though!"
"I was hidin' out on another route but I had to get back here. I missed this one!"
"What number they had you on?"
"The 5."
"The 5, oh. How you like that?"
"The 5 is..." I gave the 'more-or-less' hand gesture. "It's okaayyyyyy."
"It's okayyy."
"Yeah it's, you know. They're all right. But I miss the energy out here, people sayin' hey!"
"Tha's what I'm talkin' about! My guy is IN TOWN!"
"You know it!"
"IN TOWN!" He had to put his ebullience somewhere; it was too much for only me. He turned to the person next to him, a half-attentive younger fellow this midnight hour, but who nodded in agreement to his enthusiasm: "Ey, you know this guy? Talkin' 'bout this driver, bro! Beautiful boy! Man's got a heart, you know wh'I'm saying?" He reached back up to me with his voice. "Ah love you. No. I love you."
"Love you back, my guy! Great to be back!"
"Sheeeyit. Man, stay on our shift! Love you. Everyday just like you know, we already got what we need!"

I might be the only person who's equally excited to be giving a TED talk and driving the night 7....

---

​Thanks for tolerating my absenteeism from the blog this next month. I'll still stop in from time to time, and meanwhile, check out this list of 2018 highlights from my blog, with commentary!

"Hey," I exclaimed, with welcome surprise, feeling the vivacious synergy from the old 7 whose dearth on the 5 I detail here. Encountering affability in an ocean of indifference; maybe I was feeling what they often feel out in the world. If Seattle is to them what the 5 is to me, am I their 7? Their oasis? I've gotten spoiled driving that route. No Seattle Freeze out in the 'hood….

He perked up too, taking a moment to switch his Big Gulp from right hand to left; a fistbump was important. He gestured to his friend, who unlike him was American and white, exclaiming, "this is my brother! From another mother! But still my brother!"
I laughed. "Cool!"

He was asking where the weed place was. I thought I'd seen him somewhere. Finally he blurted out, "I remember you from before." Befow.
"I thought I recognized your face, yeah! Where, the 7 the 49?"
"Ah was in Rainer Beach trying to get a ride, and I didn't have no goddamn money but you said, ‘GET IN!' Ah always remembered that, this’ the cool bus driver!"

I have every confidence I really did give him a free ride, but did I really yell 'get in?' Doesn't sound like me. Ah, memory. That must be how he remembered it, though, massaging this and that truth toward the essentials of the moment– the fact that I welcomed him onboard with enthusiasm. We highlight the things in our minds that resonate most. I'm sure I do the same, even if I make every effort to be accurate with spoken dialogue. Leaning toward the goodness. 

Of which he had an optimism that was contagious. In his drunken state– definitely something besides Fanta in that Big Gulp– he hardly knew what to do with it. 

"Hey," he brayed. "You know what? I kick it with white people."
"Oh yeah?"
"Hell yeah. You know why?"
"How come?"
"White people are cool!"
I grinned, but hesitated to agree outright. The news these days has got me wondering otherwise... but more seriously, any comment about behavioral patterns across entire cultural groups leaves a sour taste in my mouth, even if it's positive. You know, like your Aunt Martha blurting out about how good Asian people are at math (which, by the way, I'm living proof is false...).

In my years driving buses I've observed more than a few behaviors that this or that class group, culture or income level disproportionately engage in. But don't you feel less like your best self with such thoughts? And don't you love being proven wrong on those assumptions, reminded that although individuals may be hampered by circumstance, they are not bound by their background?

But I'm getting way too deep in here. I think he was just trying to express that he liked people of all cultures. Such as me. Like I do. That he evaluated people on an individual level, and his inclusive perspective contained a certain invigorating high, one I know well. It feels so deeply good, and right, to leapfrog past prejudice, into that heady and intoxicating place of living the idea: 

We all have a lot in common.

All of my musings were collapsed into my short reply: "Sometimes. Sometimes they're not cool, but yeah, sometimes they are."
And in his rejoinder, whose enthusiasm I in retrospect now prefer, lived the exhilarating fullness of the leapfrogging I mention above. "Naw bro, they hella cool!"

Though they sat halfway down the bus, I could still hear the two of them, and was glad for it. Theirs was a positive bluster made amusing by the casual profanity of our friend, which was so pervasively offhand that the familiar monosyllabic words clearly had no meaning, and angled the sentences instead with a rhythm, an emphasis, a further articulation of his ebullient enthusiasm.

"I like how he's calling out the stops," the Brother From Another Mother commented.
"It's the shit," our friend replied. "We in the city. He the coolest. More than Bellevue. If you in Bellevue they definitely ain't gonna tell you where the fuck you at. Those motherfuckers very quiet."

His swear words had no added emphasis, and were spoken in the amiable tone of a restaurant menu, the casual enthusiasm of the daily special.

"Hey, you know the coolest place in fuckin' all Seattle, Washington?" he asked his friend suddenly.
"What's that?"
"Renton."
"Renton?"
"Renton. Coolest fuckin' place anywhere."

This guy likes Renton. Now that's what I call positive...

"Thank you boss," he said when it was time, as they came forward to exit. "This is my guy. My brother." A sheepish young man with curly hair.
"From another mother," I added.
"You know it. He's good guy." 

Vouching is always a positive act.  It's proof positive of your friend's worth, but also yours too, your value as a curator of life. He was relishing that benevolent authority, and continued: "You know what? I left my job to help him. I came back. He cool. He leaving though."
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah," replied the quieter fellow. "I'm moving next week."
"Had enough of this place, huh?"
"Ha! I guess."
"Well. Two thousand nineteen. Fresh beginning, new start!"

Oh, how I love seeing people light up! "Yeah,” he exclaimed, realizing how completely I was a sympathetic ear. He didn't have to be embarrassed about his loud friend, nor of the mind that his moving details were banal to me. He knew I cared. "Two thousand nineteen," he echoed, a quivering positivity coming to life, his voice daring to sound musical.

They walked off into the evening, the odd couple, comforted by acceptance, differences, encouragement. The guy from the 7, gesticulating happily through his long-sleeved sweatshirt jacket. Another Mother laughing in return, his teeth in a sidelong nighttime grin.

Yes. As it ever and always is, it was worthwhile that I came to work today. To move about in the rough-hewn fabric of urban life as a witness, and maybe contribute to its light a little too. Because they were smiling more now than when they got on.

​The future was uncertain, it was nigh, but they were making it their own, together.

​Just a quick note of thanks today, as only he could say it~

"Listen. Listen," he said to me.
"Please," I answered.
"You got to stop!! You just about the biggest player I've EVER seen hustlin' on the street! You a boss player leadin' the future, man."
I couldn't help laughing at– with– his ebullient rush-roar of enthusiasm. "Naw dude, you know I'm just trying to be like you!"
"Hold up. Hold up." Shaking his head. "No. You... BRINGIN' that beautiful energy like I ain't never seen. I don't even know you but I know, I could tell you's a good kind hearted man with a good soul. Don't never change that, lil' bro. No matter what they say, don't never change that. Unless it's about the money!! I'm just playin'. Really though. You got to keep it just like you been keepin' it cause this is special. Ah wanna extend a happy New Year and best wishes to you and all of your family. What's your name?"
"Nathan. And yours?"
"CJ."
The firm handshake. The manshake, first to solar plexus afterwards, a thing we somehow knew, giving different voice to the same unstoppable seed. Love. 

He called it out again, and I heeded his call with the gladness and serious weight I would have ascribed the same command were it to come from the Gods of our ancestors, the artists we trust, the philosophers and sages of old, and I felt all their voices in his, now, a gravelly-throated grinning stranger not much different from myself:

​"Don't change!"

A big thanks to Ana, Rylan, and most of all, Erika. Full article here. 

Apologies for my lethargic posting rate this past week– it's tax time, and such things are complicated for us enterprising (if starving) artists! Our brains aren't equipped for such matters... I'd much rather just write you another story, or shoot another roll of film. But poring through these artist deduction statutes brings its own fascination. Stand by for more posts soon!