The Tram to Nowhere

Means: That by which something is done or obtained; agency.


I have been pondering the phrase "The Ends Justify the Means." Sometimes I get confused and ponder its opposite: "The Means Justify the Ends." I like the contradiction. I can change my whole life philosophy to fit whatever particular mood I'm indulging. It reduces my accountability for my own actions, which I find convenient. I prefer blaming other people, places, and things for whatever difficulties I happen to be experiencing. But if things are going well, which they usually are despite my continuous bitching and complaining, I will take the credit.

I don't even know what the means are. I don't understand the definition. Maybe I shouldn't have started writing about the means since I don't know how it applies to the story I want to tell. It's a peculiar choice this morning. But, then again, I expound at great length on all kinds of things with which I only have a passing fancy. I never let facts or information get in the way of a good story, or a bad story for that matter.

I think the concept of "It's all about the journey" would be more apropos. I'm starting to worry that the story isn't that good, anyhow, and isn't going to justify all of this meandering that I'm doing.

When I was in San Diego I decided to head up to Balboa Park on one of the days that SuperK was in class. I took the time to point out how unbelievable the weather was going to be, in case she hadn't noticed or preferred sitting in a windowless conference room, trying to stay awake. Balboa Park is billed as the cultural center of San Diego. The concept of a cultural center is a bit of a stretch for a city where you can have a boob job while watching a beach volleyball match. Politicians never let facts get in the way of good marketing.

To get to Balboa I had to take a tram. The tram was the means. I got pretty worked up about the tram experience. Where do I catch it? How do I pay? Where do I get off? Is it dangerous? Why do they call a train a tram? I was nervous contemplating doing something I had never done before even though it was simple, inexpensive, and totally without significant consequences.

I wasn't in NYC where getting off at the wrong subway stop could be dangerous. I wasn't in Nairobi where there isn't a subway. I wasn't someplace where I couldn't speak the language. I was in mild, mild California. I could just ask somebody if I had any questions. I like new experiences but they can make me fearful.


I find the tram stop and worry that I may get on going the wrong way. Never mind that I knew the general direction of Balboa Park and was going to get on the tram pointed that way. Never mind that if I went the wrong way I could get off and get back on the tram going the right way. Never mind that I could ASK SOMEBODY which tram to get on.

When the tram arrives I stand outside waiting for the doors to swing open, like a sheep in a slaughterhouse. Someone shoulders past me and pushes the button that opens the doors. I get on, nonchalant -- if I pretend that something embarrassing didn't just happen then it becomes reality -- and find a seat. I'm on public transportation so I eye my fellow passengers carefully, trying to identify the dangerous or threatening individuals who can also afford 800 thousand dollar one bedroom apartments. I checked the route information that was outside the tram stop, then double and triple checked it, and now I see that it's also on the inside wall of the tram. A baboon could figure out this system.


Balboa Park, as you might imagine, wasn't all that compelling. The tram ride, however, the tram ride was totally kick ass. I really enjoyed the successful tramming that I did. I'm a trammer. I'm in the tram-o-sphere.