Today marks the public launch of “Along for the ride,”* a new series of mass transit adventure chronicles on Lascher at Large.

Watch an Audio Slideshow | Explore the Map | See the Photo Gallery

The concept: explore Portland as seen from the metropolitan region’s transit lines. Each week, through a highly scientific selection process (in other words a combination of my mood, any errands I may have to run, suggestions from the peanut gallery and other such extremely formal criteria), I’ll be riding the full length — each direction — of one of Tri-Met‘s bus or rail lines (and perhaps those of surrounding transportation authorities, like Clark County’s C-Tran). Who knows what I’ll experience along the way or what I’ll observe, or even what form my storytelling will take? Learn more about the project, how to support it, or how to come along for the ride at the end of this post.

For this inaugural week, I rode Line 75, a megaroute running from St. Johns through much of North, Northeast and Southeast Portland, all the way to Milwaukie (for the non-Oregonians among you, that’s a city immediately south of Portland, not the alternately-spelled lakeside Wisconsin metropolis). For a taste of the route, check out the following audio slideshow. The speaker was a slightly counter-culture, late middle-aged man who identified himself as Robert. Reflecting on Portland’s public transit system and his regular commute to and from St. Johns, this afternoon, Robert, who refused to give his last name, accompanied family on a trip from Portland’s Woodstock neighborhood North to Burnside Blvd.

Before you read the rest of the story, listen to what Robert has to say about riding the 75, check out some images I snapped along the route, and even enjoy a moment of riparian pleasure, all brought to you by the 75:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4zCJR3l6OE

A tale of two Wunderlands

You ride,
And ride,
And ride,
Only at the end do you know the purpose of your trip.

One of twelve current “Frequent Service” Tri-Met bus routes — those designed to run every quarter-hour — the 75 averages intervals of about 17 minutes, according to the Portland Afoot Wiki.

I didn’t time the 75 when I rode it this week. I happened to arrive at its door just before it left Pier Park in St. Johns. Such details will have to be saved for Portland Afoot, or perhaps for future installments of this series. Anyhow, though I originally envisioned “Along for the Ride” as a series of journalistic accounts of individual transit lines, this first trip devolved into more of a solitary journey, albeit one in which my commitment to my profession was redeemed by the discoveries I made along the route.

My ride along the 75 started quietly. I barely made it on board. I don’t live by either end of the line, and my path to Pier Park, the route’s northern terminus, will remain a closely-guarded secret. What I can reveal: It involved an unidentified second transit line and a pedestrian meander to throw off would-be followers. I can, however, say I saw the biggest dog I’ve ever seen in my life along the way.

Anyhow, when I arrived the bus was empty aside from the older woman grilling the driver for details about how to make her connection. Despite the driver’s insistence that there would be plenty of warning before the woman’s required stop, she didn’t seem convinced, and the full-speed run I made to board the bus started to seem unnecessary. But I made it.

Before long we were on Lombard. A bunch of teenagers boarded at the first stop. One sat in the seats across the way from me. He was easily too cool for school. Every few seconds he’d erupt with smirking mirth. That wasn’t minimized by my donning of gigantic headphones as I slowly moved a cheap, underwhelming Radio Shack microphone around to pick up ambient sound (read, cacophonous static roughly reminiscent of rattling windows and engine noises). Already too shy for a journalist, I decided that wasn’t the time for an interview, and packed everything but my camera away.

This was the first instance of a dilemma that persisted throughout the day. People rarely want to be spoken with on buses, even less so than on the street, or so I led myself to believe. They don earbuds, they stick their noses into books, they sigh after a long day at work, they text friends, they flirt and gossip and stare intently out the window. Perhaps, at least for this first trip, the best way to experience transit in Portland was to do just that: experience it, fully.

So I took in the city as it passed. St. Johns’ mid-century downtown brimmed with summertime pedestrians. Friends met for coffee. Photographers ducked into a camera shop. Moms and dads pushed strollers. I saw one of two fencing halls I’d see along the 75.

It was the first of many pairs. The camera shop — Blue Moon Camera and Machine — also boasts typewriter repairs, and only a few blocks southeast, we’d also pass Ace Typewriter, possibly one of the only full-service typewriter maintenance businesses left in the entire country. Eventually, the bus passed two Trader Joe’s locations and two bowling alleys and not one, but two Wunderlands.

As it turns out, the two places I decided to get off the bus — in Portland’s Belmont neighborhood and Downtown Milwaukie — brought me a short stroll from two Wunderland Arcades. Sadly I lacked in nickels and competitors for air hockey, skee-ball, and scads of ticket-spewing games. Beyond the Wunderlands, which also feature second-run movie theaters, Line 75 passed, or stopped within a few blocks’ walk of, multiple cinemas, including the Baghdad, the Hollywood Theatre, and both of St. John’s movie houses.

Even more plentiful than movie theaters were parks. Big parks, little parks, dog parks, boring parks, fun parks, ugly parks, pretty parks, the 75 stopped near them all (actually, I don’t recall any particularly ugly or boring ones. They’re parks, after all). Parks too constrained for you? Why not take the 75 to the Springwater Corridor trailhead at Johnson Creek? Or head out on the water? Though I didn’t realize it at the time, my trip on the 75 was taking me to the river.

Summertime, and the Living is Easy

Upon arriving at the route’s terminus in Milwaukie, I headed out for a stroll. The day was far too beautiful not to do so. Of all the ways I’m nerdy, I’m not a comic-book reader. Were I so, I might have been thrilled to pass the headquarters of Dark Horse Comics (though the Darth Vader posters on the window were enough to excite the Star Wars nerd within). But my nerd-dom lies elsewhere, so I continued on toward a glistening shoreline I spied from Milwaukie’s Main Street.

I soon forgot about it all — the storefronts, the bus, my frustration with not interviewing anyone — when I reached the shores of the Willamette. There, dogs played, boaters launched, office workers strolled in khakis and button-ups and old men surveyed the landscape from recumbent bicycles flying hot pink banners. Summer surrounded.

It only continued. On my way to the water I’d passed the Main St. Collectors Mall and Soda Fountain, and I stopped in before re-boarding the bus home. Like any antique mall, its shelves were stuffed with pan-decade nostalgia — Star Wars Toys, World War II memorabilia, old record collections — but it featured an extra treat: the counter of a former Rexall Department Store — also known as Perry’s Pharmacy — where a family laughed over phosphates and hot dogs and an elderly mother treated her adult daughter to an ice cream cone. It was as if no one had ever moved. My only regret: not shooting the scene when I first glimpsed it through one of the store’s aisles. I did, however, enjoy my lunch and my dessert of chocolate peanut butter ice cream in a sugar cone.

This was no longer a bus ride. This was a journey. With a $4.75 day pass, I’d wandered across a metropolis, stopped for snacks and a stroll in a hip neighborhood (I’d grabbed a bite on Belmont Ave.), run an errand for a friend, and found myself on a quiet shoreline, where water lapped at my feet, dogs played fetch, kids laughed from inner tubes pulled behind motorboats and the world slowed down, if only for a moment.

More Transiting Portland Each Week

What’s “Along for the Ride?” It’s my evolving series of Portland-area mass transit chronicles. For the next, well, for the next long while I’ll be riding a new Tri-Met operated transit line. By new, I mean new to me. I’m beginning with lines I’ve never ridden, then I’ll move on to riding other lines I have taken, until I’ve ridden every bus, railway and shuttle operated by Tri-Met (and possibly routes on other public transit systems near and far, should the situation arise). Expect stories along the way. What kind of stories? I can’t quite be certain. Some newsy. Some reflective. Some only possible in the moment. Expect guest stars too. Perhaps expect to even come along yourself.

I expect Along for the Ride to also be a laboratory for new (to me) storytelling practices and a chance for me to hone audio recording, photography, videography, interviewing, mapping, writing, editing and other skills. Don’t be surprised if different forms are used to tell stories from week to week, though it’s conceivable the series will find its own rhythm, just as transit has its own pace.

You can help set that rhythm, however. You can start by getting involved. Tell me about your reflections of transit or via a tweet to @billlascher. If you use public transit, what do you use it for? What transit lines do you ride and why? If you don’t use public transit, explain why not. What might change your opinion about using transit, whether you currently use it or not? I want to know about transit in any city — after all, my love affair with transit writing started in LA, where transportation policy became the focus of my graduate studies — so why not reflect on your town’s best or worst routes?

For those of you familiar with particular Tri-Met lines, why not suggest in the comments what lines I should try next? Do you know of great stops along the way? If so, enter them on the map. Do you have a favorite transit story? Why not share some here, though I don’t want to step on the toes of Michael Andersen, and the great stories in each edition of his incomparable Portland Afoot (By the way, if you need something to read on the bus, or anywhere else you happen to be, I bet your $5 subscription or other support will be well worth it).

*By the way, special thanks to writer Christina Cooke for devising this series’ title, “Along for the Ride.” Check out Christina’s work at christinacooke.com.

Click on any image to enlarge:

I quit a job, spent a year of my life and paid thousands of dollars to get this shot.

– Posts on production and consumption versus conservation;
– Environmental critiques of train travel;
– The ultimate (if not particularly green) multi-modal vacation;
– Dodger Stadium gets even less accessible;
– Privacy, chatting and (in)visibility.

To keep you sated, I’ve been meaning to post some of my photographs from my time handing out beer with the Los Angeles County Hash House Harriers (A decent description of the hash is available on Wikipedia. A more complex, compelling history is available here.) at the 21st mile of this year’s Los Angeles Marathon.  Click here or on the photo to the left for a gallery. It was my first time ever seeing the marathon in person and it really is an inspiring sight. More than anything, as the hours passed it struck me just how many kinds of people of seemingly wide-ranging fitness levels (all far more impressive than my own) ran the marathon. Knowing a few people who have run this or other marathons I know how much training and preparation goes into the endeavor, and the payoff was evident on every runner, walker and wheel-chair operator (I can’t think of an adequate term to describe the efforts of the wheelchair racers) even as some struggled to make that last 5.2 miles. Some smiled, some grimaced, but all carried on.

Anyhow, this description from Yirko at LA Blogitudes, who ran the race himself, is far more moving than anything I could ever write, so pay it a visit.

Earlier this week someone asked me for a short description of the type of work I’d be interested in. While I understand the need for focus, I’m always amazed how difficult it is to sharpen my my interests to a well-defined point. As a writer and an observer I hesitate to craft such definitions. I fret about what I could be leaving out by bounding my interests. If I am to be open to recounting the stories I encounter I don’t want to pen myself into a place where I don’t feel prepared to tell certain ones. As my personal acquaintances know, I am a restless, transitory man. I often long to run my toes through that green, green grass on the other side of the fence, sometimes (often) at the cost of savoring the tranquil landscape at my feet. Of course, in any field, successful individuals know summarizing their own work isn’t a limiting practice, but rather a guide to help them understand the tools available at their own disposal for future endeavors. Thus the challenge for me — and presumably millions of other people considering their futures — is to plot the path before me by identifying both where I want to be and knowing just how much I’m worth based on the skills I’ve already developed.

When my father, Edward L. Lascher, penned his Lascher at Large column, he spent much of his time dissecting his own profession, the practice of law. Now that I’ve completed my work at USC, one regular feature of this Web site will be follow-ups of subjects he first broached two decades ago (or earlier).

Today, though, I thought I’d take a moment to express some frustrations about aspects of my own profession. No, right now I won’t discuss whether newspapers are dying or how journalism is to be saved (Suffice it to say that success will come from energy devoted to quality, compelling content, not desperate hand-wringing over the latest bells and whistles and revenue generation models). Instead, I want to talk about the outrageous expectations expressed by some hiring managers and others soliciting original content.

I understand that businesses are struggling to make ends meet. I am fully aware how privileged I am to have the luxury to experiment with freelance writing instead of savoring the opportunity to make ends meet with a stable job. Many folks don’t have that chance. Many have families to feed, mortgages to pay, debts to satisfy. In fact, sadly, more and more people just need some way to put food in their own mouths and a roof over their own heads.

Nonetheless, that doesn’t excuse employers from taking advantage of their potential hires. As I’ve been redefining myself, I’ve also been keeping tabs on journalism, writing and editing opportunities in Los Angeles and other cities in which I’d enjoy living. Call me naïve, but a few examples posted to Craigslist yesterday are shocking.

An online community newspaper in Pasadena advertised it was seeking a full-time assistant editor with “Newspaper experience to develop story ideas, to make and manage assignments, to schedule and manage writers, copy edit, fact check, proof and write.” This individual was to have a “minimum [emphasis mine] 5 years’ experience with a community newspaper,” and possess a number of skills that would benefit any publication, online or in print.

What was the enticement for this demanding job? $600-700 a week and no mention of any benefits. For those with slow computational skills, that’s between just more than $31,000 and $36,400 a year. While the individual could work from home, and thus, presumably didn’t have to live in Pasadena, where rents for a one bedroom apartment start around $1,000 and more often than not top $1,500, any candidate for the position who wanted to live close to the community he or she covered would struggle just to pay for housing. At a time when hyper-local and niche coverage is becoming more the norm (the Voice of San Diego is one tremendously successful and inspiring example), one would think someone with five years of experience in community coverage in addition to the ability to manage a publication online would be a tremendous asset to new media outlets.

Of course, there are more outrageous examples. One poster to Craigslist wanted a professional writer to work for free on targeted promotional materials. Unfortunately, that post has been taken down, but not before a follow-up post from someone who shares my frustration (albeit with a bit more vitriol). Sadly as the respondent refers to, such posts are hardly uncommon on Craigslist. I haven’t explored postings in other professions, but I suspect we are not alone in our consternation.

Meanwhile, another poster is searching far and wide for a writer to pen “30 original articles about Las Vegas attractions, events and history.” Each is expected to be an original work of between 600 and 800 words. How much is being offered for this body of work? Ten cents a word (a low, but still, sadly, realistic figure)? Try $200 for the entire package. Let’s break that down. They want about 21,000 words written for two bills. That’s 1.05 cents a word. A penny and a half. Must I break down the time it takes to produce that much original observation of heavily-publicized hotels and nightclubs and figure out what that means in hourly terms?

Freelancers are often cautioned not to calculate their work in hourly terms lest their hearts plummet to the floor along with their bank accounts. Work is work, right? Sadly, I know someone will take each of these gigs. And more power to them – I know how hard it is to find work and I know how important it is to build up a portfolio. So if they need to hustle to make a career, I’m not stopping them.

Still, if publishers and other hiring managers want to succeed, they will need a committed, loyal and stable staff and to develop sharp, insightful contributors. An investment in skilled journalists ready to take risks to lead publications into the future is a wise choice. It may seem counter-intuitive to talk about investment in a time of economic malaise, but those who take such leaps of faith will be best positioned for future success. Those, however, who treat their content producers as chattel will continue to struggle to maintain a stable source of original content, and thus, they will spend all their time watching editors and writers leave for greener pastures while their competitors invest in competent, devoted teams passionate about the work their doing and the success of their organizations. The former will have no content to which they can apply their ingenious revenue generation models, while the latter will long benefit from quality work that sells itself.

But I love this stop. In the evenings there’s often a man hawking nuts and produce on the sidewalk and sometimes a woman selling fresh made pastries. Across the street the tchotchke vendors set up shop. When I’m lucky there’s a bacon-wrapped hotdog vendor (if I’m really craving I know one can be found with near certainty at Wilshire and Vermont). Just west on 3rd there’s a taco truck, although one I’ve admittedly never tried because I’m fairly loyal to “El Flamin’ Taco” down at 5th and Vermont. And just a bit further sits California Donuts, a 24-hour palace of carbohydrated delectability well worth the guilt, not to mention untold numbers of other eateries representing cultures around the globe. Some early evenings there’s even some sort of vendor down an alley between the barber shop and the check-casher, but the unidentified liquid I always see running down the alley discourages me from satisfying my curiosity about what he sells.

Mornings don’t bring quite the lively bustle as early evenings, when bus riders transferring between the 754, the DASH, the 204, the 16 or the 316 stop in the neighborhood to finish their daily errands on their way home. Instead, mornings bring a certain mix of dread and enthusiasm. Lots of people dressed up to go to work, a few students studying between quick glances up the street anticipating the red and gray form of the approaching bus. Mothers watch their children as they play around a pay-telephone. Sometimes a sad-looking man sells gum and other inexpensive treats from a metal rack he’s set up next to the phone. Cars turn suddenly into the McDonald’s parking lot, impatiently pursuing their Egg McMuffins and scalding coffee.

I got up early today so I missed most of that, but I can’t help wondering, come Friday, how many people will cash their checks and head to the one armed bandits, how many will get a new coif, how many mangos, peanuts and bananas will be sold from the corner, and just how much paradise $5 will buy.