My first meetup--0808.02
{The first of possibly many--possibly two--meetups! I surely did not know what I was getting into. . .}
There is nothing quite as annoying as taking a good ten minutes out of your life to get to the bus stop early--knowing you’re just gonna be standing there in the hot sun doing nothing, but not willing to take the chance on it coming early and making you late for work--and gawking at said bus chugging down the street while you’re stuck behind a red light on the other side. Seriously, it’s enough to drive a semi-human being to. . . oh, wait, it’s turning, it’s the other bus. Never mind.
Once the right bus does appear, and on time I might add, we’re tooling down wide open Huntington Blvd. when I happen to glance down a side street and notice a cop cycle blocking the road.
Once I was done ergo-ing and we made it downtown without a scratch, I once again notice with annoyance--this time for a real reason--that the walkway up from Cesar Chavez to the bus circle on the east side of Union Station has been blocked off at the bus lane; for years you could cross there and go right down to the station and right into the subway, or more importantly the restroom.
I love when the subway takes off as soon as I get on.
It actually took longer to go up the escalator at Civic Center station than to go the one stop on subway. And so much for being early; the bank next to the Los Angeles Times newspaper building doesn’t open on Saturdays, bunch of lazy mo-fos. It was too hot to go back up the hill or over the steps past the place where all the American flags are flying--there’s a yellow one!--so I mutteringly walked down Broadway and then up one to the Pershing Square branch, not stopping at McD’s or looking for camera cases in all the tiny stores.
Finally done with that, I hopped back on the subway and finally got to the Cancer rally at City Hall only a few minutes late. Got all the requisite photos of the tents and musicians and people and such, then this time did climb up to catch the subway back to Union Station. Which took longer this time, because we were stuck in the bowels of Los Angeles for about five minutes, until the operator said, “We should be moving in 20 seconds. . . oops, how ‘bout now?” Trust me, it was funnier when he said it.
The Gold Line train had a harder stop after Chinatown station--never seen or heard of an emergency braking on here, hard enough to throw people around had anyone been standing. Luckily it was right next to the new park and had a circus tent we could look at, along with clowns and dancers waving at us, though no animals.
Getting back to the more usual bus stuff, the 266 at Sierra Madre Villa station is supposed to leave at 2:20PM; it arrived at 2:25. Ugh. On the bright side, it was time to change drivers, so we didn’t have to wait for the requisite rest period, though I did notice the new driver did not inspect the bus as required by law. Hell, I got home safely.
Aren’t you excited to know what I did for a couple of hours at home? Didn’t think so. Moving on.
Right back out on the street to wait for the bus back to the Gold Line. I didn’t even bother checking the schedule, since you’ve seen how well they keep it, but I live close enough to the street to hear it when it comes by, and it hadn’t. I think. Anyhoo, instead of crossing the street and waiting in the hot sun, I sat for 20 minutes on the near shady side.
It’s well over 90 and humid, but the gold line has the air conditioner at freezing. When going from hot to cold there’s a quick moment of discomfort, then it’s bracing, but when stepping out of the icebox back into the sauna, it sticks with you--literally--for a while. Luckily it wasn’t a very long walk down to Colorado Blvd., and I was amused to see a whole window at the pawnshop taken up by Fender’s most popular electric guitar model, all in different colors. I also noticed the street number and realized I’d have to cross the street, so that was a damn long wait in the sun, especially considering that corner of Colorado has a four-way and diagonal pedestrian crossing light, which the tourists never notice.
So, finally to the meetup. There’s Jenn all alone on the cushions of the lounge, playing with her text toy and smoking. Soon enough the poster couple from the site, Joy and Rob, showed up, quickly followed by Erin, and then people really started streaming in. Instead of grabbing some big table inside the restaurant, we ended up in the patio, taking up the entire west wide of it, two tables, four couches, and four chairs {I think}.
Considering how much I managed to ramble on about my day, it’s interesting to note I don’t have as much to say about the meetup. I think it’s because I hardly ever took my notebook out to write something that happened, except for the time Erin caught me and remarked on my small handwriting; hey, small lines, whatcha gonna do?
As per usual, I remember all {well, most} of the women’s names, and pretty much none of the guys’.
Oops, I think I did!
It was like the Seattle Underground tour under the restaurant, where the restrooms are. So much cooler down there, until you get to the end and the heat wave--I think the kitchen is right above--hits you. The men’s room was tiny, with three corners taken by urinals, one side of it completely given to the only stall, and some huge glass/acrylic wok-like sinks. As for the rest of the underground, I urge you--and that’s the right word here--to look at Erin’s take on this, over at her blog, and trust me, she’ll love for you to leave a comment.
The waitress looked exactly like a friend, down to the eyes, with the exception that she was hawt. {I doubt my friend’s gonna read this.} Funnily enough, my friend’s name is Arden and the waitress’s was Aris! Pretty close, but when I asked her she claimed to be an only child. Didn’t get a good enough shot of her to prove it to you, so you’ll have to trust my expertise in these matters.
What started with us having the patio to ourselves turned into a meat-on-meat with plenty of smoking, so I had to get outta there quickly. Jenn gave me a ride home, with non-appropriate commentary from the peanut gallery riding shotgun--never did get the guy’s name--and for a while, going down the dark winding road that Lake becomes, I didn’t think I would make it home, and it was no consolation to think of something happening in one of the ritziest areas in town.
{Edit--as I remember more of that fuzzy, non-alcoholic, at least for me, evening, I’ll put them in. Like the time tattoos were the subject and I said “Women’s bodies are already a work of art, why graffiti them?” Which got a few female “Aaaahs!” and I think Rob was the one who shouted “Thank you!”}
|
|
|||
|
|
|||
|
|
