Two blogs I regularly read have just dealt with getting around. My former woodwind section mate had a gosh awful accident; out one truck and one wonder phone but another phone is in slightly chewed up hand and another vehicle on the way, all (Grammar intact) paid for. And I covered the thankfully simple injury.

Mentor wants to make more of transit, but in this area she notes the disjointed nature of same. Some great convenient rides are around, such as in my case music venues less than a half hour walk from Red Line stations, but go "somewhere" and it becomes academic---not to mention time consuming.

Summer is coming and I hope several trips to Castaic Lake. Not the Pacific Ocean but that's for another discussion if indeed it takes place/ahem. A very green driver friend from the bus lot would remind me of a project I never act on: first, take the cute fifty cent Dash Bus outside the door down by the Orange Line. And it's not the only bus. Get on the Orange Line to the North Hollywood terminus and get on a Santa Clarita Bus which ends up at the S. C. transit hub. There the Castaic bus also lays over for a bit as I well know.

Usually I drive to the Newhall Metrolink station and wait for the only bus I need.

Granted the North Hollywood to Santa Clarita bus is three fifty, but big deal. The heels dig in when it comes to time---come on, a summer weekend night and one wants to get back to dinner and whatever else. One of these days, Alice.

For a lot of running around there is my trusty ten speed. One a past blog I talked about heading to the gym for the wrong time. The follow up is that day I headed back to the class, and the way home tied my friends' blogs together.
I came east up a side street to Kester, no signal, and started out to cross to go north when I figured my neurons hadn't calculated the speed or, I admit, presence of oncoming traffic well. I turned around and nearly encountered a red SUV who had commenced a right turn behind me. I didn't fell down but looked my otherwise "aesthetic" self.

I give the driver of the SUV great credit. She asked twice, with no reprove, if I was all right. I was, but once on Kester I was hailed by a fellow with a general east European accent, in a suit jacket and no tie, waving a note pad and calling to me, "Phone number! Phone number!"

Really, bud? How's about the magic number with two more digits? Okay, one less; we have to use area code for any number these days.

But for a while after getting home I wondered if I had blocked something horrible out. No red fluids soaked my clothes, I walked just fine and nothing was dangling beside my usual participles.

Still, figuring out the getting around will put you round about around here.