In the evening, Shirley came out to the stop two minutes after I did. It was close to 6:30 and the DASH is at its worst crapshoot odds, so we decided to walk to the Melrose and Western stop together. (The northbound DASH got to its Melrose/Western stop a block before we did.) We got on a crowded 207 but only had to wait a couple of minutes for it.
I had to wait about another 10 for the 780. When it was less than a block away, some dumbasses leaned out of their low-rider and screamed, "Hooker!" in unison. I looked down. I was wearing knee-high boots, a knee-length black dress which left maybe an inch of skin exposed above the boots, and a long black trenchcoat. I was also carrying my demure pink backpack. I looked around. The only female nearby looked to be maybe 20, wearing an oversized hoodie and jeans which hardly looked spray-painted on. I suppose either outfit might have qualified as hooker-garb in, say, Taliban-controlled areas of Afghanistan, but dude, we were standing on Hollywood Boulevard. Clearly those assholes have never seen a real Hollywood hooker, because let me tell you, I have. If they had wanted directions to one, they could have stopped and I would have tried to help. Well, maybe.
Anyway, I got on the 780, which wasn't too crowded (it was nearly 7 by now) and sat down at a window seat near the back. After spacing out a minute, I realized the outer pane of glass was completely cracked into a fine reptile-skin pattern. I was so out of it that I ended up spending most of the bus ride (a long-ish one -- there had been an accident on Los Feliz) watching the lights make pretty patterns on it.
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