And the train conductor says take a break Driver 8

[cyrano]

I didn't do either of the things I'd planned to do while between flights and the show. But it was still a good trip.
I drove north for about five miles trying to find a store that sold maps that didn't deal strictly in cash. Up around where 118 crosses I5 I finally found one. Then, 118 over to I5 and down to Griffith Park where.... apparently people were jogging, and only twenty cars were allowed to park there. The rest of the road was all pyloned off and police waved me back onto I5.
Annoyed and flustered, I drove south trying to figure out what to do next. Eventually turned off on 39 because it said 'beach' and I said hey beach sounds good. It means ocean. Down, down, past Knott's Berry Farm and Adventure Town, and no sign of ocean. Finally, on the other side of 22, I pulled over and said 'Damn. Beach is still a long way away. Hmmm. But if I turn around, 39 goes all the way up into the San Gabriels. That sounds naturiffic.' So turned around, back up past KBF and AT, and... 39 died out somewhere around Brea.
I drove around and around and around until I stumbled upon Brea Road, which my map said led to 57, which said it would eventually lead up there. And so, up 57 to 60, to.... Chino? I pulled over again, and said 'WTF?' See, in the Big Basin, they don't seem to label freeways with 'East' or 'North' but the name of a city they're going toward. And since everybody on them is a local and knows exactly where they're going and has a navigator who can eyeball the map, is no big deal. And I just had been cruising exactly the wrong way.
So I turned around and drove back down 60, to I210 and over to the 39/Azusa exit. Where I got lost again. I ended up by a baseball field across from a church, where I pulled over and studied my maps (yes plural, it was neccessary) until I realized that what they were trying to say was that Azusa Road *was* sr39 at the same time. They just hadn't put up a sign to mark it as such. So, back again, and up into the San Gabriels.
There was much nature, and mighty dams, and big signs that said the place you could drive your off road carts was closed. And all the people hauling their off road carts zipped up the road until they ran into people driving less than twice the speed limit (like me) and then got to the closed ORC park and pulled over to the side of the road in confusion and wept openly. I zoomed on past them and came to a parking spot where I could pull over and tramp. And I discovered that I'm older now than I was. I jumped/took a tumble that before would have just dustied up my trousers. Yesterday it bloodied up my leg, scored my hand and even today after a shower I'm still digging dust out of my ear. It was all stingy and that pretty much killed my desire to tramp about in nature, so I headed back down 39, caught I210 to 134, through the Memorially Named Interchange to 101.... to Las Virgines, nearly to Thousand Oaks before I realized that I was going the wrong direction again.
Luckily I'd allotted hours and hours to get to Hollywood, and with Avis even my compact came with a CD player. Traffic was starting to get snarly, but it didn't get really unpleasant until I got off on Highland. You can't make a right turn in the thick of Hollywood because you're supposed to wait until pedestrians are done crossing the street. And they never stop. So I made a biiiig circle and ducked into the parking garage.
There is nowhere in LA that is quiet. Miss Friday posits differently but then she describes some isolated canyon which may in fact be somewhere in LA County but doesn't actually count. The only way you can make any peace in the city is to make enough of your own noise to drown out the ambient briefly. Anyway. Cel phone reception was crappy, and ambient noise was high. So I decided to wander around and look at stuff rather than try to contact others. The myth that everybody in LA is beautiful? It's a myth. Everybody just acts like they are.
I was going to have a look at Graumann's but the place was way too touristful and so I figured I'd save it for a cold wet rainy day in winter when all the tourists are in Hawaii or at home having Christmas dinner.
They didn't have my tickets, or at least couldn't find them, and I talked with them off and on for an hour or so. Finally the.... supervisor guy? ...cut me new tickets. (Raven: I want to buy him coffee or something. He was nice to me, and I wasn't even a paying customer. No idea what his name is though.) The party gathered, and my calling the gathering for half an hour early worked. We sat down before the show started.
The show was pretty, and I enjoyed it, although I'd rather hoped for more dancing. But the dancing there was, that was very impressive.
After the show, we found an open restaurant because I was starvin', and there was much fried food. Miss Friday generously offered me crash space at her apartment, and I caught a quick three or four hours of sleep before driving back to the airport and flying home.
And now I am failing to write gaming stuff for the werewolf funeral or the pirate battle, nor am I shopping or doing laundry. I did manage to get a shower, watch some TiVo, and write this behemoth.

Comments

[cyranocyrano.livejournal.com]

Eeee! Maybe he didn't like the email I sent?
But yeah, there was much confusion and much asking 'And *who* are you? And *how* did you say you got these tickets?'

[moonlightnrain.livejournal.com]

Still, even with confusion there should be a maximum of 15-20 minutes to resolve a problem. I talked to him late last night and he never mentioned it which tells me (along with the decent location of your seats) that he must have realized his mistake.