This week’ Monday Magazine salutes the working men and women of this world. It’s Labor Day in the U.S. This is not a day to honor the “job creators”. Neither to honor investment bankers, oil barons, sons of oil barons, captains of industry, scalpers, schemers, or celebrities. No, Labor Day is for the working stiff, the union man, the working woman – on whose backs the whole shebang or house of cards called the global economy rests. Here’s to the workers. May they obtain fair wages. $15 minimum wage. May the sweat shops be closed. May the workers unionize. May they fight for their rights. Happy Labor Day!!
Bumbastories Special Labor Day Weekend Magazine highlights beach coverage, a song, a story, a little song, and maybe a smile.
A Special Bumbastories Report on Los Angeles’ #534 bus
I sat on the 534 bus. On the way to the beach! Yes, the 534 bus – one of Los Angeles’ best kept secrets – goes to the beach! The MTA bus that comes every 20 minutes or so schlepps all the way from mid-City to Zuma Beach at the Ventura County line, which is quite a trek for anybody, but especially for a metropolitan bus. The 534 does its best.
Setting out at Fairfax and Washington the 534 goes down Venice Bl and gets on the freeway at Robertson (which allows for a connection to the Silver Line train) and speeds (traffic on the freeway permitting!) out to Santa Monica. The bus meanders a bit in Santa Monica and then gets onto the PCH south of the Santa Monica pier. Next stop is Temescal Canyon (which is probably your best bet to get off if you want to swim or ride your bike). But the bus continues all the way up the PCH to famed Zuma beach! As intrepid Bumbastories reporter I was determined to ride the bus all the way.
It was only in the name of journalistic integrtiy and heart-felt professionalism that I had taken upon myself this reportage on the full 534 route. George Packard had also volunteered to do the 534 story. He figured, sly bastard, to go to the beach and call it reporting and journalistic integrity etc, etc. Ha! George said he hoped to find a scoop, some CNN-style Breaking News story up there in Malibu. I called his bluff, and took the story myself. George was grumbling and mumbling on his way out the office, muttering something about missing the Paul McCartney concert last month.
“Screw George!” is what I say. Let him go out and do his roving reporter thing. Let him come up with a scoop.
To return to the 534 bus, it’s a long, long ride up the PCH past Malibuand up to Zuma Beach – over an hour. The good part about taking the bus, however, is that instead of sitting in your car like a dummy in traffic, you can relax on the bus, sit back, read a book, do the crossword, even write a blog article!
Bumbastories would like to conclude with this political message:
TAKE THE BUS
EFF THE OIL COMPANIES
Just to keep things somber (or is it sombre, mssrs, I can’t decide?) here are two versions of the St. James Infirmary. The first is double-sombre. The second one a little up beat, if that’s possible.
For more information on this geat old song, and for full discussion of the beauty of sad songs, click on the St. James Infirmary Compendium in the Library Section (that square all the way on top).
If you recall (and even if you don’t) when last we checked in on Ted Morris and Angelina Marquez, it was 1968 and Los Angeles private eye, all-around good guy, Ted Morris picked up Angelina Marquez from Adelante prison in his Chevy Impala and brought her back to her family in L.A. It was a sad day, if you remember. Robert Kennedy had been assassinated the day before at the Ambassador Hotel.
Ted and Angelina had quickly settled into a nice, two-bedroom West Hollywood garden apartment. The year was now 1970. Time marches on, even in short stories. Ted had quit the detective business and, together with an old police buddy, Joe Peterson, had opened up a sandwich shop on Santa Monica Blvd. Angelina worked there as a waitress when she wasn’t busy studying for her LPN accreditation. Her son Francisco, also worked there. Ted had of course informally adopted young Francisco over the years. This spring young Francisco would be graduating from UCLA with a degree in Political Science. Francisco was a good kid.
Ted Morris took a break from behind the counter at the sandwich shop. Things had worked out well for Ted Morris and his little family. But Ted Morris the shopkeeper was still Ted Morris the private-eye. And Ted Morris the private eye knew that good luck is great, but that trouble is always around the corner -especially with his wife Angelina. Angelina was still a pistol.
In fact, Ted Morris could now see her approaching. Walking toward his restaurant. She was coming down Santa Monica Blvd. The woman still moved like a cat.
To Walk On
Is a sad way to go
Always to walk on.