Day 3 of the infamous bus strike (July 27). My day in Koreatown started at 5:30 a.m. with a 25-minute walk to the nearest operating bus line. For a 60ish disabled person with limited mobility, this was literally a pain in the rear end. After a 45-minute wait, the bus came, and we were all jammed together like sardines. An amateur "dip" tried to steal my wallet as he alighted from the overcrowded bus, but I managed to thwart him. After a two-hour combination of shank's mare, MTA bus, Red Line and DASH bus, I finally arrived at my Little Tokyo office at 7:30. It is normally a 40-minute ride on the MTA. The work day had just begun, and already I was exhausted.
As a member of a union myself, I am supposed to support the striking mechanics. But isn't it strange, I haven't the least bit of sympathy for this greedy bunch, who are paid more than I am.
Early last Monday morning I needed to go to the hospital. I then learned that MTA workers were on strike. I couldn't afford the $30 cab fare. I turned on the radio for some sort of information--stations that might give commuters emergency information as to alternate means of getting to their jobs . . . or hospitals. Nothing--as usual on the talk shows--nothing but drivel. And nothing, as well, from the print media. My God, you ride a bus here in openhearted L.A. and you are of low class indeed--that's all too apparent.