I might learn someday. For several weeks in a row I've tried to take an indoor cycling class at a certain former Bally's location. There is no air conditioning, the old Johnny G bikes are a shambles, and speaking of same there are no bottle holders intact. But the class fills, and even if I get near the end of the number available on the sign in sheet the only bikes left will not have my cleats.

This morning I came a shard earlier than usual and my hopes ended up a shard. No mojo again, but off to my news stand to pick up a Mojo, and back to the Sherman Oaks street description of a recent blog. This time no construction, and a sign indicates a street fair on the 20th. Not there yet!

Ventura Blvd. is a hybrid at shortly past nine. Yes, commuting is going on but many businesses are not yet open, and the cars travel in bursts, the open spaces moving the crowd a little faster. I pass a Panda Express and the words on a poster therein processed from the corner of my eye seem odd. It turns out to read, "Panda to the rescue. Be a party caterer . . ." and then of course one's heroism is to be aided by their menu.

I thought I had read, "Be a panderer." Maybe that would be snide, but then I reflect on the advertising campaign for a very major obesity chain and its bold forays into sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The panda is better than clowning around.