For part 1, click here.

I returned to Los Angeles determined to continue my zealous use of public transportation that evolved during my two-month stint in San Francisco. But after falling in love with the Bay Area's trusty, efficient system, coming home to LA felt like entering into an arranged marriage with someone I had never met but had only heard about through vague, disturbing rumors. The standard was high, my expectations low, and the reputation of the bus system I was about to investigate was worrisome, to say the least.

There's been much written lately about the cost advantages of public transportation over skyrocketing fuel costs at the pump. The New York Times, Los Angeles Times and NPR have all done stories in the last few weeks about the influx of riders on various metropolitan bus and rail systems around the country. Indeed, gasoline costs, snarled traffic jams, extortionate parking and a general desire to green-ify one's existence contribute to the push toward going Metro. Financially speaking, the difference is noticeable, but only by a few dollars. Taking the bus, and then the Red Line, to Hollywood for dinner costs me $2.50 one way, involves a one mile walk from my house, and takes about thirty minutes if I time it perfectly (which is possible, but not easy). And then there's the $40 cab ride home, because no fucking way am I standing on a street corner at two in the morning, waiting for a slow-ass bus to take me almost home. I'm not insane, people. Conversely, driving costs me $4.00 in gas and approximately $10 for parking (unless I find some ninja street spot, which is getting harder and harder in resurgent Hollywood). This is a difference of about $30. But there is one other economic factor that throws any cost-risk analysis so heavily toward taking Metro that even a five year-old would arrive at the unavoidable conclusion of "Duh." It is that a DUI, when you consider fines, penalties and legal fees, costs anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Monthly bus pass, anyone?

MTA Chief Executive Officer, Roger Snobel.My penchant for taking the Metro leaves most of my friends scratching their heads--"You lost your license, didn't you?"--or at the least, mildly amused. "Well, aren't you all green and shit." I'll admit, it's been more of a game than anything else, a game most people I know think I'm an idiot for playing. If I were truly dependent on Metro, living where I do and having to get to the places I need to get to, relying entirely on Metro, I would step into the path of a Rapid Bus after the first week.

I am not a typical Metro user: I'm not a forty-something Latina, I work at home (on the couch, if you must know), I have two perfectly good cars with paid-up insurance sitting in my driveway, and I use the Metro system only at night. It is this last distinction that sets me most apart from those to whom the system is geared. It is also the thing that screws me the most. If you want to use Metro to avoid nightspot parking fees, enjoy worry-free drinking and the convenience of never having to remember where you left your car, the Metro system is not designed for you. But it should be.

Imagine the ad campaign: a handful of beautiful hipsters laughing and smiling their perfect American-Idol-white teeth as the Red Line hustles them into Hollywood for a night of drinking and being fabulous (not to mention economical, green and relatively un-hazardous to the health of others). Endless possibilities for ad slogans come to mind: Take a ride on the wild side, or Forget the valet line, try the Red Line, or my favorite, METROsexual has a whole new meaning. Indeed, with a little effort and a slight re-imagining of its target audience, The Metropolitan Transit Authority could make night-riding cool for the cool kids, or at least a diverting novelty for the Hiltonistas.

The end of the ad would show the alternative to taking Metro: One of our unsuspecting hipsters blowing a .12 into the Breathalyzer of one of LA's or CHP's finest, then spending the night downtown with the big boys at the County drunk tank before separate criminal and DMV costs and fines gobble up rent for the next year and a half. The ensuing suspended license would kill any chance of employment and make taking the Metro for twelve months an unavoidable certainly, instead of an occasional choice.

Unfortunately, taking the Metro requires more of a gamble than it should. There have been times when the decision absolutely left me high and dry--like the time I let 12:30 A.M. come and go (the last Red Line) and decided to hit up a friend's after-party. By 3 o'clock we were all ready to go home. I was looking at a $50 cab ride and a wait of God knows how long for the cab to get to me. (Apparently I'm not the only one needing a ride at this hour.) We were in Hollywood and a friend offered to give me a lift, but only part of the way--he was reasonably sober, we agreed (very scientifically), but would certainly not pass a field sobriety test if pulled over. We compromised on his dropping me at the Barham freeway exit, where I could wait for the cab I was already calling and he could slink down the back of the hill into Burbank, where he lives. We got to Barham so quickly that I wasn't even through being on hold with the taxi dispatcher before I found myself dumped unceremoniously in front of the flower stand at the top of Barham. Granted, my call was slowed by the fact that I could not understand why the first operator I called could not send a cab right away.

"Because I'm the 411 operator, sir. Would you like the number for a cab company?"

But in a true stroke of luck, a cab magically appeared while I was still holding. Even more amazing, the driver saw me and agreed to stop. I climbed in. The man turned around to look at my face. It was 3:30 A.M. on a Friday morning. He had found me standing on a corner at the top of a mountain without so much as a streetlight to deliver me from the darkness.

"What the hell happened to you?" he said.

"I got dropped," I said.

"I'll say."

The third and final installment of this story will appear in few days.