Slow The F**K Down!

Those four words are on homemade placards placed along 6th Street, not far from my son's preschool. Although, today, I noticed that F**K has been taken down, so that the three remaining placards read, "Slow The Down." This bit of 6th street, east of LaBrea and West of Western, a road where 35 miles per hour is the speed limit, is a bit like a freeway. Some poor homeowner, most likely with young kids, has taken the matter into their own hands by placing these signs along the roadside. I can understand their outrage.

Like I've written, which feels exhaustively here, driving here, where it is a bit like being a defensive tackle for a football team, is something that brings out the worst in me. Today, I found myself so irate about a poorly parked car that I wrote a nasty note on an envelope, which I left on the offending car's windshield. The note, I'm chagrined to admit, said something along the lines of, "Learn to fu**ing park the car A**HOLE!" I know, I know. There is the issue of the split infinitive, but I was enraged by this person parking their car, effectively blocking me in. And why, oh why, have we not passed a hands-free cell phone use only law? Why do we have to wait till 2008 for this law to go into effect? It's bad enough people talk on their phones, but what's terrifying for me is when I see women--I hate to cast a bad light on my own sex, but it's mostly women I've witnessed doing this particular thing--with their cell phone tucked under their chin, driving, if you can call it that. Whenever I see this, I usually pull over till they pass me because I don't want to be rear ended. This culture of cars has turned what is supposed to be a vehicle for transport into a transportable living room, merely another extension of one's living spaces. Really, the things I observe driving around this city is enough to make me never want to step behind the wheel, if only that were possible here.

So, my nervous-nelly driving is compounded by the fact that I'm always on the defensive. And let's get this off my chest: I have a particular opinion for those who like to drive the flashy Penis cars--the Porsche, the Ferrari, the Lamborghini. Really, these fine machines are meant to be driven on stretches of road where reaching speeds of triple digits is the norm. They are not meant to be driven by insecure people--my judgment again about those who feel empowered behind the wheel of these cars--who become aggressive in these machines. Actually, I witness lots of people behaving badly when behind the wheel, behavior that would get their asses kicked if they behaved that way anywhere else. If they walked around the streets, cursing at, yelling at, throwing their hands up at, anyone, particularly another man, they would, more than likely, end up in some altercation where a visit to the hospital would be the end result. But no, behind the wheel of whatever car they drive, they exhibit all sorts of such unacceptable behavior. Yes, I don't drive fast, or rather, I drive observing the speed limit, which really are signs posted to suggest a speed, not the actual speed itself. And I am always looking in the rear view mirror where some driver is tailing me, finally darting around me, shooting me a look meant to convey their outrage at my observance of the law. Now, the speeding issue wouldn't be an issue if we had enough police here to man the roads. But since that's a wish rather than a necessity for a functioning society, the roads, to me, feel like anarchy.

And each section of the city has its own driving hazards. When in Beverly Hills, where cell phones seem to be plastered to every driver, one has to watch really expensive cars being driven badly by people too focused on what their friend, business associate, is saying on the other end. When in Koreatown, well, there is the adage, "Driving While Korean," which seems to apply to every ethnic group. And since Koreatown is really Koreans and Central Americans, well, driving here takes special rules, which really means there are no rules at all. And since we are east of LaBrea, there are the buses to contend with, which is another problem entirely. Anywhere in Hollywood means you have to be cautious around those with the hyphenate careers: actor-receptionist, writer-delivery person, director-Border's desk clerk, and so on.

I don't know if it's the new surge in gas prices, but I have noticed more bikers on the road. When I see them, I actually marvel at their courage. Really, to don clothes with a backpack strapped to one's back, biking to work seems like a risk not worth taking. What's a few more carbon emissions when everyone else is participating, right? Can you imagine the amount of aggression people feel entitled to dish out on to these poor schmucks? I mean, really. There is only so far one has to go for a political, environmental conviction.

I know it seems there is nothing about driving that I could possibly miss. But, there are some aspects of driving, not the actual act of driving itself, but what happens when you're cocooned inside this vehicle, the sense of invisibility and privacy, that I will miss. I know, one shouldn't pick one's nose or perform any other bodily functions since this sense of invisibility is really an illusion. But this sense of privacy gets heightened when you listen to the radio. It feels as if the announcer (for those NPR Devotees) is speaking to you, and only you, as they relate a story about a life far away. Or that pop song that would sound tinny and cotton-candy syrupy anywhere else seems to be talking about your life in the cliched lyrics. I've been known to sit inside my car, parked in my garage, waiting to get out as I finish listening to some story on NPR. Listening to the radio is something I associate entirely with the car. I rarely come home to switch on NPR on any number of radios in the house. Funny, why that is for us, this generation raised with the car and television. I know for my father-in-law and his generation, listening to the radio is something you did as a family, not this solitary act that it has become for so many of us.

Well, I am sitting outside on a patio of the huge bookstore across the street from our temporary apartment, which I will have to admit seems to be a stopping place for divorcees and others whose lives are in transition. When I glance north, I see houses precariously built into the hillside, the surrounding landscape now more brown than green. Well, now that I have cataloged all of my books, and they are all in boxes, I will go browse the bookstore shelves in search of some poetry. Our handsome mayor--the New Yorker did a great profile on him--has pleaded with the citizenry to conserve water. I guess those half hour showers are now going to have to be a thing of the past, well, at least for the remainder of my time here.