God Thy Name is Traffic

There’s no way for an outsider to fully understand what traffic means to L.A. It’s a literal living entity, like some Godzilla sleeping in the ocean just waiting to emerge and wreak havoc on the city. If there were any virgins in LA residents would have long ago thrown them into the La Brea tar pits in an attempt to appease the terrible gods that determine the length of your commute. This is probably why there aren’t any virgins here, parents encourage their children to start early in order to avoid becoming a human sacrifice.
LA is not a city, it’s a state. In second grade LA beat up Rhode Island and took its lunch money, so you can forget about public transportation. Walking? HA! There’s no way to get around the city without driving. Not a day goes by that I don’t dream of owning a rocket pack (why hasn’t this happened? It seems like the most useful invention of all time. How do I not have a rocketpack!? Other than the whole unbelievably dangerous thing).
How can I get you to understand what traffic means to those of us stupid enough to live in the City of Angels? People here talk about traffic like they talk about the weather on the East Coast. Last week the LA Marathon shut down half the cities streets, it was like a nor’easter was brewing.
“Oh man, did you hear? There’s a marathon a headed this way, it’s gonna be real trouble. I’m not going to leave the house all day. You better go to the grocery store now, when I was there they were down to bottled water and cans of tuna.”
If someone tells you they’ve lived in LA, ask to see their calves. Seriously. Their right calf should be freakishly developed from hitting the brakes thousands of time in traffic jams. There’s also a chance they’ve had calf implants, in which case they’re definitely from LA.
I’m still not getting my point across, the accumulated frustration has reduced me to a quivering mass capable only loosely organized rants. Here are some more concrete examples:
* The Sunset Ave. exit ramp on the 405 has a sign that says “Ramp will be closed intermittently until Oct. 2010.” There is no way that sign exists anywhere else. They’ve basically announced that they’re going to screw you repeatedly for the next three years, intermittently. What could they be doing that takes three years? They better be painting elaborate frescoes on the pavement. Whatever it is they’ll be done exactly in October.
* The other day I was, surprise, sitting in traffic on Santa Monica. In my side mirror came a man who was obviously a serious meth addict. He was wearing short basketball shorts circa 1974, tube socks pulled up knee high, no shirt and a small pink backpack with an airbrushed portrait of a unicorn. Even from across the street I could tell he smelled like hot dogs, snickers bars, and pee. Good times. Every so often he would start sprinting as fast as possible while swatting at the air, my guess was he thought he was being chased by a swarm of flying scorpions. But he would get exhausted after twenty feet and stop to catch his breath. The race was on. For literally two miles I watched him go flying down the street, pink backpack flapping behind him, and then collapse onto the sidewalk. Traffic would move, I would pull up on him, catch the scent of pee wafting on the afternoon air, and he was off again. Traffic is so bad in LA a crazy meth-head can outrun you for miles. I was seconds away from getting out and racing him on foot. I think I could have taken him.
The more I think about it the more insane it is. People complain about traffic constantly, but unlike the weather they have the means to control it. You know you’re going to get slammed in traffic, and yet you start that engine anyway. It’s like complaining about how sharp darts are, and then jamming one of them into your eye. There’s nothing quite like being ten feet away from the person in the car next to you for two hours, and not acknowledging their existence. It’s the car as a cocoon.
The other day I was behind a SUV with TVs in backs of the chairs; the kids were in the backseat watching the screens in a somnambulant daze. Remember being a kid and staring out the car window on trips? That’s where you learned about the world, saw human civilization pass before you in a speed blur. It seems like a dangerous sign that kids don’t stare out the window anymore, which is a shame because lord knows they’d have plenty of time to look. TV-glued-kids could easily miss the enlightening sight of a meth addict bouncing down the street. I don’t want to live in such a tunnel-visioned future.
I apologize for the scattered nature of this weeks installment of NoChance, I just needed to get this off my chest. Thank you for reading. Let’s have a little whining party. Is there something you have to deal with everyday that drives you insane? If there isn’t I got news for you…you’re the thing that drives other people insane. Feel free to share with your fellow NoChancers, we can all wallow in our misery for a week. Coming up soon, a detailed breakdown of R. Kelly’s lyrical genius! I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait.

Before we go here’s a new installment of overheard quotes classics, severely inebriated version:

From the one and only Emily in San Francisco: Late at night/early morning. The roommate’s drunken friend won’t stop talking, her drunken monologues are keeping the whole house awake. Finally blessed silence, it appears as if the drunken friend has finally passed out. Then, from the darkness, comes
“Wait…I was cuter than that other girl, right?”
It’s kind of sad if you think about it. Good for us we don’t think about things, so that’s just hilarious.

From Steve, teacher, father, lover of sunflower seeds:
“While eating dinner at the restaurant my sister works at there was a drunk patron yelling at her ...when he handed her his credit card she asked “do you want me to run this”...he said "run it hard baby, run it real hard, really hard’”.
I’m not even sure what that means. I hope she ran his card real hard, like 40% tip hard.