Dont Mince Words

Ever notice how geezers will wax nostalgic about some car they used to have decades before? Last night, as my life flashed before me, I fondly thought of my Jetta and nearly shed a tear.

That five-speed was spunky and the turning radius could have been envied by the NYPD. What I loved most about it was the sunroof. When I moved to Manhattan, keeping the car was impractical between garage fees and insurance. Regretfully, I sold the Jetta.

Last night I was coming down Fountain near Highland in my stodgy, unfun Honda Accord when some dumb bitch in a fucking LANCER decided to pull out of the left lane and in front of me. Not really the smart thing to do in Friday traffic in a construction zone with gravel.

I slammed on my breaks and fishtailed like a pickup truck on black ice. I did something else Angelinos don’t do often. I honked. I laid on that thing until the smell of burnt rubber dissipated. Miss Lancer gave me the whoops wave. That’s when I began my gesturing. Both hands in the air, I looked like an Italian flipping pizza dough.

This is the moment I missed my Jetta. Because that’s when the sunroof would open and my middle finger would be in the periscope up position. Sometimes I’d wave it side to side through the roof for minor infractions. However, Miss Lancer would have deserved the vertical up/down fuck-you-dumb-female-driver-giving-us-all-a-bad name gesture.

Ah, those were the Jetta days.

Since I have no sunroof in the Accord, I high beamed Miss Lancer until she took the 101 off ramp. That’s when I gave her one final honk. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson: during rush hour in Hollywood, there’s going to be someone in the other lane. I learned you can never be too young to remember great cars.

I’m back on the subject of LA and cars, but before we go there, let me immediately digress.

I had the usual, traditional conflicted childhood. I was an individual who was different and didn’t blend in and yet I wanted to be like everyone else. And I didn’t. My parents’ delivered the usual fucked-up conflicted messages, “Why can’t you be like everyone else.” Or, “Why do you want to be like everyone else?” (That one they used during back-to-school clothes shopping season). All this was sorted out in college and grad school when I realized I got along with all types of people, but I was, indeed, very much an individual.

So here I am in LA. I’ve never really cared about fashion and usual err on the side of comfort. I’ve never been a conspicuous consumer. No bling-bling. No gottahaveit now. I’m pretty low maintenance. Cars in LA… that’s a subject a standup comic could analyze for days.

I am currently an owner of a 2001 Honda Accord. Is it the car I really wanted? Nah, not really, but I didn’t know what I wanted either. It is a reliable car and it will do for now. It is bigger than I’m used to (four scraped hubcaps to prove it) and CPA-conservative. When I open the trunk in the grocery store parking lot, I feel like I should be putting some cases of Similac in there too.

But I digress.

Today I went to a networking luncheon meeting for the International Association of Business Communicators in West Hollywood. I immediately bonded w/a graphic design agency sales guy named Joseph. I looked at his portfolio while I nibbled on my Mexican salad (“Would you like tofu or grilled chicken on that?” You know you are in Hollywood when tofu is first in the meat order). He’s also doing a short movie on the side about nuclear bomb testing in Utah. So, I immediately went into Pentagon mode and grilled him about the interviews and story line.

After we all paid the check, Joseph and I walked in the same direction together and he invited me to a rough cut screening of his film. We made it to my car and exchanged cards.

“Oh, this is you?” he said, looking deeply into my Honda’s headlights.

“Yes, as you can tell by my parking job, I’m relearning how to drive,” I said.

He walked away, promising to email when he knew the screening time. I knew he wasn’t going to email. I drove a Honda. He strikes me as the kind of guy that likes a girl that drives a Lexus SC430. When you see a woman in a 430, you think, “she must like anal sex.”

I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard chuckling when Joseph happened to pass me in his Cadillac Escalade. WITH A GOLD PACKAGE. A white guy with a gold package? Where I come from this means NO penis instead of small penis and you have a posse of “girls” working for you.

Do you think anyone will notice my new tires?