Car Culture

I am not really a car guy.  I like to drive and I have a habit of trying to achieve warp speed when given the opportunity but cars didn’t use to factor highly in my day to day life.  I walk mostly though I do love me current car: a little turbo Saab purchased third hand that rattles alarmingly and smells like an old sock.  I used to librate the Saab from its parking cocoon about once a week to get groceries.

Here the car is master of all things and I am going to have to learn to deal with it.

Remember the Seinfeld episode where George talks about how his parents will refuse to move their car for weeks if they find a prime parking spot in NYC?  A “Costanza” has entered my vernacular as a parking place one is reluctant to relinquish.  It is the gospel truth here.  I could have won Johnny Depp in a slave lottery and if I had to drive to Burbank to pick him up after having acquired 10 feet on Formosa there would be a raging debate on hand.

I also have to remember not to lose my car immediately upon parking it.  I am forever wandering my neighbourhood in the mornings like a deranged escapee from a mental institution, key in hand, randomly clicking like I am expecting to change the weather in the hope of triggering the car’s door locks and finding my vehicle again.  Inherent in my ability to lose my care is to assume an automatic upgrade.  If it is gray and a convertible, I assume it is mine and no amount of security alarms can deter me.  If I am tired and the item in question is merely car-shaped, my logic follows.  I have inadvertently almost  jacked a Mercedes and a BMW by waiving closer inspection.

If you have spent more time in a car in a day than you normally do in a week it is easy to forget where you are.  There is some etiquette in car culture.  For instance, the citizens of Studio City do not necessarily need to hear my vocal interpretation of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” (a curiously ubiquitous song that can be heard easily three times daily) sung at full volume as I speed along Venture Blvd.  Some things are best left to the shower.

I will learn.  I am still walking whenever possible, a thing the locals find vastly entertaining if not a bit odd.  Fortunately I still seem to be able to keep my 1970s ballad repertoire in check when out in the open air.

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