friday night and i hadnt driven all week
so i knew it had to drive longer and further, luckily traffic was as light as a three gram eigth.
dave chappelle says he cant be cancelled because he doesnt believe in twitter.
she was an exhausted, exotic nyc model going from hollywood to lax at about 9pm for the red-eye back to her side of the world
nervous about traffic, i calmed her by saying, chappelle doesnt believe in twitter and i dont believe in traffic
she asked how? do you fly?
if necessary.
driving through silver lake to get to the freeway she said something like, i love the east side.
i asked, do you work a lot in la?
about once a month.
ok, then for your own good. dont call silver lake the east side. thats what the ny times would do.
she gasped.
someone had to tell her.
then what do you call it? she asked.
you call it silver lake.
she said, but why not the east side, it’s east of the beach.
everythings east of the beach, i thought in my head, knowing i had probably already lost the tip, which sucks because new yorkers are reliably good at tipping.
she was not dumb. she was jetlagged from jetting here the night before, working all day, and then dinner and drinks with friends at horses
and now in the presence of high energy mr know-it-all
silver lake is east of places like beverly hills and hollywood, i explained, as nice as i could. im terrified im turning into a grumpy old man. fuck the dh. fuck kdl. fuck plaschke.
finally i said, but it’s not what angelenos call the east side unless they want to get into a fight – a verbal fight – with someone.
so what is the east side? she asked. and i said, east of downtown.
but what is even over there, she said?
i replied, real east side shit which in many ways is the opposite of silver lake which is what NYers call our williamsburg and williamsburg is not boyle heights or the unincorporated area literally called east los angeles.
she was not happy with this conversation, which made me sad, because there we were so smart, so sexy, both smelling my jack-in-the-box curly fries poorly hidden in the glove box
she was probably falling in love with me, and if i had just let her be wrong we’d be texting selfies right now saying lol and omg after each photo
but i have the biggest mouth
it was bad on the 101, so i changed the subject and said,
most people think this is traffic
she tapped the closed window and stated, this is traffic
i said, the right lanes are traffic. lets scooch over all the way to the left like how mark twain woulda done when he was a steamboat pilot in life on the mississippi. you gotta know the patterns, which side of the river’s gonna fuck you and which is gonna help you slide around the basic bitches
two lanes of cars in the slow lanes were a parade of red brake lights along the hollywood freeway east as it crept to the 110 and 5 interchanges. stay left as long as you can, drafting the cars on the fast lane, soon the backup on the right will die down and you can merge over with ease, skating into the off ramp and into the hells mouth of the 110 south through DTLA
she was not impressed, and soon we were met with another set of tail lights. these in the alleged faster lanes.
traffic, she tapped.
opportunity, i sang, and turned down the bee gees
why had i sat out so many days? the podcast for one, which was tardy, and without rest my arms and hands get sore. i felt great.
also driving at night in LA, calling your shots to a super sharp new yorker who hates you so much because youre now being cocky, is extremely fun because thank god im finally good at something. and for once profitable.
$29 to LAX for a 41 minute trip? do you know how many ive taken for $20? $21 that take an hour? desperately? gambling a tip would be involved or a sweet ass fat ride out of LAX?
$29? did uber see i was driving way more for lyft lately? of course they track us. we give them that permission so we can use the app. if they’re not tracking then shame on them.
as everyone merged to the left of the already congested harbor freeway in front of the beautiful westin bonaventure, i kept to the right where the only assignment is not to get hit. thats it. survive long enough to get to the magical overpass thing around 6th street / wilshire.
i did all those things and got back on the 110 with ease and turned up foghat. she was still not awed enough to say, im yours.
my jetlag just hit me, she sighed, leaning back in the shiny leather seat being splashed with colors from the digital billboards around staples center.
it was probably a hint to let her nap for the next 20 minutes, but you shouldnt snooze before a red-eye because you might not be able to get to sleep once youre on the plane. so i switched topics.
i love new york, i told her. every time i go i have a great time. but i gotta tell you, wtf is up with those rats?
it’s a disgusting city, she said flatly.
and with her hate now directed elsewhere, we sped onto the upper deck carpool lanes above the 110 next to USC and talked shit about our black mayors with mutual disgust, topping each other’s tales with our miseries.