Criminalize Me?!

I’ve been running lately. For exercise. It was actually Tanya’s idea and I’m glad that she decided that she wanted to do it. I can now run 20 minutes non-stop. It’s only two miles, but hey, it’s a start!

Anyway, I bring this up because since we’ve been running, we haven’t been going to the gym. And since I’m the only man on the planet who starts running and then gains weight, I decided that I needed to hit the gym again. So this morning we went.

The trouble started when we drove home.

I’m sitting in the left turn lane behind two other cars, waiting for an opportunity to make my turn. Since the car at the front of the line had some kind of testicular diminution surgery, the only chance I had to turn without waiting around for the next light came as the light turned yellow.

Here in LA we have what I call the “California Caravan” or the “Tinseltown Train.” It’s when a long line of cars pull through a stale yellow light that turns red to make a left turn. Normally, it would be an illegal turn, but here in Los Angeles the general rule is if your bumper is less than a foot away from the car in front of you, you “technically” count as one car thus making the turn legal again, since the car at the front of the line was in the intersection while the light was still green. The long line of cars becomes a small train, moving as one.

Normally, I don’t like to be part of this phenomenon. It’s kind of a dick move. But since my arms were hurting from the gym and since the first car didn’t have the cojones to make their turn when they had the chance thus making me desperate, I decided to become the caboose.

Evidently, no one told the chic in front of me how the Tinseltown Train works because she slammed on her breaks in the middle of the intersection. I don’t know why she did it, but she was leaving me stranded in the intersection with the cross-traffic bearing down on me, so I gave her a polite “beep beep.”

I didn’t lay on the horn. Just a beep, beep. Short. Controlled. It’s the most polite form of honking there is, mostly because of its restraint, but probably also because it reminds people of the Road Runner. And who doesn’t like the Road Runner?

But the bitch in the car in front of me didn’t take to it. Maybe she’s foreign? Maybe she doesn’t understand how things work here in America? But she got very mad. She started to drive very slowly. When I made a move to pass her in the other lane…she swerved at me!

She actually swerved at me. I don’t take kindly to that. So I pulled in behind her and followed her (she wasn’t going to let me pass anyway, she started pacing the car in the other lane so that I couldn’t). At the next red light, I had to make another left turn, so I was forced to pull up next to her. Needless to say, she moved to the lane furthest from me. Good.

But when I looked over to take a gander at the kind of lady who thinks that vehicular manslaughter is the way to solve driving disputes, she had her cell phone pointed at me.

She was taking a picture of me.

I don’t know why, but apparently she thought that I was about to start some serious shit. Me?! She’s the one that swerved at me! All I did was beep, beep!

First this hideous whore-gorgon wants to strand me in the intersection, then she wants me to rear-end her, then she deliberately and threateningly swerves at me, then she won’t let me pass and I’m the fucking bad guy?!

All I wanted to do was get home from the gym and put my arms in a bucket of ice. I was so offended. I couldn’t believe that she was treating me like some kind of violent thug! I’m not a violent thug. I don’t have a violent bone in my body!

I tell you, it was enough to make me want to pull her from her Volvo and beat her with her own shoes.

What a bitch.


Fun Fact: I got to work with my first real celebrity last week. I did some PA work for a small shoot with Bradley Whitford.

I have to tell you, Bradley Whitford is one cool guy. My hat is off to anyone who’s not afraid to climb up a loading dock in an expensive suit. Between takes he sat on the concrete floor of the sound stage or with the rest of us (there weren’t very many people on this shoot) shooting the breeze about politics (it was a political shoot). Very friendly and dedicated. I have a new respect for the man. Plus, he is one hell of a professional.

Thanks Brad, for not being a dickhead. I feel enchanted and illusioned with Hollywood.