By the time you finish reading this post, rush hour will be over

Relearning the official rules of the road for my recent motorcycle class has got me thinking about all the unwritten rules of driving in LA. LA drivers get such a bad rap, which is a shame. As an Arizonan who has spent seven years of her life as an LA driver, I honestly think LA drivers are the best drivers around and that LA is one of the most predictable places to drive. You see, driving in LA is a community effort; in other places, it’s every man for himself. It’s when people come from those other places and apply their dog-eat-dog driving theories in LA that trouble starts a’brewing. If they only knew the rules, they would get along just fine.

For this reason, I have taken it upon myself to spell out some of the rules as I see them. These rules are in no way representative of the actual traffic laws or vehicular code in effect in Los Angeles or the State of California; rather, they are only my personal take on driving etiquette in LA. Of course, most rules have exceptions. An Idiot Exception occurs when the idiotic actions of another driver require you to break the rule. By contrast, a Jerk Exception permits you to break the rule in order to adequately respond to the jerky actions of another driver. Again, I’m not saying either exception is legal—just that it is socially acceptable. Now for the rules…

1. On the freeway, always go with the flow. You are not special. You do not own the road by virtue of having a custom paint job. Nothing entitles you to drive fast, dart between lanes, or refuse to wait your turn when everyone else has to go slow due to traffic. Likewise, when everyone is going fast, you have no right to slow them all down just because you like to take it easy or you forgot to put on your makeup or you are reading a really great article in US Weekly. If you are going 10 mph slower than traffic, stay in the very right lane. If you are going over 15 mph slower than traffic, take streets. If you have an insatiable need to go more than 10 mph faster than the flow of traffic (a need that surpasses general frustration with slow traffic) then buy a helicopter.

2. Feel free to talk on your cell phone while driving. Similarly, feel free to shout at other drivers for talking on their cell phones while driving. But do not feel free to do both at the same time. Like a lot of things, your hypocrisy will be tolerated in LA so long as you are never caught in the act.

3. Correct mistakes earlier rather than later. Suppose there is a sign that says the freeway on-ramp is right at a stop light, and there is a double right-turn lane. Unfortunately, you realize once you have turned that only the leftmost lane goes on the freeway while the right lane drives straight into a crack house, and you are in the right lane. Such false advertising is embarrassingly frequent among LA traffic signs, and most LA drivers will take pity on you so long as you communicate that you had no idea what lane you needed to be in. The best way to do this is to immediately signal that you need to be in the left lane. The absolute worst way to do this is to take advantage of the fact that there is no traffic in the right lane, speed past fifty cars up to where the lanes split, and then try to edge your way into the freeway line. Yeah, it was frowned on in grade school, too, back when it was called "taking cuts." In either situation, you are the idiot, so no Idiot Exception for you. In the latter situation, you are the jerk, and the left-lane drivers will be entitled to invoke the Jerk Exception to the tailgating rule, which is to cinch up within millimeters of each others' bumpers to prevent you from breaking in, forcing you to give up and continue on to the crack house. Trust me, such group invocation of a Jerk Exception is not uncommon in LA. Sometimes the left-laners will even be joined by a right-lane gang behind you, which will honk incessantly—and you should really watch out for those right-laners as they are all on crack.

4. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds under 30 mph, and especially at stop-and-go speeds, stick to the every-other-car rule—that is, one car from one lane, one car from the other. It is irrelevant whether you are in the merge-ed or merge-ing lane and you should lock the phrase "right of way" in your glovebox during such times. The Idiot Exception is only invocable here when the car that should merge in front of you refuses to go. The Jerk Exception is not invocable here; however, you are permitted to be a jerk yourself in enforcing the every-other-car rule against someone who is trying to edge you out of merging during your rightful turn.

5. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds exceeding 30 mph, treat it as synchronized swimming or a dance rather than a drag race. Envision the freeway from an overhead view—watch how the cars from two lanes effortlessly join into one to the sweeping rhythm of waltz music. Once you stop trying so hard, it will be easy to identify the spot in which your car belongs without having to significantly adjust your speed one way or the other. The Idiot Exception applies when nervous mergers (1) slow down to wait for the "perfect moment" or (2) unreasonably demand three car-lengths of merge space. The Jerk Exception applies in an eye-for-an-eye fashion: if a jerk is race-merging, you are permitted to respond with race-merging, but do it without looking like you're trying. The Jerk Exception to high-speed merging is why many out-of-towners mistake LA drivers for jerks; we're not inherently jerks, we have only accepted your invitation to be a jerk. Yet another exception exists for well-meaning but naturally slow vehicles, such as buses, landscaping trucks, and campers—you may politely accelerate ahead of them.

6. Speaking of invitations to act, there are certain drivers who prefer to maintain an excessive following distance in stop-and-go-traffic. Everyone in LA recognizes and lauds these drivers for the important public service they provide—that is, the necessary space for last-minute lane changes in stop-and-go situations. If you are one of these drivers, expect people to cut in front of you every five seconds or so, but don't take offense at it. LA loves you. Without you, none of us would get anywhere.

7. Don’t look at other drivers. Period. Even when you’re yelling at them, don’t look at them. It’s just rude. We spend so much time in our cars in LA that we like to think of them as extensions of our home. We sing in there, talk to friends, eat, etc. When some stranger looks at us in our car, it’s like he’s peeking in the windows of our apartment.

8. Beware of criss-cross-traffic at major interchanges. LA has more freeways than most cities, and therefore more interchanges. Anytime two freeways collide, it is normal for half the drivers in the far left lanes to need to immediately change to the far right and for those in the far right to need to switch to the far left. This is true whether the freeway traffic is moving at a speed of 5 mph or 85 mph. LA drivers are used to the interchanges on their commute, by their houses, etc. and know that they have to be alert to criss-crossing traffic in these places. However, it seems high-speed criss-crossing takes out-of-towners by surprise and has given all of LA a "crazy driver" reputation, as if we are all over the road all of the time. Nothing could be further from the truth—most of the Angelenos I know have favorite lanes and stick to them religiously.

9. If you are driving at a moderate to high speed on the freeway and come across an object in your lane, you MUST drive over the object, no matter what it is or how much you have to clench your teeth and grip the steering wheel in order to do it. I don’t care if the object is a palm tree or a mattress or a dead animal—drive over it. You’re going to have to trust me on this one: if it were not possible to drive over this object and survive, you would have never come across it at a moderate to high speed in the first place. Rather, some earlier driver would have had a collision, blow-out, roll-over, what have you with the object, causing a full-on SIG alert with standstill traffic for hours while the person, the car, and the object were cleared off the road and you would have never known it existed and the cause of the traffic you were in would just be one of those unsolved traffic mysteries we encounter in LA on a daily basis. Of course, the only exception is if the object comes to be in your lane because it fell off the truck driving in front of you. In that case, brake, swerve, whatever. Just don’t be the person who causes a SIG alert by being too timid to drive over something that is already painted in skid marks.

10. Take one for the team. If you have a flat tire or other car problem, do whatever you can possibly do to get your car off the freeway. Not just to the shoulder—OFF THE FREEWAY. It doesn't matter if the nearest off-ramp is “Exit 134: Crack House,” you just have to risk your personal safety for the general welfare of Los Angeles. Everyone hates it when they’ve been waiting in traffic for two hours only to learn it was due to looky-loos slowing down to watch someone change their tire on the shoulder.

11. For Heaven’s sake, don’t be a looky-loo.

12. When driving on surface streets, drive in the right lane at your own risk. Unlike a lot of newer cities, LA has metered parking lining the sides of almost every major street. While right-lane parking is occasionally broken up by large expanses of red curb, and while parking in the right lane is theoretically prohibited during evening rush hour, there is a strong likelihood you will eventually stumble upon a parked car when driving in the right lane. When you do, do not expect those driving at full speed in the adjoining lane to let you in. It's not that they hate you, it's just that they chose not to take the right-lane gamble and therefore shouldn't be inconvenienced by your decision to do so. Therefore, it's best to drive in the right lane only when you are about to turn right onto a cross street and you can see that no parked cars are blocking your way. There is no Idiot or Jerk Exception available to you here because you, my friend, are the idiot and the car-parking jerk is nowhere to be found. If you choose to be a right-lane risk-taker, you should probably keep some good books and snacks in the car to help you pass the time once you get stuck.

13. Don't be stingy with The Wave. The Wave is executed by spreading the fingers of your right hand (so as not to be mistaken with another common LA hand sign—The Finger), raising it to the space just under your review mirror, and shaking vigorously for a few seconds. The Wave is the universally recognized sign for "Thank you for letting me in!" In fact, many LA drivers also mouth the words "Thank You" while doing The Wave, even when the other driver cannot see their lips. You do not have to do The Wave during regular merging; rather, it is only required when another driver has let you in their lane when they did not have to. The prime example is when you are turning right onto a busy street without a traffic light and a driver stops to let you in. The Wave is sufficient, but I believe Miss Renee has an awesome story about receiving flowers from a fellow driver instead of a wave, which I am hoping she will regale us with in the comments section.

The Wild One

Oh… there were just so many good post titles to choose from. “The Motorcycle Diaries”—too obvious. “Easy Rider”—not quite accurate. “C-o-o-l R-i-d-e-r”—not everyone loves Grease 2 better than Grease the way I do. And so I settled for the above, semi-obscure (at least to non-film majors or persons under the age of 55) reference to motorcycle culture and L’Brando.

So, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, I took my motorcycle class this weekend. I’ll cut the suspense and reveal that I passed. But it was the doing more than the passing that was important. Here’s a not-so-brief recap:

On Thursday I had the classroom portion. The instructors were good and all, but it was one of the longest 5-hour periods of my life. There were points at which I seriously longed to be back in BarBri, and I hated BarBri, but BarBri did have more spacious seating (at least at the night session), better A/C, and since the instructors were on videotape, you could blatantly pay little to no attention and nobody’s feelings were hurt. I was expecting the motorcycle class would have lots of gory videos of motorcycle crashes and whatnot to keep me alert, but no. Instead, it was 100 students all reading the same dry material about outside-inside-outside curves, the “friction zone,” and 12-second follow distances in order to answer “group” questions. The purpose of this torture session was to prepare us for a written test at the end of the class. The people in my group were verrrry nervous about passing the test, and it reminded me of the time that I went to the downtown DMV to get my motorcycle permit and was the only person in the very long line to pass any of the DMV’s written tests except for a Jamaican guy behind me who, upon being informed of his passing, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, and said “Thank you, Jesus!” over and over again. It was touching and I felt guilty for spending a measly five minutes scanning the DMV handbook in preparation for a test worthy of public praying. What can I say—I don’t really stress multiple-choice tests that involve more pictures than words, and Thursday’s class was no exception. Confidence in reading and guessing is one of those socioeconomic/educational blessings I have but forget to count. I got 98% right and was out the door while the rest of my group was still taking it.

Needless to say, I was not as confident going into the ten-hour driving portion over the weekend. I knew there would be that one person in the class who was never getting it and always holding everyone else up, and I was seriously afraid that, with absolutely no motorcycle experience and little confidence in my own physical coordination, that one person would be me.

I was also afraid I would die.

Luckily, neither happened. As it turns out, almost all of the people in the class had never driven a motorcycle before or even a scooter and that one person was kind of a three-way tie that didn’t involve me and didn't hold us up that much anyway. We spent the first hour (from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.—brutal) just learning how to turn the darn things on. And yet by the end of the first day, we were driving them all around, swerving between cones, and shifting up to third gear. By the end of the second day, we were driving over wooden boards (simulated road hazards), pulling quick swerves, and almost successfully turning figure eights within a very small box marked on the pavement (everyone improved on this last exercise, but I didn’t see a single person do it without either going a little out of bounds or putting a foot down).

My classmates were awesome and congenial rather than competitive. It seemed that most of them were taking the class because learning to ride a motorcycle was just something on their lifetime to do list—and I would highly recommend it if the motorcycle thing is on your list as well. It was funny that, on breaks, everyone was just so normal—but with our helmets, boots, and bikes, we were a mean riding team. A mean riding team that only ever makes it to third gear and accidentally honks when they intend to signal left, that is.

Lots of people have asked me if I’m planning on trading the Vespa in for a motorcycle now that I’m such an accomplished biker. While the Kawasaki Eliminator (pictured above) that I was assigned to ride is actually smaller, more comfortable, and cheaper than the Vespa, the answer is a definite “No.” As one of my coworkers once commented about the Vespa, “It’s not a gateway bike, people.”

If you want to take the MSF Basic Rider Course in your area, go here. In California, it gets you out of taking the driving test for the M1 license and most insurance providers will give a discount for taking it as well.

These boots were made for stopping the bike when your brakes fail

Are these boots “me”?

Don’t answer that. Especially those of you who have known me for more than three years. Although I was formerly a big fan of the lug sole, I traded my 30 pairs of Doc Martens, Creepers and the like in for kitten heels and stilettos a long time ago. So, in my humble opinion, no, these boots are not “me.” And yet I bought them last Saturday. At FULL price, no less. Full price shoes are also not “me.”

Motorcycle boots are a requirement for my Basic Rider CourseTM, which I will be taking this weekend. Supposedly any leatherish boot that covers the ankle and has a thick and non-high-heeled sole would suffice, but after wasting weeks perusing the Targets and Paylesses of the world for such a “boot” without success, I realized I was going to have to get the real deal. It was with that realization that, between televised sessions of a semi-annual conference my church holds, the following conversation with the Roommate took place last Saturday:

Her: Where are you going?

Me: I have to go to the Harley-Davidson dealership. (Hopeful) Do you want to come?

Her: No.

The conference was very edifying—like having a really great self-help/motivational book read to you over two hours while you lay around in your jammies. The HD dealership was not. Mind you, this was one of those newer HD showrooms that’s half shopping mall, half glitzy night-club. Most of the people there were what I like to call “trailer trash chic”—that is, upper-middle class suburbanites who think it’s fun to grow handlebar mustaches and play red-neck bikers between soccer games on the weekend. I shouldn’t judge, I know—their hogs serve the same purpose for them as the Vespa does for me. It’s just that when I was a little kid living in Phoenix, there was a biker bar next to our local McDonalds called The Squeeze Box. Waiting in line at the drive-thru provided the perfect opportunity to conduct a Jane Goodall-type study of real bikers in their natural habitat. There were no former Squeeze Box patrons at the HD dealership on Saturday is all I’m saying, and it was a little sad.

There were, however, these boots.

Toddlers having toddlers

My precious (and famous) 1.5-year-old niece, Miss Dub, on her way to work the swing shift at the cookie factory to provide for her illegitimate teletubuspawn. (Apologies to Mrs. Dub for stealing the pic, but it's my fave ever.)

Unfortunately, stuffed baby no. 1 is already exhibiting some behavioral problems.

Here she is studying for her GED. With this kind of dedication, we can only hope she will overcome the odds against her and somebody will make an inspiring and profitable movie about her life.

Let's Boogie

Dearest Celebrities and Would-be Celebrities and Celebrity-in-their-own-minds types who have babies or friends who have babies or frenemies who have babies or who will be having babies shortly even though society may frown on their fitness as parents:

With all due respect, I am sick and tired of reading about you and your kind traipsing over to Robertson and Melrose to publicly purchase stacks of organic baby blankets to take to your next baby shower. First, we all get invited to baby showers, even those of us who take out our own trash, and so, regardless of what your assistant may have told you, your being invited to a baby shower is no reason to prance around as if you were invited to dine al fresco on the International Space Station or something. I have a feeling your assistant was just trying to get out of the baby-blanket assignment himself, and reasonably so, because it is common knowledge that there is NO parking within a three-mile radius of Robertson and Melrose. Second, did it ever occur to you that all the other celebrities and would-be celebrities and whatnot would also bring stacks of organic baby blankets to the shower? How many organic baby blankets does one celespawn need? Third, when you combine the outrageous cost of the blankets plus the $60 parking ticket you received while purchasing them plus the opportunity cost of the three hours of your time spent driving around the block looking for a free red zone to park in plus the legal cost of settling with the bike messenger you ran over in the process, you just purchased several $3,000,000 spit-up rags for a person who can’t even sit up. Fourth, after you spilled the beans about the child’s gender by purchasing only blue blankets, you probably irked your “friend” as well. Don’t be expecting an invite to the shower for kid no. 2 is all I’m saying.

I, for one, am about to sue you myself because my eyes burn from rolling them so much at your idiocy. Sheesh. Can’t a girl just read a decent, old-fashioned tabloid article anymore about cheating spouses or “Guess who’s gay?” without having to trudge through the B-list baby blanket morass?

So here’s a suggestion: my art and business-savvy sister, Mrs. Gee, just launched a new website with unique onesies and baby artwork, littleboogies.com. They are very high-quality, yet reasonably-priced. You or your assistant can order them online from your iPhone, Blackberry, or intravenous Bluetooth connection. Many of them are not gender-specific. Be the first celebrity on your block to cash in on this trend. It’s only a matter of weeks before famous babies will shove their organic blankets aside so they can show off the trademark Little Boogies tags on their bums. Plus, my nephew, Lil’ Gee, is prominently featured on the “Clothing” page, and he’s just so fun to look at.

Best regards,
ladolcevespa