I wore a cellophane bodysuit (okay, I didn't, but it felt that way)

Okay, so my very brief DC Memorial Day excursion is now over two weeks past. I could have taken the same trip a couple of times over during the period since my last post, but here is the exciting conclusion anyway.

Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).

And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:

The Positive Black Man Convention.

Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…

It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.

Monday
Monday was largely museum day, so I promise to keep it brief, because I am well-aware that it is more entertaining to listen to someone read a dictionary than recap a museum trip. We started out at the National Gallery—both the classic and contemporary buildings. The National Gallery is so chock-full of famous works by Rembrandt, Bruegher, de Goya, Degas, Rodin (see above), Monet, Manet, Renoir, Seurat, Cassatt, Lautrec, Picasso, Matisse, Warhol, Johns, and Rothko—to name a few—that it feels like being totally star-struck at an Oscar party.

We finished with the NGs in late afternoon and, once again, had yet to really eat for the day. The Roommate wanted to check out the National Museum of the American Indian, which, embarrassingly for an Arizonan, I had never been to before. It was awesome, of course, especially a display about women’s traditional beaded dresses and how they were made, but also awesome was the overpriced food court, arguably the best of all the museums. They were serving up tons of native foodstuffs, but the Roommate and I settled for a snack of fry bread and honey (see below), a State Fair staple where I come from. Yum.


It was closing time when we left the AI museum, but we happened to find out the Air & Space museum was staying open late. We breezed through it in about an hour and largely had the place to ourselves—unlike every other time I’ve been there when the place is crawling with maniacal kids. I kind of miss the days when kids didn’t have cell phones and therefore had more incentive to remain under the watchful eye of their parents rather than get lost in a strange and crowded place. Coincidentally, this also reminded me of the State Fair, where I once got lost as a small child and it was kind of traumatic and I just sat down and waited to be kidnapped, but then somehow I was reunited with my parents. Hooray.

Monday night we took the metro up to Adams Morgan in search of some good food and also so I could show the Roommate what I perceive to be the world’s longest and scariest escalator. We found this great café right by the station called Open City that had outdoor seating. There, we made friends with a couple visiting their teenaged son, who worked at the café, and a girl who decided to rollerskate from her apartment to meet a friend at the café after finding an old pair of skates in her closet when looking for shoes. Skating proved harder than she remembered. Luckily, she ran into someone she knew on the way there, who pretty much pulled her to the restaurant, but she was worried about how she would get back home. As we left before she did, we never found out if she did or not. I suppose we wouldn’t have anyway.


Tuesday
Our perfect weather disappeared on Tuesday. It was overcast with about 414% humidity, or at least it felt that way. As we had an afternoon plane to catch in Baltimore, we decided to head up to Charm City and explore it a bit. I refuse to apologize for the fact that my goal for Tuesday was completely vice-related: eat a Maryland crabcake. I lived in Maryland when I was a wee lass and have a distinct memory of Dave and Mary taking me and Mrs. Gee to the Baltimore Harbor where we looked at a barrel of live blue crabs and a fisherman let one walk around on his leather-gloved hand for our entertainment. Thus, my infallible memories from age four led me to believe that some sort of fish market on the Baltimore Harbor was THE place to find the perfect crabcake. The Roommate and I did some Internet research the night before and found a fish market right off the harbor, right in the middle of downtown, that had rave reviews.

The drive to Baltimore was “gorge,” as my SIL would say, but things got a little sketchy as we headed into downtown. The Roommate and I shrugged our shoulders—we live in L.A., after all, we do sketchy all the time, and proceeded to park the rental car in a garage that was built like Fort Knox. Instead of a paper ticket, it gives you a magnetic coin on entry that you must wave in front a door in order to get back in from the street. Let’s just say we were frantically waving said coin in front of said door approximately thirty seconds after exiting it. Once we were walking around outside, we realized we stuck out like a couple of Positive Black Men at a biker rally (we were the only women, only tourists, and only recently-showered people in sight) and everyone was staring at us, including a jaded street cop who simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say “Hmmm…. this should be entertaining.”

Dave and Mary later informed me that the harbor where we had seen the live blue crabs was in Annapolis.

So we went to our second crabcake pick in Hanover, Maryland, also recommended by random users of the Internet, in whom we had lost all faith: Timbuktu’s. Again, there weren’t many women there, but this time it was because it was a lodge with man’s food and manly portions and dated manly wood paneling on the walls. The place was packed, and when we got our crabcakes, we knew why. They were huge, like softball-sized HUGE:



So huge, in fact, that we could not finish one apiece. So huge that we both got quite ill. So huge that, five hours later, when the Southwest flight attendant offered us roasted peanuts, we were insulted by her assumption that we would ever eat again. Yet the next day we traded emails wherein we both admitted we were totally ready for another one. Lucky for us, they ship nationwide.

Tuesday was finished off by flights, flights and more flights. We gained three hours, but they were all wasted on flying. By the time we finally arrived in Los Angeles late Tuesday night, we had recovered from our Timbuktu maladies and, for the millioneth time on our trip, found ourselves absolutely famished. Lucky for us, Tito’s is on the way home from the airport and is open 24 hours.

Maryland crabcakes for lunch and Tito’s tacos for dinner. It just doesn’t get any better than that.


(I know, I know: TWO pictures of food when I spent an entire day at the National Gallery? Look up your own Rembrandt pics. Mine turned out a little blurry.)

I wore plaid shorts

The Roommate and I, who have been friends for many years but have never traveled together, cashed in some Southwest Rapid Rewards free tickets and went to Washington, D.C. for the Memorial Day weekend. We chose Washington, D.C. because (a) when you’re flying for free, you want to fly as far as possible, and in the Southwest world, L.A. to D.C. is about as far as it gets, (b) the Roommate had never been there, and (c) although I have been there many times and even lived there as a small child, I seriously cannot get enough of the place. More importantly, there were Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to Baltimore despite the holiday. I want to assure you, dearest family and friends who wonder why I never visit them, that there were no Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to your town. Really, I looked. Sorry.

So even though I have been blogging for one entire year, this is actually my inaugural Vacation Recap Blog. I think the time it took for me to get around to doing this earns me some sort of blogging medal. And evidences my need to take more vacations. But without further delay…

Saturday
We spent most of Saturday on a plane. And in some airports—namely, LAX and Midway, Chicago’s stepchild airport (and Southwest sure loves stepchild airports). And then on another plane. And then in a rental car as we drove from Baltimore to our hotel in Northern Virginia in the middle of the night. And I know what you’re thinking at this point—this Vacation Recap Blog is going down the tubes pretty fast. Somebody take her medal away.

But wait! Things got infinitely more interesting as soon as we finally pulled into the driveway of the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City, where we discovered that our hotel was serving as HQ for the Rolling Thunder POW/MIA Memorial Day Motorcycle Rally! There were snazzy motorcycles everywhere. And, even at the late hour, the hotel was absolutely crawling with biker veterans, their wives, their children, and even their grandchildren—all three generations of which were decked out in leather or denim vests with five thousand patches apiece. I don’t know if they were merit badges or what, but I instantly decided that, if and when I ever get around to forming my scooter gang, patches will play a prominent role.

Sunday
Since we're both churchgoers, the Roommate and I normally do nothing on Sundays but sleep, go to church, and watch the occasional Jane Austen-themed Masterpiece Theater. But since we had such limited time in D.C., we decided to pad the itinerary with stuff we hoped was sufficiently reverential and appropriate given the purpose of the holiday. We started the day by attending a local congregation of our church. As we were waiting for the valet to bring the rental car around so we could go, we made friends with some of the Rolling Thunder crowd. They told us that over 700,000 bikes would be participating in the rally and that we should drive by the Pentagon parking lot because the entire thing was full of motorcycles. Unfortunately, we missed our opportunity to do so while at church, which was not held at the Pentagon, but we did run into this same biker family around town later, thus solidifying our relationship as eternal BFFs.

After church, we took the metro up to the Mall and went to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I had been there before, but not to the permanent exhibit, which requires reservations. Luckily, the Roommate had the wherewithal to make such reservations, and it was a life-changer. I thought I knew everything horrible there was to know about the Holocaust, but I was sorely mistaken. The enormity and the atrocity are found in the details, of which the Museum provides plenty. You cannot help but think “How on earth could this happen in modern times?” and then you leave the exhibit and see books in the gift shop on Darfur and Rwanda and realize that genocide is still happening and we let it happen. If you are ever in D.C., you simply must attend the permanent exhibit; however, you probably shouldn’t bring small children as the photos and video footage are naturally disturbing.

Thoroughly depressed after the Holocaust Museum, and hungry due to inadvertently skipping breakfast and lunch, the Roommate and I made fast friends with an overpriced ice cream vendor on the Mall, a D.C. youth with surly dreadlocks and an attitude to match. We asked him questions about the weather (abnormally nice for this time of year) and how long he’d been working that day. He pouted that he was stuck there until they sent someone else to relieve him, and that working for that particular ice cream stand was “like a sweatshop.” We giggled at the thought of anything related to ice cream being sweaty or especially arduous. Just eat some ice cream to ease your employment-related pain, kid. Personally, I think I would rather enjoy sitting under a big umbrella, looking at the Capitol and selling ice cream all the day long were it not for what I assume to be very bad pay, but the grass is always greener on the other side, I guess.

After our ice cream appetizer, we rode the metro to Dupont Circle and walked straight into the first Indian restaurant we found. Indian restaurants are a dime a dozen in D.C., but somehow fate led us to the best one ever, Heritage India. They had this awesome tapas menu, which enabled us to try out lots of different things. And yes, they even called it a “tapas” menu, despite the Spanish origins of that word, and how could they not, seeing as tapas are the hottest thing in D.C. right now, the way gourmet cupcakes are in L.A. I’m pretty sure if you walk down an ordinary D.C. street on an ordinary day, you will hear colloquialisms like, “I had a tapas weekend,” or “He looked so tapas yesterday.” Oh yeah, have I mentioned that food in D.C. is like half the price of that in L.A. (well, so long as you aren’t buying it in a museum food court)? This was a linen-napkin restaurant with fast-food prices. Totally tapas.

After dinner it was time for some Memorial Day memorializing back in the heart of things. We hit the Washington Memorial, the WWII Memorial, and walked the length of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial. To my dismay, the Roommate was not able to recite the entire Gettysburg Address from memory, the way that PDaddy had five years prior on another visit to the Lincoln Memorial, but I guess we're still friends. After taking a few pics of Abe, we stopped by my personal favorite, the Korean War Memorial (pictured above), followed by the famous Vietnam War Memorial and the lesser-known Vietnam Women’s Memorial. At this last stop, we learned that the nurses serving in the Vietnam War were able to save 97% of the soldiers that made it to the hospital. Based on that figure, which was cast in bronze, so you know it’s absolutely true, I think the DoD should make improving transport of the wounded a primary concern. Perhaps they already have and they just forgot to call and tell me. Anyhow, given the holiday, all the memorials were crowded by pensive people and decked out in flowers, photos, letters, cigarettes, and other things left behind to honor those who lost their lives so we could continue living our own in the obscenely comfortable manner to which we have grown accustomed. There were a lot of Rolling Thunder participants in their patchy vests at the Vietnam Memorial, rubbing pencils on small slips of paper to get an imprint of a particular name etched on the wall. The sun went down as we watched this, and despite the fact that it was one day early and there were no barbecues or swimming parties or other summer kick-off things going on, it was the best Memorial Day ever.

We made a good faith effort to walk back up to the Capitol to catch the tail end of the PBS Memorial Day concert going on there, but by the time we reached it, people were starting to sneak out for an early seat on the metro, so we turned around. We briefly rested our really tired feet on the crowded ride back to Crystal City, and on the excruciatingly painful walk from the station to the hotel, we passed a Cold Stone Creamery that had just closed. Some other tourists had already begun beating on the glass window begging the employees to reopen for them and the Roommate and I, apparently quite the joiners, started begging to get in as well. The poor Cold Stone employees, who had nothing to personally gain from working longer than required on a holiday weekend, obliged us after the other tourists promised them a hefty tip. The only problem was that the other tourists stiffed them on it, and I finally began to believe that working conditions in the ice cream business were, indeed, approaching sweatshop-like levels. We tried to compensate by providing a hefty tip of our own, making it the most expensive ice cream I have ever eaten. It was also the biggest ice cream to non-ice cream ratio of food I had ever consumed in one day, but hey, I was on vacation.

I think it’s time I was given a second medal… this one for Lengthiest Vacation Recap Blog Ever. That’s right, folks, we are only halfway through. Be sure to tune in tomorrow (er... or sometime thereafter) for “Monday,” which promises to be challenged in greatness only by the concurrently published “Tuesday.” Sorry to be so long-winded, but I guess that’s the benefit of Vacation Recap Blogs—you can ramble as long as you like and yet your friends can just skim it if they don’t have the time or patience to read it. I always love a good win-win situation. I also love receiving medals.

One more reason to buy a sidecar for the Vespa

Well… apparently even those who actually liked my LA driving etiquette post are sick of reading it (i.e., my Mom) and begging for something new. Boy are they (she) going to be sorely disappointed.

It has come to my attention that I complain too much on this blog, and so today I am going to shake things up a bit by posting about something I actually L-O-V-E love.


Baby Pandas.

Sure, the technical name is “panda cubs,” but, as with most things, I have adopted my own terminology and “baby pandas” it is. We’ve got a weird thing going, the baby pandas and me—people who know me pretty well are probably surprised to learn I have such an affinity for them, whereas people who know me really, really well, like on a familial level, are like “Ew, she never shuts up about them! It’s just weird! Kind of like those 12-year-old girls who have 500 horse figurines lining the walls of their bedrooms!” Whatever, neigh-sayers (heh). In an attempt to curb my curmudgeonly blogger reputation, I am officially dragging my adoration of all things baby panda out of the closet.

So this recent earthquake in China is absolutely devastating and, like most people, I am overwhelmed by the human loss and suffering that it has caused. And so I don’t want to sound glib when I admit I was still a little happy to hear that Chinese officials confirmed that the pandas at the world’s two largest panda reserves (Wolong and Chengdu) survived the quake. This isn’t as trivial as you might think. As any baby panda lover knows, China owns all the world’s pandas, loaning very few out to zoos in other countries. Propagation of this highly-endangered species completely depends on these reserves, which include breeding centers and a daycare facility where several dozen baby pandas are raised each year.

About a year ago, I read this very reputable news article about how tourists to Wolong can pay $130 to play with the baby pandas for a few minutes. Since then, I have always planned on doing just that once I experience some sort of financial windfall giving me sufficient spending money and free time to act like a rich idiot. It’s nice to know I might still have the opportunity.

And now, in the off-chance that any biological engineers are regular readers of this blog, I will make yet another public plea for the miniaturization of the Giant Panda. We’ve all seen miniature ponies, miniature Collies, and those ridiculous “teacup” dogs that shady people are always selling as if they were counterfeit DVDs—so we know the technology exists and don’t even bother pretending that it doesn’t. Why then can’t you miniaturize the Giant Panda so that it never grows bigger than, say, an English Bulldog? Since pandas are vegetarians and have successfully interacted with humans in captivity, they are ripe for domestication. The only problem is that adult pandas are, well, giant, and the amount of bamboo they consume presents both financial and practical concerns for the average pet owner. If we had miniature pandas, not only could we afford to feed and house them, but we could put rhinestone-studded leashes on them and take them shopping at all the LA hotspots that now apparently permit pets on the premises.

But please don’t let Paris Hilton have one.

And, no, I’m not expecting any comments to this post, so don’t feel bad when I don’t get any.

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.